tag:theconversation.com,2011:/id/topics/aussie-slang-11115/articlesaussie slang – The Conversation2023-01-05T20:37:57Ztag:theconversation.com,2011:article/1926162023-01-05T20:37:57Z2023-01-05T20:37:57ZBrekkies, barbies, mozzies: why do Aussies shorten so many words?<p>Australians sure do like those <em>brekkies</em>, <em>barbies</em> and <em>mozzies</em>. </p>
<p>We’re not talking about “actual” <em>mozzies</em> here. We’re <em>defo</em> (definitely) talking about words — and Aussies can’t seem to get enough of these shortened words.</p>
<p><a href="https://catalogue.nla.gov.au/Record/1988059">Some</a> say we’re lazy for clipping them. <a href="https://www.cambridge.org/core/journals/language-in-society/article/abs/does-language-reflect-culture-evidence-from-australian-english/75BDD40DC2429903CABAA39BB9CA83B7">Others</a> claim it’s just Aussies knocking words down to size — ta, we’ll have a glass of <em>cab sav</em> or <em>savvy b</em> instead of whatever that is in French. </p>
<p>Our most beloved shortenings end in <em>-ie/y</em> and <em>-o</em>. Journos often ask us why Aussies use them, and whether they’ll last. Well, not only are we still using them, <em>seppos</em> (Americans) and <em>pommies</em> (Brits) are joining the action, too.</p>
<p>Here’s an uplifting story for your <em>hollies</em> (holidays) about Australia’s “<a href="https://www.newsouthbooks.com.au/books/story-australian-english/">incredible shrinking words</a>”. </p>
<h2>Endings that bond and bind us</h2>
<p>These alternative forms of words are often described as “diminutives” (or hypocoristics).</p>
<p>Pet names with such endings can show we have a warm or simply friendly attitude toward something or someone (think of the <em>-s</em> on <em>Cuddles</em>). Certainly, on names, <em>-ie/y</em> and <em>-o</em> are often affectionate (think <em>Susy</em> and <em>Robbo</em>).</p>
<p>But the vast majority of Aussie diminutives are doing something different. </p>
<p>Indeed, saying <em>journo</em> or <em>pollie</em> doesn’t usually indicate we’re thinking of journalists and politicians as small and endearing things. These “diminutives” are also a world away from the <em>birdies</em> and <em>doggies</em> of the nursery. Adult Australians might cheerfully talk about <em>blowies</em> and <em>trackies</em>, but not <em>birdies</em> and <em>doggies</em> — well, unless it’s on the golf course or perhaps in reference to the Western Bulldogs getting a <em>specky</em> (spectacular mark). </p>
<p>For Australian National University linguist <a href="https://books.google.com.au/books/about/Semantics_Culture_and_Cognition.html?id=5XM8DwAAQBAJ&redir_esc=y">Anna Wierzbicka</a>, these expressions are among the most culturally salient features of Australian English — expressions of informality and solidarity that are “uniquely suited to the Anglo-Australian ethos […] and style of interaction”. </p>
<p>Experiments by Australian linguists have empirically confirmed the <a href="https://www.researchgate.net/publication/298354067">social effects</a> of these embellished words. Colloquialisms such as <em>barbie</em> and <em>smoko</em> are like accents – part of the glue that sticks Australian English speakers together. </p>
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<h2>Are -ie/y endings darlings or weaklings?</h2>
<p>Diminutives can die out when they take on the burden of new social meanings. One of the oldest endings (found as far back as Anglo-Saxon times) is <em>-ling</em>. We see it still on words like <em>twinkling</em> and <em>darling</em>. However, by modern times it had flipped and become contemptuous, especially when used of humans (think of <em>weakling</em> and <em>underling</em>). </p>
<p>In contrast to <em>-ling</em>, our <em>-ie/-y</em> endings carry important, positive meanings, and there’s no sign yet that we’re giving up on them. Those <em>sunnies</em>, <em>scungies</em>, <em>boardies</em>, <em>cozzies</em>, <em>stubbies</em> and <em>trackies</em> are still the stuff of our sartorial summer fashion.</p>
<p><a href="https://theconversation.com/get-yer-hand-off-it-mate-australian-slang-is-not-dying-90022">Slang</a> might come and go, but the process that transforms <em>sunglasses</em> into <em>sunnies</em> and <em>tracksuit pants</em> into <em>trackies</em> continues to thrive.</p>
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Read more:
<a href="https://theconversation.com/get-yer-hand-off-it-mate-australian-slang-is-not-dying-90022">Get yer hand off it, mate, Australian slang is not dying</a>
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<p>So thriving in fact are these expressions that some are among Australia’s <a href="http://www.bbc.com/culture/story/20150427-pervs-greenies-and-ratbags">successful exports</a>. International celebrities include <em>greenie</em>, <em>pollie</em>, <em>surfie</em>, <em>mozzie</em>, <em>budgie</em> (and its offshoot <em>budgie smugglers</em>).</p>
<p>And let’s not forget the linguistic rockstar that is <em>selfie</em> – its meteoric rise to stardom in 2013 saw it crowned <a href="https://edition.cnn.com/2013/11/19/living/selfie-word-of-the-year/index.html">Word of the Year</a> by Oxford Dictionaries, and also by the Van Dale dictionary in the Netherlands.</p>
<p>We are, however, constantly refreshing our stock of <em>-ie/y</em> words. Many of the gems in Wendy Allen’s 1980s collection of youth slang in Melbourne (<em>Teenage speech</em>) have bitten the dust (for example, <em>scottie</em> from “he’s got no friends” -> “s’got no friends” -> “s’got + ie”).</p>
<p>But the second edition of the Australian National Dictionary shows us how many <em>-ie/y</em> words have proliferated since the 1980s/1990s (<em>firie</em>, <em>tradie</em>, <em>trackie daks</em>). </p>
<h2>Bottle-o, milko and smoko: still alive-o?</h2>
<p>That other long-time favourite ending <em>-o</em> occurs all round the English-speaking world. However, as the Oxford English Dictionary describes, its use “is especially associated with Australia”. </p>
<p>The earliest Australian examples (like <em>milko</em>, <em>rabbito</em>, <em>bottle-o</em>) date from the 19th century and are abbreviated nouns referring to a person’s trade (“milkman”, “rabbit-seller” “bottle-collector”). Sometimes they appear with <em>-oh</em> because of their association with street calls, and this use is old – think of those cockles and mussels of 18th century London, all very much “alive, alive-oh”. </p>
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<p>Our love of this <em>-o</em> suffix may also owe something to Irish English. However, Australian linguist <a href="https://www.degruyter.com/document/doi/10.1515/9783110208412.2.398/html?lang=en">Jane Simpson</a> points out it has much wider applications in Australia (and New Zealand), as shown by place names such as <em>Rotto</em> (Rottnest Island), <em>Freo</em> (Fremantle), <em>Paddo</em> (Paddington) and common nouns such as <em>compo</em> (compensation), <em>ambo</em> (ambulance driver) and <em>bowlo</em> (bowling club). And we’re exporting these too – <em>demo</em>, <em>preggo</em> and <em>muso</em> have made it into the wider world. </p>
<p>As with <em>-ie/y</em> endings, our <em>-o</em> endings don’t seem to be going anywhere in a hurry. However, their long-term survival seems slightly less assured than <em>-ie/y</em>. We’re still seeing newer coinages (such as <em>housos</em>), but a <a href="https://www.researchgate.net/publication/241095924_Did_you_have_a_choccie_bickie_this_arvo_A_quantitative_look_at_Australian_hypocoristics">2011 study</a> suggests young people might be using this one less than previous generations. </p>
<h2>Rellies or rellos, garbies or garbos: is there a pattern?</h2>
<p>There are <em>wharfies</em> and <em>truckies</em> but not <em>wharfos</em> and <em>truckos</em>; <em>garbos</em> and <em>musos</em> but not <em>garbies</em> and <em>musies</em>. People who ride motorcycles are generally <em>bikers</em>; those who belong to motorcycle gangs tend to be <em>bikies</em>.</p>
<p>So what’s wrong with <em>bikos</em>? And why are there gaps? Those who build houses are neither <em>buildos</em> nor <em>buildies</em>. </p>
<p>Undoubtedly there are nuanced differences of meaning involved here. Does <em>weirdie</em> describe unconventional people more affectionately than <em>weirdo</em>, or even <em>weird person</em>? Certainly there’s a world of difference between the <em>sicko</em> (psychologically sick person) and the <em>sickie</em> (leave you take when you’re sick – or is that when you’re not sick?). </p>
<p>You tell us: do you prefer a <em>lammo</em> or a <em>lammie</em> for the small chocolate and coconut–covered cake? And are members of your family <em>rellos</em> or <em>rellies</em>? There’s a lot of lexicographers, linguists and other word nerds who haven’t figured this out.</p><img src="https://counter.theconversation.com/content/192616/count.gif" alt="The Conversation" width="1" height="1" />
