Sunday, 6 November 2016

SHEOPLE SPEAK Part 2


SHEOPLE SPEAK

Part 2

           

Why do sheople speak people say kind’ve most of the time – is it because the other types of ‘ves don’t sound as kind as kind’ve?  Although those speakers often do spew out all the ‘ves in rapid succession to make sure that more is more, their statements would really mean more if they said less and less, with the wisdom of less is more.  Or in more or less common parlance – “Too much custard kills the caviar”.

Turbo talking people suffer the most from Word Addiction Disorder.  They are word fashion victims, and the most dangerous carriers of the disease, being unaware of infecting gullible others in search of social acceptance.

            If all nervous turbo talkers slowed down, they would have more time to hear the crap coming out of their mouths and perhaps say something sensible.

Kind’ve is also used by super cool ‘guys’ of both genders and the trendsome LGBTQIA non-binary guys and guyesses.  This makes the non-exclusiveness of kind’ve one of the best examples of the benefits of living in a free liberal PC democrassy. 

            Good coves and cove-esses of yesteryear, such as Bertie Wooster and his Aunt Dahlia, would have listened to the wisdom of fish-eating Jeeves (the gentleman’s gentleman) to curb their mis-use of useful words and phrases.  But nowadays, when ignorance and stupidity are democratic rights of free speech – albeit surreptitiously controlled by the Speech Police in the Department for Political Correctosserty, the DPC in Whitehall – the exponential abuse of spoken English could transmogrificate into global gobbledegook. 

            The kindovisation of the world is nigh!

            Some lawyers and English language professors could be convulsed with ribald laughter over the trendy plebs’ stupid use of kind’ve and its close cousins.  But they only wince upon hearing politicians and public speakers repeating the word impact.  This is probably because impact in validated in the OED, so it’s supposed to work when spoken, and when printed on the pages of a speechwriter’s speech.  Impact has impact, so the impactossers think, even when there’s no actual impact smashing things to smithereens, only brain pain.  Whereas kind’ve, sort’ve, type’ve like,  y’nowo’amin, are insidious idiolects which don’t appear to impactivate any pain on sheople’s brains.

*          *          *          *          *

            Before going any further down the up-coming pages of this essay, I must not forget to remember to say that I am not, and never have been a scholar of English Language, nor English Literature – lest anyone could possibly think that I’m a serious academic intellectual analysing the hapless habits of humans.

            Writing for fun (one of my favourite OCPTs) flows naturally from open-minded receptive listening to what people say and the way they say it.  My ears are the fast lane to the brain, avoiding any noisy congestion lurking in the mind.  When the brain has registered the information, the mind can make up its mind to write something, say something, or do nothing and be content with enough is enough.  Maybe there is some wisdom in the phrase, “Don’t just do something, sit there”. 

            Paradoxically, this open attentive listening involves hearing a lot of verbal diarrhoea and only a few pearly words of wisdom.  Fortunately, my musician’s ears have become accustomed over the years to hearing all sounds in binaural surround sound, and thus the freedom to focus on any one of those sounds attracting extra attention.  It’s audio zoom lensing into one small part of a big musical picture, and then zooming back out in order to zoom back in again to hear something else that may be making a mess of the music.

In rehearsal, a symphony orchestra conductor hears a percussionist adding one unwritten beat which sounds like a natural grace note.  He then hears a trombone player repeating bellicoso bum notes which dis-grace the delicato of the fellato horns.  Therefore the conductor’s ears (and arms) need to be in a wide open state of awareness – fully conscious of invisible sounds.

When I’m not making spontaneous music, my flabber is often ghasted by the deaf-earism of radio and television producers, who not only use all the ‘ves themselves, but also give free airtime to kindovisation activists who spit out the ‘ves 10-to-the-dozen across the world, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week via the broadcasting media.  I could have said 24/7, but that’s just more turbo talk.

            Beware – nervous turbo verbals are everywhere!

            I dare not condemn the kind’ve fools because I am a fool myself in other ways.  But as a part-time fool I can still use my so-called democratic freedom of speech to comment on the foolishness of others, who diss my gruntle with their sickening super-fast repetition of the two simple words kind of and their cohorts. 

            Does anyone enjoy the millions of ’ves spat out through sheople speak?

