Trying too hard, Parts 1, 2 and 3

Trying too hard (part one)

Balfour Beatty, our biggest construction firm, are building some offices in central London. A construction company in Rome or Paris or Barcelona would display a little dignity and style, and screen their scaffolding  with an unadorned illustration of the finished project behind. Maybe it goes with being the country’s biggest construction company, but BB have chosen instead to make some important corporate statements.

The first is about safety on site. Every construction site has a sign of some kind on that topic, warning of hazards, counselling against risk. This one is displayed in two-metre high type. It says:

WE WILL ACHIEVE ZERO HARM.

ZERO DEATHS.

ZERO INJURIES TO THE PUBLIC.

ZERO RUINED LIVES AMONG ALL OUR PEOPLE.

What? To whom did they delegate the task of writing this? The Workers’ Safety Committee? The Department of Corporate Anguish? You hardly need to close your eyes to hear Martin Luther King pounding it out on some angry Southern rostrum.

It’s supposed to be reassuring. To confirm in us a feeling of confidence in their dedication to safety. But it does the opposite.

It raises in us the cold fear of the possible. We all knew construction accidents were unpleasant, at best. But the news that they can affect the public, as well as the guys who forgot to don their hard hats, is novel and alarming. And the notion that they can be bad enough to Ruin the Lives Among All Our People strikes a deadly chord of plague, pestilence and war.

Yes. I know they mean what they say. They write from the heart. But there are times when it’s best to temper the message. We all fear for our loved ones at times. Travelling alone. Walking in the dark. But we just say ‘keep safe, love.’ We don’t add ‘because you might be grabbed around the throat by a crazed half-man-half-ape, raped, strangled, then beheaded with a blunt spoon before being hurled into a septic whirlpool full of starving killer whales.’

When I see the Balfour Beatty sign, I cross to the other side of the road, until I’m safely past. I hope All Our People do the same.

Trying too hard (part two)

Adjacent to their Martin Luther King speech, Balfour Beatty have given in to the wretched impulse to spill the corporate mission statement, or vision, or whatever they call it these days. It says ‘How we’ll get there’. There, presumably, is the place where zero lives are ruined among all our people. A kind of corporate promised land. The process involves: Leading, Simplifying, Rethinking, Involving, Learning and Tracking.

What a mess. Everybody can’t lead. You can’t simplify something as necessarily complex as a construction project (you’re paid to cope with the complexity, guys). Please don’t rethink the bloody thing when it’s half built. Don’t involve any more people than you absolutely have to. If you must learn on the job, make sure it’s on somebody else’s job, not mine, please. And as for tracking, well. Three white men went that way. About an hour ago. One of them is wounded in the leg.

Trying too hard (part three)

These civil engineers with a compulsion to communicate also proudly claim that they are ‘committed to preserving heritage within (sic) the creation of an inspiring new office environment’.  A picture captioned Project Start shows a dignified and elegant four-storey late Victorian commercial terrace, in good shape. Alongside it, a picture captioned ‘Project Finish’ shows the terrace replaced by a brutalist lump of piggy-eyed grey concrete.

They may possibly achieve Zero Harm on the construction site. If the finished job demonstrates their commitment to preserving heritage, Maximum Harm springs to mind.

They don't really mean it

No contest

Arguably the finest footballer ever. Arguably the best deal going. Arguably the fastest car in the world.

They don’t really mean that, do they? You just know, from the way they say it, they mean unarguably. Arguable means you can argue about it. The claim is up for discussion or debate. But they don’t mean ‘debatably the best footballer,’ or ‘debatably the finest artist’, or anything approaching that. They think the word arguable means ‘you can try arguing, but you won’t win.’ That’s why they mean ‘unarguable.’ There’s no argument about it.

What?

They say ‘begs the question’ when they mean ‘raises the question’. If you beg the question, you take, as part of an argument, an assumption which is unproven. You make a kind of circular argument. ‘Parallel lines don’t meet because they are parallel’ begs the question of parallel.