<p class="fine-print"><em><span>Kate Burridge receives funding from the ARC SR200200350. </span></em></p><p class="fine-print"><em><span>Howard Manns receives funding from the ARC SR200200350.</span></em></p>Colloquialisms such as barbie and smoko are like accents – part of the glue that sticks Australian English speakers together.Kate Burridge, Professor of Linguistics, Monash UniversityHoward Manns, Senior Lecturer in Linguistics, Monash UniversityLicensed as Creative Commons – attribution, no derivatives.tag:theconversation.com,2011:article/1058152018-10-31T11:45:39Z2018-10-31T11:45:39ZWho’s for a Ruby Murray? The real people behind popular English sayings<figure><img src="https://images.theconversation.com/files/242989/original/file-20181030-76405-1rbk0v0.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=496&fit=clip" /><figcaption><span class="caption">Ruby Murray is celebrated in her hometown of Belfast.</span> <span class="attribution"><span class="source">Albert Bridge</span>, <a class="license" href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/">CC BY-SA</a></span></figcaption></figure><p>Most people familiar with British cuisine will not be surprised to learn that the UK has just celebrated <a href="https://twitter.com/supportcurry?lang=en">National Curry Week</a>. In anticipation of the culinary festivities, Evening Standard journalist Ailis Brennan <a href="https://www.standard.co.uk/go/london/restaurants/best-vegan-vegetarian-curries-london-a3963451.html">wrote on October 17</a> that “very few of us Brits can resist a Ruby Murray on a Friday night”. Obviously, she is not talking about a specific individual here. A Ruby Murray – or a Ruby, for short – is a well-known Cockney phrase for a curry. But why do we use this personal name to refer to the dish? And where do such phrases with names generally come from? </p>
<p>Ruby Murray is not the only phrase in English that contains a name. We can call a know-it-all a “smart Alec”, for example. A sudden event takes place before you can say “Jack Robinson” and someone who enjoys spying on others is a “peeping Tom”.</p>
<figure class="align-center ">
<img alt="" src="https://images.theconversation.com/files/243001/original/file-20181030-76405-5el7gi.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=754&fit=clip" srcset="https://images.theconversation.com/files/243001/original/file-20181030-76405-5el7gi.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=600&h=450&fit=crop&dpr=1 600w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/243001/original/file-20181030-76405-5el7gi.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=600&h=450&fit=crop&dpr=2 1200w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/243001/original/file-20181030-76405-5el7gi.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=600&h=450&fit=crop&dpr=3 1800w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/243001/original/file-20181030-76405-5el7gi.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=754&h=566&fit=crop&dpr=1 754w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/243001/original/file-20181030-76405-5el7gi.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=754&h=566&fit=crop&dpr=2 1508w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/243001/original/file-20181030-76405-5el7gi.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=754&h=566&fit=crop&dpr=3 2262w" sizes="(min-width: 1466px) 754px, (max-width: 599px) 100vw, (min-width: 600px) 600px, 237px">
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<span class="caption">Not to be confused with…</span>
<span class="attribution"><span class="source">gogatsby via Flickr</span>, <a class="license" href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/">CC BY-SA</a></span>
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<p>It is very tempting to assume that the name in such a phrase originally referred to a real person. This individual’s story would then somehow explain the current usage of the phrase. We all like things to make sense, after all. Unfortunately, our desire for meaning cannot always readily be satisfied, so we often just come up with a story that makes it seem sensible.</p>
<h2>Biased Bob</h2>
<p>Take the phrase “Bob’s your uncle”. It appears to date back to the early 20th century and serves to signal the ease with which something can be accomplished. You might say, for instance: “To make a sandwich, put some cheese between two slices of bread and Bob’s your uncle!” But where does it come from? It is said that the Bob in the phrase is 19th-century prime minister <a href="https://www.gov.uk/government/history/past-foreign-secretaries/robert-cecil">Robert Cecil (1830-1903)</a>. </p>
<figure class="align-left ">
<img alt="" src="https://images.theconversation.com/files/242990/original/file-20181030-76390-1lvfwhq.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=237&fit=clip" srcset="https://images.theconversation.com/files/242990/original/file-20181030-76390-1lvfwhq.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=600&h=934&fit=crop&dpr=1 600w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/242990/original/file-20181030-76390-1lvfwhq.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=600&h=934&fit=crop&dpr=2 1200w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/242990/original/file-20181030-76390-1lvfwhq.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=600&h=934&fit=crop&dpr=3 1800w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/242990/original/file-20181030-76390-1lvfwhq.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=754&h=1174&fit=crop&dpr=1 754w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/242990/original/file-20181030-76390-1lvfwhq.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=754&h=1174&fit=crop&dpr=2 1508w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/242990/original/file-20181030-76390-1lvfwhq.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=754&h=1174&fit=crop&dpr=3 2262w" sizes="(min-width: 1466px) 754px, (max-width: 599px) 100vw, (min-width: 600px) 600px, 237px">
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<span class="caption">‘Uncle Bob’: Robert Cecil, Three times British prime minister.</span>
<span class="attribution"><span class="source">Leslie Ward in Vanity Fair, December 1900.</span></span>
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<p>In 1887, he appointed his fairly inexperienced nephew <a href="https://www.gov.uk/government/history/past-prime-ministers/arthur-james-balfour">Arthur Balfour</a> (1848-1930) to the important post of chief secretary for Ireland. The decision took everyone by surprise and was <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/notesandqueries/query/0,,-197169,00.html">criticised heavily</a>: evidently, it was enough to have Bob (Cecil) as your uncle to achieve your goals, without any effort on your part.</p>
<p>All of this makes for a very captivating story. There is, however, no evidence from the period that “Bob’s your uncle” actually started out as some type of political slogan. Alternative theories are equally problematic. Some etymologists point to an obscure <a href="http://listserv.linguistlist.org/pipermail/ads-l/2014-August/133976.html">1924 musical show</a> bearing the phrase as its title.</p>
<p>It seems more likely, though, that the writer picked up an existing expression than coined a completely new one. Others see a connection with the 17th-century slang phrase “<a href="http://www.macmillandictionaryblog.com/stories-behind-words-bobs-your-uncle">all is bob</a>”, which was another way to say that all was good. Yet, whatever supposedly transpired in the intervening centuries remains unclear.</p>
<h2>Lively Larry</h2>
<p>Larry is known as a cheerful chap, but he suffers from the same kind of confusion as Bob. The name in the phrase “happy as Larry” is sometimes linked to the now obsolete noun “<a href="https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/larry">larry</a>”. In some British dialects, it once served to convey the idea of confused excitement.</p>
<p>We can turn to Thomas Hardy’s (1840-1928) novel <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/files/3469/3469-h/3469-h.htm">The Hand of Ethelberta</a> from 1876 for an example: “My brain is all in a spin, wi’ being rafted up in such a larry!” The name might also be a reduced form of the old dialect word “larrikin”. At one time, people in Worcestershire and Warwickshire used it to refer to a lively but naughty young person. It <a href="https://www.britannica.com/topic/larrikin">still occurs in Australian English</a> as a synonym for hooligan. We cannot really prove either etymology, however.</p>
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<a href="https://images.theconversation.com/files/242993/original/file-20181030-76416-2e6qos.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=1000&fit=clip"><img alt="" src="https://images.theconversation.com/files/242993/original/file-20181030-76416-2e6qos.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=237&fit=clip" srcset="https://images.theconversation.com/files/242993/original/file-20181030-76416-2e6qos.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=600&h=615&fit=crop&dpr=1 600w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/242993/original/file-20181030-76416-2e6qos.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=600&h=615&fit=crop&dpr=2 1200w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/242993/original/file-20181030-76416-2e6qos.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=600&h=615&fit=crop&dpr=3 1800w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/242993/original/file-20181030-76416-2e6qos.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=754&h=773&fit=crop&dpr=1 754w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/242993/original/file-20181030-76416-2e6qos.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=754&h=773&fit=crop&dpr=2 1508w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/242993/original/file-20181030-76416-2e6qos.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=754&h=773&fit=crop&dpr=3 2262w" sizes="(min-width: 1466px) 754px, (max-width: 599px) 100vw, (min-width: 600px) 600px, 237px"></a>