            In the full shortness of human hurry time, the kind’ves might fade away, as did ‘the elephant in the room’ that jumped through ‘a window of opportunity’ to escape from the human shit and shenanigans of corporate, political, religious and media morning meetings.  Those once fashionable elephant of opportunity phrases were much longer and heavier than the turbo-tongue motor-mouth speed of all the ’ves which whizz past the ears of semi-conscious sheople.

            By the way, the word robust has also faded from fashion – wasn’t it robust enough to withstand ridiculous repetition? 

*          *          *          *          *

            Last year at the Way-on-High Book Festival, Ahmed Winterbottom, respected historical novel writer on the short list of nominees for the Booker Prize, gave a talk about his new book, during which he constantly repeated all the aforementioned worthless words and phrases with the nept ineptitude of an experienced inepticist attempting to communicate with the audients, who listened in rapt attention without questioning the kind’ve-isation of his public speaking in the Q&A session.  After a little polite applause, the shit-lit loving audients shuffled out to the nearest watering hole to wash down the waffle.

            Suitably refreshed, the lit-lovers returned to hear an unexpectedly clear and simple, no-nonsense, plain-boiled, straight-talking talk by Yasmin Finklater, another one of those colourful fusion-food cook book writers, and an enthusiastic domestic scientist, who gave a sizzling performance with her demonstration of 101 things to do at home with a pot of Parkers Original Potassium Permanganate.  Whereupon, the audients gave her a standing ovation and then bought both her books.

            The following day, Professor Winton Winstanley rose to the podium and spoke about his book on the sexual encounters of old folks in care homes.  Again, no-one seemed to notice the kind’ve-isation of his talk.  Even the old folks champion Joe Wakebell, who listened with avid interest, didn’t raise a wise old eyebrow.  I wonder why.  Could it be that the gap between the spoken word and the written word is expanding as fast as the gap between the rich and the poor – becoming almost acceptable?

            If kindovisation continues, the time could come when a baby’s first words are “I kind’ve like need a type’ve nipple to sort’ve suck on, mamma”.  And when dadda is reading a bedtime story to the other sprogs – “Once upon a type’ve time on a dark and sort’ve stormy kind’ve like night…....” 

            Who started all this kind’ve stuff?  What’s the back-story narrative? Where is the narrativisation of the back-storyism which media speakers think is so essential for any discussion about any aspect of human culture?  Can kindovisation be back-storied and narrativised?  Or is the 21st century idiolectrified culture still waiting to be back-storycled and narrativated by glottochronological psycho-socio linguisticists? 

            With little or no evidence as to who started kindovisation, the search for suspects automatically turns towards the great pioneers and powerful perpetrators of   idiolectualism – the Americans who pretend to sprechen sie Englisch.  I guess I guess with the glottoful guessedness of a guess-gambling American that it’s futile to accuse the Germans, Russians, Chinese and French for spreading sheople speak in English, even though they may have some kinds of kind’ves in their own languages.

            In political parlance, let’s be absolutely clear about kick-starting this with a clarity that is absolute.  Clearly, after all is done and said at the day of the end forward going (rolling out a raft of outcome models for kick-starting hard-working families working harduously for income outcomes, up and down and down and up the country) English is absolutely clearly the international impactivating language with absolutely challenging impacts clearly outcomed from kick-starting a silver bullet shooting itself in the foot, to absolutely cut off its nose to clearly spite its face, and then being challenged to step up to the plate and absolutely bite the bullet.

            What a lot of old codswallop, as they say in Grimsby-on-Sea.

            But let’s not over over-egg the kedgeree, because the anti-social abusers of clearly and absolutely, asbolutely deserve to be served with an ASBO, or better still, shut up in a long custodial sentence.

            Meanwhile, the kindovisation of spoken English continues apace.

            I think most people, after conscious consideration, would agree that on the frontline of frontline verbage, kind’ve is no match or model for the word impact, which is currently enjoying worldwide success.  But fuck still has the most enduring worldwide effect on the human organism.  This is because the fearsome power of cunt is only let out for special occasions, unless accompanied by its close cuntry cousin respectfully dressed in country clothes – so to speak, as it were, if you will, ‘scuse my Scouse, blah, blah, blah. 