‘People died from lack of medical care’ doesn’t beg a question. But it might well raise the question ‘why were the medical services so unprepared?’

Broken English

The advertising industry – my own alma mater – is responsible for a great deal of damage to English. It’s a result of hiring creative teams who are almost, but not quite, clever. 
I am currently often exhorted to buy some brand of car and, in consequence, ‘break the mould’. That I cannot for the life of me remember what brand they wish me to buy is a clear and simple indication of just how useless their creative efforts are.
But they don’t mean ‘break the mould’. They mean ‘break ranks,’ be different, break with habit or tradition. They could suggest I ‘break step’, or ‘step to a different drummer’ maybe. They could suggest I dare to be different. But they don’t actually mean me to break the mould.
To break the mould means to ensure that something is unique, that something cannot be repeated or replicated. ‘When they made him, they broke the mould,’ means he’s a one-off. The phrase comes from the business of sculpture. When a bronze sculpture was cast, the artist would – indeed, still does - ensure the foundry destroyed the mould. That preserved the uniqueness and value of the sculptor’s work.
If they ask me to buy their blasted car, and break the mould, they’d want me to be the last person to buy their car.

Given the sorry degree of literacy applied to their costly campaign, I probably would be.

… and why didn’t we see this coming?

‘A dramatic downturn was forecasted as long as six months ago.’

No it wasn’t. It was forecast. The past tense of to forecast is forecast. When was the last time you heard a BBC announcer tell you that a programme was first broadcasted last week?

Arguable. Begs the question. Breaks the mould. Forecasted. None of these are signs of evolving language. They’re in-your-face indicators of our accelerating fall from literacy.

And it was the schools who stood back while the media pushed us.

Back to Front

Nobody can object to the evolution of language. You might not enjoy it while it’s happening, but there can’t be many of us who would prefer today to be talking in Shakespearean English. Or even Victorian English. Change in the words we use, and the way we use them, is a natural, inevitable process, which keeps our language alive. It’s the process that didn’t happen to Latin, or Ancient Greek. And look what happened to them. Etruscan, indeed, failed so completely to evolve, that it’s not simply a dead language – we don’t have any idea what it was. Not just dead, but completely lost.

But while we ought allow our language to change, we owe it to our language to protect it from distortion or corruption or pointless change. I mean English, of course. Not just because that’s the language I’m using here, but because it’s one of the most used languages in the world. No doubt Spanish speakers and Chinese speakers feel the same concerns about their own language.

Distortion and corruption? You know what I mean. Xmas for Christmas. Tonite for tonight. And let’s not go anywhere near the text-message English mess. Pointless change is change of the worst kind. Because it brings no benefit. It adds no value, as they say, to communication. It just changes it. And change for the sake of change is never a good thing.

What happened?

We were talking about a script. Somebody referred to the lead character’s back story. What is his back story, I asked. Well, they said, he’s probably had a tough childhood. Drunk dad, y’know, uncoping mom. Joined the marines, got dishonourably…

No, I said. I mean, what do you mean by back story? Papers are put down. Glasses are pushed up. People sit back, and look at each other, then me. Roger, we mean, what is the character’s background? What are the events leading up to the point where the script opens? Why does he have this deep drive to solve multiple murders, but take out his own angst on Chinese prostitutes?

You mean, what is his background? What is his history?

Yeah! That’s his back story. Roger.

Back story. Think about it. All stories are back stories. They have to be. Even those told in the present tense. Because they have to exist before they can be told. Back story is just a made-up phrase, fabricated to impart some special industry-code importance to a necessity of scripting.

Yes, I know that back story can mean some quite complex plot elements that have to be communicated through some kind of retrospective implication, or by references, rather than real action. But that doesn’t change anything. It’s background. It’s history. What’s so wrong with using those words – which everyone understands?

Back, a popular front

But back is becoming a popular front. How often do you hear, usually someone in the music industry, referring to a back-catalogue? What is a back catalogue? Is it different to a catalogue?