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<span class="caption">Cheery sort: Australian boxer Laurence ‘Larry’ Foley: 1849-1917.</span>
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<p>The following explanation speaks to our imagination much more anyway. The Larry in “happy as Larry” is <a href="https://www.theroar.com.au/2011/07/28/how-aussie-boxer-larry-foley-gave-rise-to-a-timeless-saying/">Laurence Foley</a> (1849-1917), an undefeated professional boxer and the so-called “Father of Australian Boxing”. The phrase alludes to the emotion that he felt when he retired at the age of 32. His last fight won him such a large amount of money that he must have been overjoyed. The question now is whether Larry’s story is any more believable than Bob’s. The evidence is ambiguous. </p>
<p>The <a href="https://books.google.com/ngrams/graph?content=happy+as+Larry&year_start=1800&year_end=2000&corpus=15&smoothing=3&share=&direct_url=t1%3B%2Chappy%20as%20Larry%3B%2Cc0">earliest attestations</a> of the phrase do seem to come from Antipodean texts coinciding with the end of Foley’s boxing career. Still, some of those cases predate his final match. Maybe, his contemporaries saw his happy retirement simply as a chance to give meaning to an existing expression that made little sense to them?</p>
<h2>Glitzy Gordon</h2>
<p>For both Bob and Larry, it has proven impossible to be sure that they refer to real people. Part of the reason is undoubtedly the generic nature of the two names. In fact, phrases very often feature personal names that were just very common in the period when they arose. </p>
<figure class="align-left zoomable">
<a href="https://images.theconversation.com/files/242995/original/file-20181030-76413-5srh3a.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=1000&fit=clip"><img alt="" src="https://images.theconversation.com/files/242995/original/file-20181030-76413-5srh3a.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=237&fit=clip" srcset="https://images.theconversation.com/files/242995/original/file-20181030-76413-5srh3a.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=600&h=828&fit=crop&dpr=1 600w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/242995/original/file-20181030-76413-5srh3a.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=600&h=828&fit=crop&dpr=2 1200w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/242995/original/file-20181030-76413-5srh3a.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=600&h=828&fit=crop&dpr=3 1800w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/242995/original/file-20181030-76413-5srh3a.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=754&h=1041&fit=crop&dpr=1 754w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/242995/original/file-20181030-76413-5srh3a.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=754&h=1041&fit=crop&dpr=2 1508w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/242995/original/file-20181030-76413-5srh3a.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=754&h=1041&fit=crop&dpr=3 2262w" sizes="(min-width: 1466px) 754px, (max-width: 599px) 100vw, (min-width: 600px) 600px, 237px"></a>
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<span class="caption">Blimey, it’s James Gordon Bennett Jr (1841-1918)!</span>
<span class="attribution"><span class="source">Wikimedia Commons</span></span>
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<p>Jack in a “Jack of all trades” is an example and so are Tom in “tomboy” and Jones in “keeping up with the Joneses”. But such generic origins seem less likely for combinations of a first name with a surname – such as, for instance, Gordon Bennett. This phrase expresses amazement, disbelief or irritation. A distracted parent might exclaim: “Gordon Bennett, I forgot to pick up the children!”</p>
<p>The individual most frequently suspected of being its source is the American <a href="https://www.britannica.com/biography/James-Gordon-Bennett-Jr">James Gordon Bennett Jr</a>. He owned the New York Herald newspaper but was also famous, if not infamous, in the UK and France for his playboy antics and passion for daring boat, road and air races. The public’s typical reaction to his behaviour may well have inspired the phrase. </p>
<p>A <a href="https://www.phrases.org.uk/meanings/gordon-bennett.html">second theory</a> is that it is a euphemistic corruption of the expletive “gorblimey”, which is itself a softened and similarly sounding alternative to “God blind me” (another example of this phenomenon is the use of “Great Scott!” instead of “Great God!”). The two explanations are not necessarily mutually exclusive, by the way. People who wanted to avoid “gorblimey” may have resorted to the name Gordon Bennett because it was in the news a lot and sounded similar.</p>
<h2>Ravenous Ruby?</h2>
<p>Phonetic resemblance brings us back to Ruby, at last. It is of course the rhyme of her surname Murray with curry that encouraged Cockneys to replace the one with the other in their slang. Why this name, though, and not, say, Johnny Surrey? <a href="https://www.rubymurray.org/">Ruby Murray (1935-1996)</a> was one of the most popular singers in the UK in the 1950s. One week in 1955, for instance, she had no fewer than five singles in the Top 20 at once. </p>
<figure class="align-right zoomable">
<a href="https://images.theconversation.com/files/242998/original/file-20181030-76411-xnv0q5.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=1000&fit=clip"><img alt="" src="https://images.theconversation.com/files/242998/original/file-20181030-76411-xnv0q5.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=237&fit=clip" srcset="https://images.theconversation.com/files/242998/original/file-20181030-76411-xnv0q5.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=600&h=450&fit=crop&dpr=1 600w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/242998/original/file-20181030-76411-xnv0q5.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=600&h=450&fit=crop&dpr=2 1200w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/242998/original/file-20181030-76411-xnv0q5.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=600&h=450&fit=crop&dpr=3 1800w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/242998/original/file-20181030-76411-xnv0q5.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=754&h=566&fit=crop&dpr=1 754w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/242998/original/file-20181030-76411-xnv0q5.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=754&h=566&fit=crop&dpr=2 1508w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/242998/original/file-20181030-76411-xnv0q5.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=754&h=566&fit=crop&dpr=3 2262w" sizes="(min-width: 1466px) 754px, (max-width: 599px) 100vw, (min-width: 600px) 600px, 237px"></a>
<figcaption>
<span class="caption">Ruby Murray plaque in Belfast.</span>
<span class="attribution"><span class="source">Kenneth Allen</span>, <a class="license" href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/">CC BY-SA</a></span>
</figcaption>
</figure>
<p>The decade after the war was also the time that <a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/8370054.stm">curry became a staple</a> of British cuisine. Asian immigrants bought up bombed out cafes and chippies, added curry to the menu and got the post-pub crowd hooked by staying open late. You can easily imagine then how someone eating their exciting new take-out and listening to the radio saw the opportunity for the rhyme. Ruby Murray’s omnipresence in the 1950s is, in other words, the only reason why her name got attached to the food. But would it not make for a better story if she had a reputation of devouring a curry after every performance and people began calling the dish after her because of that?</p>
<p>You may have noticed that Ruby Murray is the only phrase in this article with a woman’s name. That is no accident: <a href="https://bop.unibe.ch/linguistik-online/article/view/518/864">research</a> has shown that most first names in use in English phrases refer to men. The exceptions include the use of “<a href="https://www.historyanswers.co.uk/people-politics/the-gruesome-origin-of-sweet-fanny-adams/">sweet Fanny Adams</a>” to say “nothing at all” and that of “<a href="https://chrispearce52.wordpress.com/2015/12/13/history-of-the-game-aunt-sally/">Aunt Sally</a>” to point to an object of ridicule. The male predominance reflects our patriarchal history. But society is changing – and, hopefully, it won’t be long before every Tom, Dick and Harry uses the phrase “every Tom, Dick and Mary”.</p><img src="https://counter.theconversation.com/content/105815/count.gif" alt="The Conversation" width="1" height="1" />
