A friend flagged up this rather wonderful proofreading failure, spotted in my local Waitrose…
If this morning’s Times wraparound isn’t the best special cover ever, I’d like to know what is:
Recently received from my bank, notice of various changes to the Ts & Cs. Fine. But what’s with all the bolding?
Is it really necessary to harangue your customers (business customers at that) like this? Do you suppose we’re idiots, HSBC?
Calm down, cut the clutter, communicate. And stop addressing your customers as though they’re gormless children.
If there’s one thing more infuriating than a client ruining your copy….
…it’s a client improving it.
Chair of Border to Coast, Chris Hitchen, rewrote the draft I’d produced for his report, in the process making it even more human and engaging. For example:
“Not that this is all about the last twelve months. It started with a small group of visionaries scribbling plans on beer mats back in 2015 – a crucial piece of the Border to Coast origin story – and was skilfully nurtured by open- and like-minded local government councillors and officers thereafter. Progress really accelerated with the appointment of a permanent staff under Chief Executive Rachel Elwell and the move to our own office in Toronto Place, Leeds. Every time I go there, it feels right – a smart, modern but unflashy office, quietly humming with committed people who enjoy working together and delivering for their customers.”
Reading (more strictly, re-reading) Meditations in Green by Stephen Wright, I came across an excellent poser for the Gunning Fog Index:
And McFarland had crotch rot and Ellis malaria again and Cross worried about his feet and Samuels wet his bed and Trips sat all day in Ops reading The Mind Parasites where the flameproof-suited pilots bearing stained mugs of bad coffee came and went, the metal buckles of their seat harnesses jingling like tiny bells and Sergeant Anstin ran through the hootches at night with a flashlight searching for bags of dope and Lieutenant Hand hadn’t spoken to anyone for three days and Noll was out in the hangar trying to tattoo FTA on his arm with a bottle of ink and a hypodermic needle and the bomb craters on the film reminded Chief Warrant Officer Winkly of little pussies and someone cried himself to sleep and everyone hoped that Captain Fry would crash and burn and Hogan claimed he had never had this much fun in civilian life and hoped his home town was blown up so he wouldn’t have to go back to it anymore and Feeny counted his money each morning and evening and the woman in Cage 1 wished the Americans would kill her today and Boswell, who was leaving, asked Griffin how many days he had left and when he heard the answer said, “Do trees live that long?” and out on the perimeter girls from the nearby village bared their breasts across the wire, tiptoed in among the Claymores, giggled on the bunker floors, and Wurlitzer dreamed of bald monks in maroon robes descending stone passageways in the far-off temples of Katmandu, and a pack of stray dogs roamed up and down the compound searching for someone to play with.
“In linguistics, the Gunning fog index is a readability test for English writing. The index estimates the years of formal education a person needs to understand the text on the first reading.”
…suggests incomprehensibility at a first reading to anyone with less than 58 years of formal education. Oh. (Fog Index: 0.4)
Interesting rumbles from the world of AI, where a chap called Adam King has recently released an online iteration of his GPT-2, a ‘language model…that generates coherent paragraphs of text one word at a time.’
Type a few words and the model will grab the ball and run; for example:
The ancient rivalry between Arsenal and Spurs continues to this day, with the two sides battling over who can claim the league title from their respective positions following the 2013-14 season.
The Gunners have been leading the chase for the Premier League title since last season’s FA Cup final, whilst Spurs looked set to repeat that feat come the 2013-14 campaign.
However, the Championship race will have continued into May with the tie ending the first leg at White Hart Lane.
Arsenal opened the scoring with an outstanding late strike, as Arsène Wenger’s side threatened to take the lead late past the hour.
It was a great effort from the hosts, who started brightly as Mikel Janmaat forced the wrong side of Tottenham keeper Michel Vorm into a smart save, but the hosts went into the break just two goals ahead.
An interesting illustration of the current version’s limitations: it’s relevant, coherent, but very much behind the times. But the model and its ilk will surely only get better. Will brainwork ultimately follow musclework to obsolescence? How in the world are our children’s children going to make a living?
A Telegram message from a friend rang distant bells, which wouldn’t go away. I eventually tracked them down, in the form of the following, from a New Zealand columnist called Joe Bennett. So good I couldn’t bring myself to cut it, so…
They must exist the whole year round, I suppose, but I hear of them only occasionally. One of those occasions was last week when they popped their heads above the parapets once more and squeaked their dangerous nonsense.