Why do they talk about ‘the entire Beatles back-catalogue’? (Indeed, why?). What is the difference between the Beatles back-catalogue, and the Beatles catalogue? Apart from their latest album (which is itself a historical work, a day after they released it), all their work is historical. Maybe, if a band is on tour, the newest music in their concerts could be described as current, rather than back. But that’s a small and hardly meaningful distinction.

Dead composers have canons of work. We don’t talk about Haydn’s back-catalogue (unless, perhaps, you listen to Classic FM). The word back, in front of catalogue, adds nothing to communication, except an extra pointless word, and an extra wasted breath out of the lives of the speaker and the listener.

You can’t have it

At the builders’ merchants, they are out of stock of 1 ½” non-return valves. ‘Sorry, mate. They’re on back-order.’

What? Do you mean you’re out of stock, and you’ve ordered some more? What’s the difference between something being ordered, and something being back-ordered? Do they mean it was ordered some time ago, and still hasn’t arrived? That’s what ordered means. Do they mean they’re awaiting delivery? That’s what ordered means. Does ‘back’ mean they’ve reversed time, travelled into the past, ordered the items, then come back to the present (which would have been the future, then)? If they’ve back-ordered the goods, can I, in turn, back-order some for myself. ‘Oh, OK. In that case I’d like to back order two, please, name of Carey.’

What would happen if we called and said we’d like to back-order a taxi. Or back-order a pizza for delivery?

The most wretched aspect of the use of these pointless words is this: even the users don’t know why they say them, or what they mean. Not one of them can explain the difference between the meaning of the word with back in front of it, and the same word without back in front of it.

So why do they do it? One can only conclude that they want to add some pompous importance to the concept of story, or catalogue, or order. Some made-up value that makes it more special than the ordinary simple version we all understand. Because simple isn’t good. The practice comes from the thinking that calls dustmen refuse disposal operatives, or window cleaners vision management technicians.

Come on, guys. Words that mean nothing take precious time out of our lives. They complicate communications. They betray your own misgivings about the importance of what you do.

There’s a simple solution. Only ever put back in front of a word you can put front in front of. Don’t ever put back in front of a word that describes a past action or condition. The word you’re fronting-up already does the job fine, without your misguided embellishment. There’s always – and I mean, always – a word which already describes what you’re on about, and which does it much better than you can, by adding pointless extra words.

And now, I’ll go and discuss some smart-alec objections from my wife, who’s just mentioned bacchanalia, baccalaureate and backgammon.

Bored?

When did we stop being bored with things, and start being bored of them?

I’m getting fed-up of people who say that, and am beginning to get angry of them. I shan’t be putting up of it for much longer, I can tell you.

Stop screwing the language – and that’s a preorder!

It’s time to stop the witless bunnies in IT and marketing (for it is them) forcing their own lame lexicons out into common usage. They’re not helping.
Preorder is a tautology, if ever there was one. You order something that isn’t ready, or which requires prior notice to become available. Something that isn’t there, yet. So we order a meal (it has to be cooked). Or a cab, which has to come from somewhere, to get to your door when you need it.
You can only preorder something if you are ordering an order, which is silly.
The prefix ‘pre’ is a pointless thing. It supposed to mean ‘done before’. But, think about it. Most words with the prefix ‘pre’ can have the prefix removed, but retain exactly the same meaning. For instance –

prearranged preprepared predetermined precut
precooked prepainted preprinted previewed
prerecorded preordainded preassembled prepackaged

And lately, we have these daft notions: prebooked or preordered. Another stunner is prewarned.
Note, all those examples can also have the prefix ‘un’. Any word that makes sense with the prefix ‘un’ takes no change in meaning from the prefix ‘pre’.
‘Pre’ only has real worth when the word has no ‘un’-defined opposite or antonym (keep up here, guys). As in prescient, previous, predicated, premise, preserve, prejudice, premier, preliminary, preparatory. And of course, prefix . Such words all imply something that has gone before, or been determined before, in some way or another.

How did this word prehappen?