<p class="fine-print"><em><span>Daniel Van Olmen does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.</span></em></p>Ever wondered why curry is named after a pop singer from post-war Belfast? So have we.Daniel Van Olmen, Lecturer in Linguistics and English Language, Lancaster UniversityLicensed as Creative Commons – attribution, no derivatives.tag:theconversation.com,2011:article/900222018-01-24T19:20:41Z2018-01-24T19:20:41ZGet yer hand off it, mate, Australian slang is not dying<figure><img src="https://images.theconversation.com/files/202721/original/file-20180121-110121-1ridt58.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=496&fit=clip" /><figcaption><span class="caption">Aussie slang such as 'budgie', 'greenie', 'pollie', 'surfie', and even 'mozzie' are now also making appearances in global English.</span> <span class="attribution"><span class="source">shutterstock</span></span></figcaption></figure><p><em>As the debate continues over whether Australia Day should be celebrated on January 26, <a href="https://theconversation.com/au/topics/rethinking-australia-day-48589">this series</a> looks at the politics of some unresolved issues swirling around Australia Day – namely, the republic and reconciliation. And just for good measure, we’ll check the health of Australian slang along the way.</em></p>
<hr>
<p>The Australian attachment to slanguage (slang language) goes back to the earliest settlements of English speakers in Australia. As Edward Gibbon Wakefield noted in his 1829 Letter from Sydney:</p>
<blockquote>
<p>The base language of English thieves is becoming the established language of the colony … No doubt [terms of slang and flash] will be reckoned quite parliamentary, as soon as we obtain a parliament.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Wakefield’s observation was spot-on. The cant of the underworld (so-called “flash” or “kiddy” language) flourished in these early days. Slang had become an important way of fitting in and avoiding the label “stranger” (or “new chum”) – and, as linguist Evan Kidd <a href="http://journals.sagepub.com/doi/abs/10.1177/0022022116638175">confirms</a>, it still is.</p>
<p>Yet, every few years there’s a furphy that our beloved “Strine” slang is doing a Harold Holt. </p>
<h2>Reports of the death of slang downunder are total bulldust</h2>
<p>Early in 2017, the Australian pie company Four’N Twenty <a href="http://www.adnews.com.au/campaigns/four-n-twenty-pies-launches-aussie-slang-words-campaign#30k0SCGtD772WllR.99">expressed</a> its concern that Australians hadn’t been “slinging slang” enough, and so launched its “Save Our Slang” campaign, aimed at promoting some 70 <em>you-beaut</em>, <em>dinky-di</em>, <em>true-blue</em> Aussie-isms (<em>bloke</em>, <em>bogan</em>, <em>grouse</em>, <em>straya</em>, <em>you bewdy</em>, and so on).</p>
<p>A few years earlier, in 2014, the appearance of Tony Thorne’s Dictionary of Contemporary Slang sparked a series of <a href="http://www.bbc.com/news/magazine-27805070">articles</a> heralding the end of the golden era of Australian slang, prompted by the fact that the work had added only three new (not terribly usual, to our mind) Australian terms: <em>tockley</em> “penis”, <em>ort</em> “buttocks” and <em>unit</em> “bogan”).</p>
<p>We commonly pin the blame for the death of Aussie slang on our anklebiters-cum-adolescents and their love of <em>seppo</em> (short for “septic tank”, rhyming slang for Yank) slang. But it’s worth noting seppo influence has been a lexical and moral concern at least since the introduction of American “talkies” in the 1920s, as <a href="https://books.google.de/books/about/Colonial_Voices.html?id=AOeuQ0vNz-gC&redir_esc=y">documented</a> by historian Joy Damousi:</p>
<blockquote>
<p>… that influx of nauseous American slang and vile English which regularly appears upon the screen, and threatens to reduce the Australian vernacular to the level of the New York gutter-snipe. </p>
</blockquote>
<p>It’s also worth noting that some of what we consider to be true-blue slang in fact finds its origins in – hold onto your Akubra – early contact with American English.</p>
<p>There was an influx of Americans to the goldfields from the 1850s, and they brought with them a bunch of American colloquialisms. These included <em>bonza/bonzer</em>, which is probably from American English <em>bonanza</em> (originally from Spanish and used in the US in the 1840s for a successful gold mine).</p>
<p>Even <em>waltzing</em> – “carrying” – is probably from American slang, or at least was used at the same time and in the same way. Sure, we have records of Australians “waltzing Matilda” in 1890, but Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn were “waltzing” with this same meaning (albeit sans Matilda) in 1884.</p>
<h2>Australian slang: like the eggs of the codfish</h2>
<p><a href="https://www.theguardian.com/world/2014/may/26/is-aussie-slang-dying-out">Some align</a> the disappearance of Aussie slang with Australia’s maturing as a nation. </p>
<p>Certainly words, more than other aspects of language, are linked to life and culture, and perhaps the changes in Australian society are such that the days of the <em>chiacking larrikin</em> (or cheeky lovable prankster) have passed?</p>
<p>But it is the nature of slang that there will always be a turnover of terms – today’s <em>cobber</em> is tomorrow’s <em>mate</em>, <em>ranga</em> for a redhead replaces <em>blue/bluey</em>, <em>bogan</em> replaces <em>ocker</em> and so on.</p>
<p>As American writer Gelett Burgess <a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/files/49285/49285-h/49285-h.html">put it</a> in his 1902 essay, In Defence of Slang:</p>
<blockquote>
<p>Like the eggs of the codfish, one survives and matures, while a million perish. </p>
</blockquote>
<p>An expression that fills a need becomes accepted but, as Burgess describes:</p>
<blockquote>
<p>… it is a frothy compound, and the bubbles break when the necessity of the hour is past, so that much of it is evanescent.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>His own brilliant creation <em>blurb</em> for “a short publicity notice” was clearly one of the eggs that survived – and thrived.</p>
<h2>We are continuing to sling slang</h2>
<p>It seems we get so obsessed with the death of Australian English that we miss those many great terms that are being created beneath our very eyes in Australia and by Australians. Just look at the slew of recent additions to the Australian National Dictionary (most stemming from the 1980s and 90s):</p>
<blockquote>
<p>… <em>hornbag, snot block, checkout chick, houso, reg grundies, ambo, rurosexual, seppo, spunk rat</em> (previously also <em>spunk bubble</em>), <em>chateau cardboard, firie, tradie, trackie daks</em></p>
</blockquote>
<p>And we continue to play with these terms – <em>goon</em> has been around for a while, but it keeps on inspiring new creations, including <em>goon bag</em> (1998), <em>goon juice</em> (2000), <em>goon of fortune</em> (2004), <em>goon sack</em> (2009), and so on.</p>
<p>The rhyming <em>hoon</em> is another great example of how language is always on the move. It’s attested as a noun in 1938 (“lout”, “exhibitionist”), but with the shift to “young hooligan, especially as a driver” in the late 80s, we see a rich proliferation of changes, including <em>hoon</em> as a verb (1988), and nouns denoting the act of being a hoon, including <em>hoonery</em> (1987), <em>hoonishness</em> (1993), <em>hoondom</em> (1998) and their weapon of choice, the <em>hoonmobile</em> (1994), with which they could be adjectives <em>hooney</em> or <em>hoonish</em>.</p>
<p>The other interesting thing about <em>hoon</em> is that it illustrates how one meaning can oust another. The driver sense of <em>hoon</em> has pushed out the pimp sense that existed alongside it from the 1950s to the turn of the century (a very rare case where a risqué meaning hasn’t won out).</p>
<p>So, slang continues to flourish. It’s also clear there’s no sign that we’re about to give up our shortenings – as <em>seppo</em>, <em>firie</em> and <em>trackie daks</em> attest, Australians still love abbreviations. And we are exporting them it seems.</p>
<h2>Aussie contributions to world lexicon</h2>
<p>Australian <a href="http://blog.oxforddictionaries.com/2013/11/word-of-the-year-2013-winner/"><em>selfie</em></a> was the Oxford Dictionaries “Word of the Year” for 2013 (the frequency of the word had increased by a whopping 17,000% since the previous year). Its success was astonishing – in the same year it was even crowned Dutch Word of the Year (no squeamishness about loanwords in the Netherlands). </p>
<p>But there are plenty of <a href="http://www.bbc.com/culture/story/20150427-pervs-greenies-and-ratbags">other success stories</a> too: <em>budgie</em>, <em>greenie</em>, <em>pollie</em>, <em>surfie</em>, even <em>mozzie</em> are now also making appearances in global English, as are <em>demo</em>, <em>preggo</em> and <em>muso</em>. These join many other exports – <em>no worries</em>, <em>like a rat up a drainpipe</em>, <em>to put the boot in</em>, <em>to rubbish (someone)</em> to name a few.</p>
<p>Australia recently scored another global hit with Macquarie’s Word of the Year 2017, <em>milkshake duck</em>, “a person who is initially viewed positively by the media but is then discovered to have something questionable about them, which causes a sharp decline in their popularity”.</p>