            The kind’ves will always be wet, wimpish, cringe-making, Z-list fly-by-night words which say nothing, and yet say everything about the people who spew them out all day long. So what happens at night when sheople are dreaming?  If humans can dream in words, are their sweet dreams stuffed with thousands of kind’ves, type’ves and sort’ves?  Sounds more like a nightmare to me.

            One last rhetorical question.  Do highly trained professional specialists speak to their colleagues with worthless words when they’re working?  The airline pilot to ATC – “I’m just kind’ve coming in to land this sort’ve 400 ton flying cattle truck”.  The rocket scientist to the astronaut – “I’m kind’ve guiding your sort’ve 3,000 degree white hot capsule’s kind’ve like 22,000 mph re-entry into the earth’s atmosphere”.   The brain surgeon to surgical assistant – “I sort’ve need a kind’ve knife to like cut this man’s head open”. 

            I rest my case, lest one arm gets longer than the other.

            By now we, or at least I can see that these highly addictive ‘ves corrupt the meaning, probity, lucidity and eloquent flow of spoken words – and written words.  But the contagion continues, similar to Chinese and Russian Oligarch ill-gotten gains contaminating the London property market, not to mention Burmese budgerigar bird flu – fuck, I’ve just kind’ve like mentioned it. 

            Oh well, I’m hooked.  I’ve been kind’ve-ised by a kind’ve like kind’veness which is kind’ve difficult to give up.  Maybe I should move into the Word Addiction Rehabilitation Retreat and live on a strict diet of turkey talk for a few weeks. Or else take 12 tentative steep steps up to the welcoming portals of Wordoholics Anonymous.  In the meantime, I’ll savour the flavours of this somewhat satirical wordplay, inspired by the hapless habits of humans.

            In codaful conclusion without repeating to fade, RTF in session musicians’ jargon, you may be as annoyed and amused as much as I am by all the verbal stuff and nonsense.  At least it’s been a lot of fun for me and my favourite typochology lady, who is always willing to brace herself for the full thrust of a few more thousand words, despite a little difficulty in making sheople speak readable. 

            It might be fun to read it backwards, or read it out loud to treasured friends over a whass of gliskey, but as I have found, some words may need pronunciation practice before beginning.

 

“You’re mad” – said the pleb.

“Who isn’t” – said the wise man.

Thursday, 3 November 2016

TWO MORE HELPINGS OF......


         “Two more helpings of steamed treacle pudding

                      and custard please”

 

                                    Haigle mea jo riss

                                    doe runn tooo

                                    Grumf uckle o’been  

                                    smode ancortle fiss pewd                              

                                    Bamroddice ko lit      

                                    tay mij yape

                                    Mologgley stor crup

                                    hewront

 

                                    “Sorry luv, we’ve only got jam sponge left”         

 

 

           

 

 

                                                                                                           

 

SHEOPLE SPEAK Part 1


SHEOPLE SPEAK

Part 1

 

            So many kind’ves, impacts and models in the media these days.  There is now a kind’ve for anything, an impact for anything and a model for anything.  Not to mention a challenge, an absolutely and a clearly stuck on to any sentence uttered under an English speaking sun. 

            What the kind’ve, impact, model fuck is going on in such absolute clarity? 

            I like chips, but I don’t need chips with everything on the cheffing menu.  I also like words, but I don’t need kind’ve, impact and model with absolutely every clearly spoken sentence on the throw-up-coming media menu.  These overcooked words and more, are as inedible as all the challenging challenges that challengingly challenge my audio appetite. 

            Nevertheless, just to wet my appetite for more challenging analogenic euphemistical metaphoricalisms, I’d like to taste the juicy wilted sibilances of a few fresh felicitous fecundities tongue-fried on the hot lips of theriouth lithp-thtricken thpeakerth, whosth primary impediment theemth to be a dethperate desthire to be theen and heard on televisthion asth often asth pothible. Perhapth they were media thstudieth thstudenth with no pop thstar potensthial.

            Neverthemore, I’m full up with the kind’ve impact of the food model, but still hungry for an answer to the clotted cream of questions – 

            Why can’t people learn to speak more properer? 

            There are various possible answers to this vexatious question and they inconclusively include the forces of ignorance, greed and stupidity driving deluded ambitions, expectations and aspirations which generate excessive stress and anxiety when humans are attempting to communicate with other humans, whether in private, socially, at work or in media land.