At some stage, somebody decided to extract the ‘pre’, and nail it in front of any old word. They shouldn't do it.
The test is this: if you remove the ‘pre’ from the word to which you just attached it, do you change the meaning of the word? There is clearly no difference between order and preorder, or book and prebook. Between warn and prewarn.
Defenders of the pre prefix are generally unconvincing. With some difficulty, they pose a defence that is usually loosely attached to the idea that if you order something, you pay for it straightaway (the beer), but if you preorder something, you pay for it when it arrives (the 4 year old malt that isn't ready yet).
But, just as with the whiskey, you don’t pay for your beer until it arrives. It just arrives a bit quicker than the whiskey (unless you’re in the Cock Inn at Wing). You order a meal, but you don’t pay for it until after it has arrived and you’ve eaten it. Applying the pre prefix defenders’ logic, you should preorder a meal in a restaurant, as soon as you arrive. You should preorder a taxi. You should preorder a copy of Lady Chatterley’s Lover from Waterstones, because, although it’s been widely available since 1958, it’s just that they haven’t got a copy in stock and won’t take your money until you come to collect it.
I know what they think they mean, when they say ‘preorder’. They mean ‘reserve’. But the difference between ‘order’, ‘reserve’, and ‘book’ is negligible. They all mean the same thing: acknowledge my interest, prepare the goods for me, and make them available to me when they are ready.
Substitute ‘reserve’ or ‘book’ for the made-up word preorder, and it all makes perfect sense.
You order something in advance of its presence. The main course, for instance. You don’t order something from the dessert trolley, because it’s there in front of you. You simply ask for it. So, if you want something that is not yet present, you order it.
But what is different when you preorder something? What is your preorder in advance of? Your preorder is not in advance of payment, because that’s what an order is. Your preorder is not in advance of availability, because that’s what an order is. Is your preorder an order in advance of another order for the same thing? If it is, why?

Predeclining standards of literacy

Preorder is one of those non-words spawned not by intelligent and creative use of language, but by the artificial processes of businesses and computing, and the left-brain zombies who create those processes, aided and abetted by the shallow thinkers in marketing.
I know how it happens: you buy something when it’s there. If it’s not there, but should be, you can order it. And if it’s not there, because it’s not yet available, you can’t order it, can you? How can you order something that’s not available yet? The computer can’t accept orders for something we haven’t got, can it?
But could you reserve it? Request it? Ah no, these are existing ordinary, simple words, unsuited to the specialness of our own important little world. We’ll invent a new process, a new condition, preorder. Our computer system can’t accept an order for something that isn’t available, but we’ve written the code that allows it to accept a preorder, so we’ll introduce the word to our sadly restricted business and personal vocabularies, and thus force it out into the world and common usage. And we’ll get a little glow from having coined a new word, unaware of the meaning of tautology.1
Like many tautologies, preorder, and its cousin prebook, have now become solecisms. Words used by people who think they’re being proper (or better) but who are sadly wrong. Solecisms include toilet instead of lavatory, serviette instead of napkin, lounge instead of sitting room, settee instead of sofa, soiled instead of dirty, along with kiddies, fish knives, doilies and making scone rhyme with bone instead of gone.2

Let’s prereverse the trend

Until recently, if we were forced to make the usually meaningless distinction between ordering something in advance of its actuality, or simply ordering a long time ahead of receiving, we would use the terms ‘advance booking’, or ‘advance order’. These phrases, in spite of their partial redundancy, at least have some clarity of meaning. Prebook and preorder have no clarity. As pieces of communication, they are totally fogged-up.
Let’s do away with them now. Next time you’re asked if you’d like to prebook, or preorder, say ‘No thanks. I’d just like to book. Or to order, thanks’. If they look at you askance, explain, ‘To preorder would be preposterous.’
They won’t bloody understand you. But at least you’ll have used a longer word than them.



1 The fine irony is, their spellchecker will get repeatedly touchy about their new word, failing to find it in any of the 13 different versions of English dictionary currently included in Windows XP. And you won’t find it in the OED or Chambers, either. So there.

2 Yes, well spotted. Acknowledgements to J Betjeman.