<p>It’s a “patriotic pick”, as Tiger Webb <a href="http://www.abc.net.au/news/2018-01-15/why-milkshake-duck-deserves-its-word-of-the-year-win/9323348">points out</a>. Coined by Australian cartoonist Ben Ward, <em>milkshake duck</em> not only marks an Australian contribution to the global lexicon, but also <a href="https://www.macquariedictionary.com.au/news/view/article/495/">carries</a> shades of an Australian cultural contribution: the tall poppy. </p>
<p>So, let’s not milkshake duck (verb) Australian slang by focusing too much on the past cultural cringe and underplaying the evolving nature of slang.</p>
<p>After all, it’s funny to think that at the same time as we’re complaining about Australian slang dying, the Brits are <a href="https://theconversation.com/australian-question-intonation-no-good-in-britain-mate-really-21755">complaining</a> about Australian language features slipping into their kids’ repertoires.</p>
<hr>
<p><em>Catch up on others in the series <a href="https://theconversation.com/au/topics/rethinking-australia-day-48589">here</a>.</em></p><img src="https://counter.theconversation.com/content/90022/count.gif" alt="The Conversation" width="1" height="1" />
<p class="fine-print"><em><span>The authors do not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and have disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.</span></em></p>Every few years there’s a furphy that our beloved ‘Strine’ slang is doing a Harold Holt – but in fact Aussies are still slinging true-blue slang.Kate Burridge, Senior Fellow at the Freiburg Institute for Advanced Studies and Professor of Linguistics, Monash UniversityHoward Manns, Lecturer in Linguistics, Monash UniversityLicensed as Creative Commons – attribution, no derivatives.tag:theconversation.com,2011:article/780922017-07-20T20:13:13Z2017-07-20T20:13:13ZPlonk: a language lover’s guide to Australian drinking<figure><img src="https://images.theconversation.com/files/178928/original/file-20170719-13534-1hfi3j.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=496&fit=clip" /><figcaption><span class="caption">Here's cheers: Australians have developed a lot of slang phases for alcohol and drinking.</span> <span class="attribution"><span class="source">Shutterstock</span></span></figcaption></figure><p>The hard-drinking Aussie is the stuff of legend and lore. But there’s little proof Australians drank more than other colonials and by some accounts they drank less (points made in Sidney Baker’s <a href="https://books.google.com.au/books/about/The_Australian_language.html?id=27smAAAAMAAJ">The Australian Language</a>).</p>
<p>But, of course, we do enjoy a drink – at times a little too much – and a rich bevy of terms suggest we do it in Australian ways: merrily, tongue in cheek and with a shout or two.</p>
<p><em>Plinkity plink</em>, let’s see how we drink – or rather the words Australians have used to do it throughout history.</p>
<h2>Plonk, chardy and the goon of fortune</h2>
<p><em>Plonk</em> is perhaps Australia’s best-known word for alcohol. It originally meant cheap, fortified wine but over time came to mean any cheap alcohol.</p>
<p>In terms of origins, lexicographer Bruce Moore <a href="http://catalogue.nla.gov.au/Record/4901163">notes</a> that one account links plonk to the range of sounds the liquid might make hitting the bottom of your glass (<em>plinkity plink</em>, <em>plinkity plank</em>, <em>plinkity plonk</em>).</p>
<p>A more likely story, conveyed by Moore among others, views plonk as a malapropism used by first world war diggers who misheard or had some fun with the French <em>vin blanc</em> “white wine”. The diggers also called or spelled white wine <em>point blank</em> and <em>vin blank</em>. And, of course, these days we drink <em>chardy</em> and <em>champers</em>, lest we give French its full due.</p>
<p>Australian drinkers are known to have a bit of fun with French. Last year the new edition of the Australian National Dictionary (<a href="http://australiannationaldictionary.com.au/index.php">AND</a>) welcomed <em>chateau cardboard</em> to its pages, a tongue-in-cheek reference to <em>cask wine</em>, using <em>chateau</em> for a wine-producing estate in an ironic way.</p>
<p>Australians invented boxed wine and celebrate its invention through games (<em>Goon of Fortune</em> was another addition to the AND) and a rich array of words, including <em>boxie</em>, <em>box monster</em>, <em>Dapto briefcase</em>, <em>Dubbo handbag</em>, <em>red handbag</em>, <em>goon</em>, <em>goonie</em>, <em>goon bag</em>, <em>goon juice</em> and <em>goon sack</em>.</p>
<p><em>Goon</em> is mostly likely a shortening of <em>flagon</em>, but might also be linked to the Australian English <em>goom</em>, itself linked to an indigenous word <em>gun</em>, meaning “water” in the south Queensland languages Gabi-gabi, Waga-waga and Gureng-gureng.</p>
<p>And then, of course, there’s <em>grog</em>, eponymous with Admiral Edward Vernon who ordered his sailors’ rum to be watered down. Vernon was known as Old Grog because of his grogram-fabric coat, and so this watered-down rum also came to be labelled.</p>
<h2>Full as a raging bull</h2>
<p>Australians might <em>get on the grog</em> or <em>hit the grog</em>, but there are also many other things we might <em>get</em> or <em>hit</em>. For instance, we <em>hit the piss</em>, <em>slops</em> or <em>turps</em> (short for <em>turpentine</em>) or <em>get on the tiger</em>, <em>get a drink across our chest</em> or <em>get a black dog up ya</em>.</p>
<p>The result of our <em>hitting</em> or <em>getting</em> is to be <em>full</em> “drunk” and there is an even longer list of things we might be <em>full</em> as, including <em>a bull</em>, <em>a bull’s bum</em>, <em>a footy final</em>, <em>a goog</em>, <em>the family pot</em>, <em>a pommy complaint box</em> or <em>a seaside shitter on a holiday weekend</em>.</p>
<p>The important thing is to have lively fun, or a <em>rage</em> with your mates, who might themselves be <em>ragers</em>. <em>Rage</em> and <em>rager</em> were the choice words for lively parties and revellers from the 1970s. These are probably unrelated to the obsolete homophone <em>rager</em>, meaning “an untamed and aggressive bull or cow”, but it’s fun to note the overlap in light of the <em>party animal</em>.</p>
<p>Before the 1970s, Australians called lively parties <em>shivoos</em>. Some thought <em>shivoo</em> was Australians having a bit of fun with French (from <em>chez vous</em> “your place” or <em>shivaree</em> “a serenade of rough music”). Others linked it to British nautical slang, and a word meaning a drunken ruckus or punch-up.</p>
<p><em>Shivoo</em>’s most likely origin is a British dialect word (by some accounts Yorkshire or Cornwall) <em>shiveau</em> (with the sometimes Frenchified spelling of chevaux).</p>
<p>Of course, some choose to drink alone. Such drinkers are said to be <em>dry hash</em>, <em>Jimmy Woodser</em>, <em>Jack Smithers</em>, <em>drinking on my Pat Malone</em> or <em>drinking with the flies</em>. <em>Pat Malone</em> is merely rhyming slang (for alone) and it’s never quite been clear if a Jimmy Woods or Jack Smithers ever existed.</p>
<h2>Lambing down till the horse jumps over the bar</h2>
<p>One thing’s for sure: if you drink with mates you’ll probably be expected to <em>shout</em> a round or two (or alternatively <em>stand</em>, <em>sneeze</em>, <em>carry the mail</em>, <em>wally grout</em>, <em>wally</em>, <em>bowl</em>, <em>sacrifice</em>).</p>
<p>If you don’t, you might find yourself accused of an <em>American shout</em>, <em>Chinaman’s shout</em>, <em>Dutch shout</em>, <em>Yankee shout</em> or <em>Yankee</em>. Moreover, people might say of you <em>(s)he wouldn’t shout if a shark bit her (him)</em>.</p>
<p>On the other hand, the best kind of friend is a <em>captain</em>, or someone who lavishly spends on drinks for themselves and their mates, perhaps at the behest of a <em>lambers down</em>, a pub owner who encourages people to drink lavishly (or <em>lamb down</em>).</p>
<p>Failing a captain, you’ll probably have to <em>run a tab</em>, or <em>tie a dog up</em> or <em>chain up a pup</em>. But after time, the publican might want to settle the <em>score</em> or <em>mad dog</em> “unpaid credit”.</p>
<p>A publican who wants a tab paid might point out that the <em>dogs are barking</em>, as this publican did in a 1937 advertisement (from Sidney Baker’s, The Australian Language):</p>
<blockquote>
<p>He particularly requests that all dogs tied up at the hotel be released. This reservation specially applies to Kelpies, Alsations and other large breeds.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>If you don’t have the cash to pay the publican, you might have to <em>jump a horse over the bar</em>, which is what one did when all they had left to pay with was their horse.</p><img src="https://counter.theconversation.com/content/78092/count.gif" alt="The Conversation" width="1" height="1" />