They are the Simplified Spelling Society – or, presumably, the Simplifide Speling Sosiyutee. The Simplies have been around for a long time and have never got very far, but I don’t see that as any reason to stop me sticking the boot into their ideas. I have never met a Simplie but I imagine them to be bearded people in sweaters the colour of vinegar. No doubt they’re not. No doubt they’re all clean-shaven and decorated in nice bright acrylic sweaters from Deka, and no doubt they breed lovely children and give generously to charity, but my image of them is born of my distaste for their ideas. They would like to fiddle with the English language. I would like to cut their fiddling fingers off.
Although the English language has provided me with a living of sorts for a couple of decades, I have yet only the scantiest knowledge of its complexities. English is like a coral reef. It has grown over the centuries by a process of slow accretion and slower erosion. It has fed on everything that has floated past it and absorbed what it has found useful. Though the fat dictionaries may suggest the language is a fixed and lumpish thing, it is alive and in constant change.
It is also resilient. It allows all manner of politicians, sports commentators and guidance counsellors to torture it, and yet it retains a sinuous strength that rebounds undamaged from all assaults.
Because the roots of English lie partly in Anglo-Saxon and partly in Latin and partly in French, and because English has accommodated offerings from a host of other tongues, and because it has been put to use in a mass of different climates and circumstances, and because it has always welcomed change, English has become a difficult language to spell. Through does not rhyme with though, nor with cough or bough or enough or thorough. I find that delightful. The Simplies don’t. If they had their way these words would become something like thru, tho, coff, bow, enuf and thura.
And no doubt the Simplies would argue that they would thus make the language easier to read and write. Their argument would certainly find favour with such august institutions as the Ministry of Education and the New Zealand Qualifications Authority who have applied the same principle to exams: if children can’t pass them then the obvious solution is to make the exams easier.
The educational mandarins are proved wrong every day and the Simplies are similarly wrong. Even if spelling were utterly logical and consistent, just as many children would spell badly. Maths, for example, is logical and consistent yet plenty of children fail to grasp it.
I have taught several thousand children. Some could spell and some couldn’t and most lay in between. By and large those who could spell were readers and those who couldn’t weren’t. I also taught plenty of children who had been told they were dyslexic and not a few who actually were. But I found that, with hard work, even the most severe dyslexics could gain some mastery over their problems. They could even learn to spell dyslexia. They certainly had a harder road to ride than people like me who find it easy to spell almost everything except inoculate and gauge, but I do not believe that the language should be altered to suit people who find spelling hard. It would be like taking the high jump out of the Olympics because some people have short legs.
Most words carry their history with them. Their roots can be found in the spelling. Change the spelling and those roots would be harder to trace. Though language moves on and meanings alter, and etymology rarely grants us the present meaning of a word, nevertheless when the winds of stupidity blow roots can act as an anchor.
But not only would the simplification of spelling distance the language from its roots, more importantly still it would sever the people of tomorrow from the wisdom of yesterday. A reasonably educated speaker of English can read Chaucer in the original. Mess about with the spelling and Chaucer would become as impenetrable as Sanskrit. So would Shakespeare, Dickens, Bacon, Eggers and Goodbye Mr Chips.
Lose your past and you lose everything. All the thinking has to be done over again. The language brings with it the gains and the wisdom of yesterday. The first act of the totalitarian leaders of I984 was to modernise the language and thus to cripple independent thought and the gains of history. All unwitting, the Simplies wish to commit a similar Orwellian atrocity on our tongue. No doubt they mean well but they would encourage the descent of the Dark Ages.
Theirs is an innocent arrogance.
Coming back through Marrakesh Airport, suddenly confronted by this big, gilt-framed portrait of….um…
Brought to mind David Ogilvy’s reference to an old bit of industry doggerel:
When the client moans and sighs
Make his logo twice the size.
If he still should prove refractory
Show a picture of his factory.
Only in the gravest cases should you show the clients’ faces.
A friend was kind enough to send me a cracking quote from one Marvis Hogen, a South Dakota ‘rancher, legislator and raconteur’:
“If the water on my ranch was gasoline,” he said to the Rapid City Journal, the area’s largest newspaper, in 1980, “there wouldn’t be enough to fuel a flea’s motorcycle one trip around a Cheerio”.