I like words, and I’m all
for us making up new ones, especially sweary ones (like twazzcocks – excellent
word) but things are going a bit too far of late. Our propensity for
portmanteau is positively plague-like (try to say that without spitting...) And
has anyone noticed it tends to describe very unpleasant things? Smog (ick),
tweenagers (those 8-year-old girls with belly tops and high heels on. Yes –
them.) and Spedi (utter twazzcocks the two of them).
‘But fusion is a good
thing!’ I hear you cry, ‘If it wasn’t for the fusion of nuclei we wouldn’t have
stars!’ You are right, of course (and a very clever lot if I may say so. I
failed Physics at school. To be fair I might have had a shot had I not chosen
to write a letter to the examiner rather than answer the questions on the
paper. But I felt it would be nice to brighten his/her day with a cheery hello
amongst all the dull formulae and experiments they’d be forced to read about.
Anyway, I digress…)
We’ve had plenty of fair
warning that, when we start mucking about with it, fusion can go horribly
wrong. Never mind nuclear bombs, when trousers and skirts were merged in
the 80 to form culottes I think we all agreed it was a very bad idea, did we
not? The polka dot ones I got for my confirmation were certainly a huge
mistake. As was the perm, but that’s another story, and no, you can't see a picture.
Sadly the fashion world
has not taken note of this grievous error. They have carried on regardless with their jeggings and
their snoods and their (*retch*) meggings. Meggings. I ask you. It sounds like
something you’d need a powerful cream, or a dose of antibiotics, for. ‘I’ve got
meggings’ you’d whisper to your friends, eyes cast downwards in shame, and
they’d back slowly away from you with a look of both sympathy and disgust
(symgust even?)
It must stop. And so must I.
Must get ready for brunch.
No comments:
Post a Comment