<p class="fine-print"><em><span>Howard Manns does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.</span></em></p>Our drinking culture has brought some colourful phrases into the Australian vernacular.Howard Manns, Lecturer in Linguistics, Monash UniversityLicensed as Creative Commons – attribution, no derivatives.tag:theconversation.com,2011:article/561452016-03-21T19:27:46Z2016-03-21T19:27:46ZDinky-di Aussies: how slanguage helped form a new national identity<figure><img src="https://images.theconversation.com/files/115726/original/image-20160321-4417-1pithr8.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=496&fit=clip" /><figcaption><span class="caption">A new exhibition gives us an insight into the daily life – and language – of Australian soldiers in World War One. </span> <span class="attribution"><span class="source"> Courtesy of University of Melbourne Archives, University of Melbourne.</span></span></figcaption></figure><p>They called it slanguage. A unique language developed by soldiers on the front during World War One. It was a creative fusion of Australian slang, blue words and bits of French and other foreign phrases. </p>
<p>Classic pieces of Australiana, such as “digger” and “dugout”, were coined in the trenches. Slanguage even gave us the term “Aussie” – a word originally seen by some as downmarket and lower-class. </p>
<p>This collection of new terms and phrases described the new realities of modern warfare, and it became a fleeting publishing phenomenon. When one of the most famous Australian troop publications was created in 1918, it was called Aussie.</p>
<p>Aussie was highly successful, at home as well as abroad. Ten thousand copies of the first edition were produced; there were 100,000 copies by the third and the whole 13 issues were republished in a bound edition in 1920. Aussie magazine, slanguage and other mementos of trench life are showcased in a recently opened University of Melbourne exhibition.</p>
<figure class="align-right zoomable">
<a href="https://images.theconversation.com/files/115398/original/image-20160317-30234-n27429.png?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=1000&fit=clip"><img alt="" src="https://images.theconversation.com/files/115398/original/image-20160317-30234-n27429.png?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=237&fit=clip" srcset="https://images.theconversation.com/files/115398/original/image-20160317-30234-n27429.png?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=600&h=572&fit=crop&dpr=1 600w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/115398/original/image-20160317-30234-n27429.png?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=600&h=572&fit=crop&dpr=2 1200w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/115398/original/image-20160317-30234-n27429.png?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=600&h=572&fit=crop&dpr=3 1800w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/115398/original/image-20160317-30234-n27429.png?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=754&h=718&fit=crop&dpr=1 754w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/115398/original/image-20160317-30234-n27429.png?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=754&h=718&fit=crop&dpr=2 1508w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/115398/original/image-20160317-30234-n27429.png?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=754&h=718&fit=crop&dpr=3 2262w" sizes="(min-width: 1466px) 754px, (max-width: 599px) 100vw, (min-width: 600px) 600px, 237px"></a>
<figcaption>
<span class="caption">Aussie magazine, issue 12. CLICK TO ENLARGE.</span>
<span class="attribution"><span class="license">Author provided</span></span>
</figcaption>
</figure>
<p>“Compree”, (from the French <em>compris</em>) meant “I understand” or “Do you understand?” “Merci bokoo”, obviously, meant thank you (from <em>merci beaucoup</em>). “Finee” meant done, finished (<em>fini</em>) and if you wanted something done right away, it’d be “toot suite” or “on the toot” (<em>tout de suite</em>). </p>
<p>Resorting to explicit language in print was of course inconceivable, so commentators on trench life wrote around it in Aussie: </p>
<blockquote>
<p>Bert stopped laughing when Bill had used his extensive vocabulary sufficiently. </p>
</blockquote>
<p>The editor of Aussie, Phillip Harris, argued in his first editorial:</p>
<blockquote>
<p>Others don’t like our slanguage. But Aussie would remind these friendly critics that there is a lot of slang in the talk of our Army. And whatever defects our Aussie vernacular may have, it certainly has the virtue of being expressive. Aussie merely aims at being a dinkum Aussie […] And, after all, the slang to-day is the language of to-morrow. </p>
</blockquote>
<p>“Dinkum” was not a preferred term of those friendly critics either, nor was “bonzer” or even “digger”. These slang words were associated with a lack of education and an embarrassment to the reputation of Australia, particularly in relation to the home country of many, Great Britain.</p>
<blockquote>
<p>Here’s AUSSIE. He comes on strength of the A.I.F. […] His one object in life is to be bright and cheerful and interesting — to reflect that happy spirit and good humour so strongly evident thorough the Aussie Army. […] And that can only be given by you [the soldiers] in your own language and your own way. […] In short, make him a dinkum Aussie. </p>
<p>[…] Aussie does not consider that it shows lack of education for a Digger to call a gentleman a Digger—and the Digger who objects to being called a Digger doesn’t deserve the compliment. […] </p>
</blockquote>
<p>Bright, cheerful and interesting stories were the primary focus of this magazine created in France, in the field, under the patronage of the Australian Imperial Force (AIF). </p>
<p>For Harris, the Spirit of the AIF was to be found among the soldiery, not in the higher sphere of commandment. To capture that spirit, to get the tone “right”, Harris saw the vernacular as it was spoken in the trenches as central to conveying in print the otherwise predominantly oral culture of them. </p>
<figure class="align-left zoomable">
<a href="https://images.theconversation.com/files/115407/original/image-20160317-30234-1volpk3.png?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=1000&fit=clip"><img alt="" src="https://images.theconversation.com/files/115407/original/image-20160317-30234-1volpk3.png?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=237&fit=clip" srcset="https://images.theconversation.com/files/115407/original/image-20160317-30234-1volpk3.png?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=600&h=835&fit=crop&dpr=1 600w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/115407/original/image-20160317-30234-1volpk3.png?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=600&h=835&fit=crop&dpr=2 1200w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/115407/original/image-20160317-30234-1volpk3.png?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=600&h=835&fit=crop&dpr=3 1800w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/115407/original/image-20160317-30234-1volpk3.png?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=754&h=1049&fit=crop&dpr=1 754w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/115407/original/image-20160317-30234-1volpk3.png?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=754&h=1049&fit=crop&dpr=2 1508w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/115407/original/image-20160317-30234-1volpk3.png?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=754&h=1049&fit=crop&dpr=3 2262w" sizes="(min-width: 1466px) 754px, (max-width: 599px) 100vw, (min-width: 600px) 600px, 237px"></a>
<figcaption>
<span class="caption">Aussie magazine, issue 5. CLICK TO ENLARGE.</span>
</figcaption>
</figure>
<p>Indeed, the slanguage of Australian soldiers was quite colourful to say the least, and soldiers took great pride in it. </p>
<p>Swearing was clearly a show of masculinity in this male-dominated environment and strong expletives were well suited to its harsh reality.</p>
<p>Long stretches of expletives were particularly welcome in extreme situations involving fear, anger, frustration, an unwillingness to cooperate and other strong negative emotions. They resulted in a form of reappropriation through the language of a situation that otherwise completely escaped them:</p>
<blockquote>
<p>He [a grumpy Australian soldier with a temper to match that of the weather: cold, wet, miserable] vomited three mouthfuls of the great Australian slanguage over the figure on the road [that blocked his way back home with his cart] […] He emptied another collection of variegated slanguage over her, [..] He asked the atmosphere emphatically what the unprintable language it thought of the woman [which turned out to be a statue] […]For the first time on record his remarkable accumulation of high-power language had lost its impelling power!</p>
</blockquote>
<p>An interesting counter-example may be found in a piece entitled: “Why we should have an instructor in politeness in Corps staff”. In this comic story, a caricature of “soft”, elaborated language is used amidst the harsh reality of the trenches.</p>
<p>There is also a clear comment on social class and on the old-fashioned values of the “old” world that the British Empire represents: dinkum Aussies have dinkum names and don’t talk that talk:</p>
<blockquote>
<p>[…]First Digger: Cuthbert, I have reason to believe that the foe has succeeded in striking my shoulder with a projectile. May I beg of you to bind up the wound?