            The result of this hyper-active anxiety is succinctly described, by those blessed with healthy ears, noses and throats, as verbal diarrhoea – a foul smelling symptom of the brain’s bowel being infected by worthless words and phrases which, in order to avoid the strain of constipation, must be shat out through the mouth.  Hence the phrases, “You’re talking out of your arse”, and “You’re full of shit”.  Intelligent, well educated speakers suffer from this très difficile condition, as do other on-trend conditioned sheople desperately seeking security in an infected herd of humans.

            Where are the word surgeons – are they all operating at Oxbridge? 

            As with sminking and droking, sex, drugs, rock and roll, bwanking, granny tossing, cream cakes, dwarf baiting and underwater tennis, any form of human thought, word and deed can become addictive.  No-one of any high, middle or low social status is immune from succumbing to fashionable addictions, including the constant repetition of contagious words and phrases. 

            Kind’ve, is now probably the most contagious warped word in the English language, used billions of times every day down and up all five corners of the world – only by humans of course.  Other species can’t be bothered with such balderdash.  It’s only human copycats who keep pissing on the lush green grass of the English language. 

            Do humans talk to their precious pets in sheople speak?  “Come on pussykins, here’s some kind’ve like type’ve tinned fish and a sort’ve saucer of milk”.

Kind’ve is fastly becoming a global pandemic, a virulent verbal virus which contaminates spoken communication.  Kind’ve is used more often in a single sentence than its incorrigible companions sort’ve, type’ve, like, nowo’amin, or its rising rival impact –  all of which are frequently forced into each sentence, only briefly brought to a halt by continuous interruptions from the famous pause star Ann Dumb…………. lusting after elusive lucidity.

In the most serious cases of Kind’ve Addiction Syndrome, the constant repetition of kind’ve and all the other ‘ves could be described as a turbo verbal expression of – a nervous twitch, embarrassment, pressure to perform, confusion, lack of confidence, pleading for acceptance, escapist aberration, hedging of bets, a fragile ego, fear of being mis-understood, vulnerable pretentiousness, emotional overload,  gullible copycatitis and a lack of natural self-awareness – any combination of which can cause an excruciating struggle to communicate. 

Is healthy existential anxiety being corrupted by unhealthy attention seekers?

            Kind’ve, or kind’ve like is used by a kind’ve like, type’ve, sort’ve, y’nowo’amin adolescent teenage brain trying to communicate on the painful threshold of adult life.  And yet educated, intelligent and seemingly respectable adults, including the Royal Family and smartly spoken BBC radio and television presenters, are using kind’ve as if it’s kind’ve like the best kind’ve social convention since the kind’ve invention of kind’ve like sliced bread.

            In fact of pointed finger, the British Royal Family, the elite of the elite in the land, might royally enjoy using the common ‘ves for a little satirical entertainment with the lords and ladies of the court.  And when spoken in public, those royal ‘ves are the spit and polish for their passports to popularity with the sheople on the street. 

            Some younger Royals however, have become accustomed to using the ‘ves to dumb-down their high status in a patronising attempt to be like the plebs.  Though these Royal young shavers may be aware of suffering from copycatitis, if they gave up their addiction to all the ‘ves they could lose the approval of the Palace, and could no longer pretend to be one of the ‘guys’, the common people.  What a wight woyal pwedicament – as a pedigree copycat cannot be a common copycat. 

That’s enough pussyfooting metaphaws, because there is an important constitutional benefit to the British monarchy arising from chronic copycatitis.  Namely, royal stutters and stammers (nervosa inheritas) are easily eased with frequent squirts of kind’ve, type’ve, sort’ve lubricants – the royal oils of anointment for would be kings in waiting.

Hear ye, hear ye, the King’s New Words!

Yet the perpetual reciprocity of the chicken and egg question remains – are the Royals copying the prols, or are the prols copying the Royals? 

            The situation could also be compared to a desperate television commercial – “End of season sale so get your kind’ves now, while stocks last.”  But stocks of kind’ve might never run out.  Or is the ubiquitous abuse of the innocence of a kind of, a word spitting competition to get into the Guinness Book of Records, by forcing the greatest number of kind’ves into a single sentence against the clock?