<br>
Second Digger: Dear! dear!—how unfortunate! It is almost enough to make one say a wicked word. I shall gladly bind up your wound, Clarence. […] </p>
</blockquote>
<p>Of course it would be misleading to solely equate Aussie magazine with its preoccupation with foul language. In fact, detractors of the magazine were primarily bothered with words like “Aussie”. </p>
<p>Harris, who was not a linguist, responded in his second editorial with an incredibly modern statement, that foreshadowed the sociolinguistics (study of language in its social context of production) of the 1960s:</p>
<blockquote>
<p>[…] Some say that Aussie is not a nice word. But Aussie is the name that has been practically universally adopted by the Australian soldier for himself. “Aussie” means “Australian soldier” and “Australia”. It’s short and friendly-like. One seldom hears the word Australia or Australian used over here in our general conversation. Therefore, it is not for Aussie to judge whether it is a good word or a bad one – whether it is a soul-stirring euphony or a lingual catastrophe. It is used by his cobbers and that’s good enough for Aussie. </p>
</blockquote>
<p>If the impact of Aussie as a title is somewhat lost on 21st century Australian readers, it is clear that back then its claim for one’s own distinct identity from other colonial troops and dominions would not have gone unnoticed.</p>
<p>It was 1918, and Australia was slowly coming to terms with its identity, distinct from its British counterparts. Slanguage – celebrated by Aussie magazine – was a powerful tool to shape and claim a new collective identity. Irreverence, self-deprecating humour and (s)language worked hand in hand to sustain that fiercely independent and proud Aussie spirit.</p>
<p><br></p>
<hr>
<p><em><a href="http://library.unimelb.edu.au/france">Somewhere in France – Australians on the Western Front</a> is a free exhibition held at the University of Melbourne, Baillieu Library, level 1, Noel Shaw Gallery until 27 June.</em></p><img src="https://counter.theconversation.com/content/56145/count.gif" alt="The Conversation" width="1" height="1" />
<p class="fine-print"><em><span>Diane de Saint Léger does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.</span></em></p>When Australians went to the Western Front, language failed them. So they invented slanguage: a mix of slang, French words and creative swearing that, among other things, gave us the word “Aussie”.Diane de Saint Léger, Languages and Linguistics , The University of MelbourneLicensed as Creative Commons – attribution, no derivatives.tag:theconversation.com,2011:article/279732014-06-23T17:48:22Z2014-06-23T17:48:22ZAussie slang is as diverse as Australia itself<figure><img src="https://images.theconversation.com/files/317978/original/file-20200302-141516-1j4lyx3.png?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=496&fit=clip" /><figcaption><span class="caption">Australian slang is alive and well, but where does it come from?</span> <span class="attribution"><a class="source" href="https://www.shutterstock.com/image-vector/australia-map-made-australian-slang-words-170962727">Shutterstock</a></span></figcaption></figure><p>I recently read an <a href="http://www.bbc.com/news/magazine-27805070?ocid=socialflow_twitter">article</a> bemoaning the “decline” of Australian slang, pointing out that the latest edition of Tony Thorne’s <em>Dictionary of Contemporary Slang</em> has but a handful of new Australian entries. Thorne is quoted as saying that the ocker macho culture which spawned so much verbal creativity is now out of date, and a number of commentators quite rightly point out that the language of most contemporary Australians is closer to that of their British and especially American counterparts in terms of idiom.</p>
<p>While all this is true insofar as it goes, these commentators are largely looking in the wrong place for home-grown linguistic innovation. For a start, a number of the classic Aussie turns of phrase, the ones falling out of use that sound slightly quaint to most contemporary Aussie ears, are actually relics of forms brought to Australia by Irish and Cockney settlers, and not spontaneous innovations at all. </p>
<figure class="align-left zoomable">
<a href="https://images.theconversation.com/files/51832/original/4zpgsjdz-1403486034.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=1000&fit=clip"><img alt="" src="https://images.theconversation.com/files/51832/original/4zpgsjdz-1403486034.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=237&fit=clip" srcset="https://images.theconversation.com/files/51832/original/4zpgsjdz-1403486034.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=600&h=753&fit=crop&dpr=1 600w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/51832/original/4zpgsjdz-1403486034.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=600&h=753&fit=crop&dpr=2 1200w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/51832/original/4zpgsjdz-1403486034.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=600&h=753&fit=crop&dpr=3 1800w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/51832/original/4zpgsjdz-1403486034.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=754&h=946&fit=crop&dpr=1 754w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/51832/original/4zpgsjdz-1403486034.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=754&h=946&fit=crop&dpr=2 1508w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/51832/original/4zpgsjdz-1403486034.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=754&h=946&fit=crop&dpr=3 2262w" sizes="(min-width: 1466px) 754px, (max-width: 599px) 100vw, (min-width: 600px) 600px, 237px"></a>
<figcaption>
<span class="caption">Some Australian slang can be dated back to Shakespeare’s time.</span>
<span class="attribution"><a class="source" href="http://www.shutterstock.com/downloading_tips.mhtml?code=&id=80645992&size=medium&image_format=jpg&method=download&super_url=http%3A%2F%2Fdownload.shutterstock.com%2Fgatekeeper%2FW3siZSI6MTQwMzUxNDc5NSwiYyI6Il9waG90b19zZXNzaW9uX2lkIiwiZGMiOiJpZGxfODA2NDU5OTIiLCJwIjoidjF8MTAxMjc1ODh8ODA2NDU5OTIiLCJrIjoicGhvdG8vODA2NDU5OTIvbWVkaXVtLmpwZyIsIm0iOiIxIiwiZCI6InNodXR0ZXJzdG9jay1tZWRpYSJ9LCIrVjI0dVllbS9CV3NjRDhoVzhkRS9NMm5tTlEiXQ%2Fshutterstock_80645992.jpg&racksite_id=ny&chosen_subscription=1&license=standard&src=PqfbjLGYZ_Pp4cIFteenQg-1-4">Shutterstock</a></span>
</figcaption>
</figure>
<p>The evocative interjection <em>Strewth,</em> for instance, is a remnant of an early modern fashion that fell out of use in England. This fashion is found all through Shakespeare, with contractions like <em>Zounds</em> (from “God’s wounds”), <em>Sblood</em> (“God’s blood”), and even <em>Slid</em> (“God’s (eye)lid”). In British English these disappeared around the same time as the oath <em>Marry</em> (from “(by the virgin) Mary”), but they hung on in Australia, with <em>Strewth</em> (“God’s truth”) outlasting them all. </p>
<p>Many terms we think of as classically Australian, like <em>tucker</em> (food), came from British or Irish English. Quite a few are applications of Cockney rhyming slang, some of which are or were also found in London, some of which are Australian innovations on the Cockney “game”. This includes terms like <em>butchers</em> (“look”, from “butcher’s hook”) and <em>Seppo</em> (“Yank, American”, from “septic tank”).</p>
<figure class="align-right zoomable">