*          *          *          *          *

            The more a word is gratuitously used, the more it loses its meaning – as on a Women’s Rights protest march, moving along at a medium speed of 98 bpm.

            Cunt, Cunt, Cunt Cunt Cunt

            Cunt, Cunt, Cunt Cunt Cunt

            Cunt, Cunt, Cunt Cunt Cunt

            Up and down the Cuntry

            The last line has a one beat rest in which to draw breath, allowing constant repetition over many miles of city streets.

            The words may be shocking when shouted and sinister when whispered, but they become more meaningless when synchronised with the magnificent sights and sounds of massed militant women (and a few femboys) marching in lardy-arse leggings, bullet-proof bras, pink tutus and stout hobnailed boots. 

Longer rest breaks for sore throats, inner thigh rash, undercarriage repairs, hot flushes and feeling faint, are taken by stopping for cream cakes and frothy coffee outside every other Starbucks, and for looking in the reflective windows of designer handbag and shoe shops to check hair and make-up.

            In London these LibFem marches tend to end up down by an old riverside pub, recently gentrified and re-named The Muddy Duck.  But not a duck in sight, only mud.  The new name is obviously concocted from the TV celebrity chef’s speciality dish –

A twin pair of culturally poached Vietnamese raw duck embryos drizzled with

Thames mud jus, served on a cold grey Welsh slate.               £49.95

A better name for this risible restaurant would be The Sick and Bucket.

What happened to ye olde traditional pubs with proper names like The Dog and Stocking, The Hare and Gusset and The Goose and Buttock, where you could get a bidet of spit and sawdust soup for £1.60?

Truly liberated females don’t give a flying fuck about pretentious gastro pub names, because they know what they want, and how to get it up at The King Dick Inn.

*          *          *          *          *

Straight speaking people occasionally use a kind of, a type of or a sort of to loosely introduce a cluster of related alternatives surrounding the subject under discussion, or just a simple analogy to indicate resemblances. 

For example, lovable grandma Doris de Boyce, who once worked at the Post Office and now goes out for a good time every Saturday night, might say to her neighbour – “An un-used condom is a kind of un-inflated balloon”.  However, condoms are not exactly the same as the balloons at children’s parties, mainly because they are much harder to blow up – so I’m told by practising pensioners. 

Yet condoms and balloons are made from a similar sort of flexible rubbery substance and can look, feel and sound with tactile textural squeakiness similar to each other when inflated, depending on size, shape, flavour, smell and colour of course.  Also, inflated condoms and sky-going hot air balloons need certain types of heat to keep them up for pleasure seeking riders – reactive thermo-dynamic energy which penetrates space and provides a fairly safe and enjoyable experience.

Some differences between these two types of transport are, that riding in a condom is not quite as safe as riding in the basket of a balloon, nor can a condom fly as high.  But a condom is a sort of warm and cosy wet suit, whereas the kind of cold weather conditions in an open balloon basket can “freeze the balls off a brass monkey” – as the they sometimes say.  Or to be feministically PC – “It’s cold enough to freeze the nipples off the Statue of Liberty”. 

Another difference, within the above cluster of comparables, is the difference between the power of flame-throwing burners shooting up into a balloon through a small hole in the bottom, to lift ten cold pleasure seeking people sky high for three or four hours – and the type of power required by the occupant of a hot condom finding it hard to stay up and lift only one pleasure seeking person up the stairs to ecstasy, for not much more than half an hour before the fuel runs out.

Further differences are that hot air balloons can catch fire, and look very untidy when tangled up on power lines.  Whereas condoms don’t catch fire easily, and when deflated are difficult to throw much higher than a laundry line.  Some similarities are that balloons and condoms don’t flush well down the lavatory, although they do float well across the high seas – so I’m told by the strict woman at the District Council Recycling Centre, who is skilled at upskilling the skillsets of semi-skilled Waste Disposal Operatives, as she points to the big skip marked in bold red letters, BALLOONS AND CONDOMS ONLY – NO DILDOS.

But let’s not get hung-up like a recycled condom hanging on a laundry line (hence the phrase “hung out to dry”) when the genuine use of a kind of, a type of or a sort of, enables interesting and useful, if not humorous analogies to be enjoyed.

           

            If not to be continued .......