<a href="https://images.theconversation.com/files/51833/original/5d92kmwd-1403486211.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=1000&fit=clip"><img alt="" src="https://images.theconversation.com/files/51833/original/5d92kmwd-1403486211.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=237&fit=clip" srcset="https://images.theconversation.com/files/51833/original/5d92kmwd-1403486211.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=600&h=899&fit=crop&dpr=1 600w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/51833/original/5d92kmwd-1403486211.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=600&h=899&fit=crop&dpr=2 1200w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/51833/original/5d92kmwd-1403486211.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=600&h=899&fit=crop&dpr=3 1800w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/51833/original/5d92kmwd-1403486211.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=754&h=1130&fit=crop&dpr=1 754w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/51833/original/5d92kmwd-1403486211.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=754&h=1130&fit=crop&dpr=2 1508w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/51833/original/5d92kmwd-1403486211.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=754&h=1130&fit=crop&dpr=3 2262w" sizes="(min-width: 1466px) 754px, (max-width: 599px) 100vw, (min-width: 600px) 600px, 237px"></a>
<figcaption>
<span class="caption">The Aussie “tucker box” is perhaps more British or Irish.</span>
<span class="attribution"><a class="source" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/sacharules/5896842910/in/photolist-9Z5RXm-6dJDF5-7Jz7PG-7JveoP-7Jvdfg-vKHrW-7JvcER-jKTs5A-a3i6SG-bjaNj-a3i6cw-6hyqi6-e3hjws-e3hjuJ-di1Mpx-di1PRw-8jsTJV-jBQSYN-6rk3x-9MkNEU-8jsToZ-8jsTV4-8jw8fN-4G3CMX-ZVFB-cRcYu-cRd4M-5JRck">Shutterstock</a></span>
</figcaption>
</figure>
<p>The Cockney and Irish settlers were the colonial underclass. Their descendants are no longer generally marginalised, and as their status has risen, their linguistic behaviour has become that of the mainstream. As the cultural makeup of Australia changes, so will the provenance of new Australian words and phrases. </p>
<p>It is undoubtedly true that white working and middle class Australians are producing less slang than their forebears. The three traditional varieties of Australian English: Broad, Cultivated, and General, are converging. General Australian is hooked into Global English – its users communicate frequently with users of Standard American or British English. </p>
<p>By sheer weight of numbers, on the global English stage the Australian vernacular tends to be inundated by British and especially American English. But the traffic is not all one way. It seems some elements of Australian English have been exported to our more populous neighbours. <em>No worries</em> has become prevalent in the USA in the last decade, especially on the West Coast. </p>
<figure class="align-center zoomable">
<a href="https://images.theconversation.com/files/51834/original/rf68q86r-1403486492.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=1000&fit=clip"><img alt="" src="https://images.theconversation.com/files/51834/original/rf68q86r-1403486492.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=754&fit=clip" srcset="https://images.theconversation.com/files/51834/original/rf68q86r-1403486492.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=600&h=484&fit=crop&dpr=1 600w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/51834/original/rf68q86r-1403486492.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=600&h=484&fit=crop&dpr=2 1200w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/51834/original/rf68q86r-1403486492.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=600&h=484&fit=crop&dpr=3 1800w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/51834/original/rf68q86r-1403486492.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=754&h=608&fit=crop&dpr=1 754w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/51834/original/rf68q86r-1403486492.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=754&h=608&fit=crop&dpr=2 1508w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/51834/original/rf68q86r-1403486492.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=754&h=608&fit=crop&dpr=3 2262w" sizes="(min-width: 1466px) 754px, (max-width: 599px) 100vw, (min-width: 600px) 600px, 237px"></a>
<figcaption>
<span class="caption">This Aussie philosophy has been exported to the US.</span>
<span class="attribution"><a class="source" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/mikecogh/4574321563/in/photolist-7YdAra-ad79xd-3UeGTY-5CKSAa-6aR4eZ-6aVcE7-5bV8pt-8qFa3R-8n2zVL-8FF3jy-8FF6tG-gz37Zf-6wGVW1-6kLubx-c2WDkY-QHyJD-8FBRsp-8JUrHY-awTpmz-awTpfM-awW7FE-awW7Jh-awTpgR-awTpjp-8FF2yW-afq8Ep-afq8JP-NSMVt-cZ3dhj-8DnLQ-LxAqJ-66byj5-6CQ8UL-87MqPt-59SxLS-96E9H9-jKLWV5-87MqVk-89PU3H-ds1Roj-6xcXpM-4qxpFW-dCv81x-9bTyta-87Mr6a-ao5z9y-4J17U7-asvMUv-6XpF6b-6tx67j">Flickr/Michael Coghlan</a>, <a class="license" href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/">CC BY</a></span>
</figcaption>
</figure>
<p><a href="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2559638/Stop-ending-sentences-high-note-Teachers-told-cease-upspeak-commonly-Australian-soaps.html">This article</a> in the Daily Mail even seeks to blame Australian English for the prevalence of what is known as High Rising Terminal inflection, or upspeak (rising pitch at the end of a declarative sentence), saying that this trend among younger Brits is probably caused by Neighbours (it isn’t, and it never has been uniquely Australian).</p>
<p>But the middle class is not the place to be looking for linguistic innovation in the first place. The slang that we think of as typically British, or typically American, was by and large created by underclasses who were marginalised in some way. Much American slang, now making its way into other varieties of English including Australian English, originated with the riverboats of the Mississippi, and the trappers and prospectors of the West, not among the educated middle class in the cities. </p>
<p>If we look at some of the more marginalised groups in Australia, we can see a wealth of linguistic innovation and new phrases and even dialects of Australian English. Indigenous Australians have created varieties of English for use among their peers which are rich in innovation. These are slow to make their way into mainstream Australian English, but the word <em>deadly</em> meaning “excellent, strong” is now quite widely understood in Australia, and I have observed some more widespread use of <em>yumob</em> as a second person plural pronoun.</p>
<figure>
<iframe width="440" height="260" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/hdmosCx__K4?wmode=transparent&start=0" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe>
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<p>Urban youth in Sydney and Melbourne, originating with youth from Mediterranean backgrounds and later associated with hip-hop culture, have spawned a variety known among experts as New Australian English, or “Wogspeak”. This variety of Australian English was made famous by TV shows like Wogs Out of Work and Pizza. Wogspeak has given us a number of new Australian slang terms, including <em>habib</em> (“mate”, the Arabic for “darling”), <em>stooge</em> (“idiot”, an old word but re-cycled and brought into its own by this vernacular), <em>skip</em> for an Anglo-Celtic Australian (from “Skippy”, the bush kangaroo), and a brand new extension of Cockney-Aussie rhyming slang: <em>chocco</em> (“wog”, rhyming with “chocolate frog”).</p>
<p>Aussie slang seems to be alive and well, though it may not be the “macho ocker culture” that is its main producer any more.</p><img src="https://counter.theconversation.com/content/27973/count.gif" alt="The Conversation" width="1" height="1" />
<p class="fine-print"><em><span>Rob Pensalfini is a Senior Lecturer in Linguistics and Drama at the University of Queensland.</span></em></p>I recently read an article bemoaning the “decline” of Australian slang, pointing out that the latest edition of Tony Thorne’s Dictionary of Contemporary Slang has but a handful of new Australian entries…Rob Pensalfini, Senior Lecturer, School of English, Media Studies and Art History, The University of QueenslandLicensed as Creative Commons – attribution, no derivatives.