Coronavirus - a story of semantic boundaries

We know a lot more now about pandemics than we used to.

Sure, we'd heard of The Plague - the big one in terms of numbers of deaths and social impact back in the 1300s. We know surprisingly little about The Spanish flu despite its global devastation one hundred years ago. Maybe we saw reports on Ebola, HIV, MERS and SARS; but they happened somewhere else to other people. They were managed and stayed outside our immediate sphere of concern. 

See full infographic at Visual Capitalist

But we've been educated recently. 

This snippet of an infographic from Visual Capitalist with disturbing fluffy things as the number of deaths reminds us we have had pandemics and plagues for at least as long as we've recorded human history. (It's worth a look at the full infographic.)

Personally and socially, pandemics and plagues are devastating, politically they are exploitable crises, environmentally they are warning bells about humanity's disregard for other life forms, and existentially they refuse our preference to ignore our mortality. 

But semantically they are all over the place. 

The naming of pandemics, including the coronavirus, is an intriguing story.

It's a story of semantic boundaries (try singing it to the Brady Bunch theme).

Mediocre tenniser, keen researcher

By Fred Shivvin

It's summer. Holidays at the beach: hassled driving, then relaxed dining, drinking, reading, sleeping, swimming, watching the cricket and playing it on the beach. (Or, for some, fighting bush fires).

The holiday game of beach cricket

When you do any of these you become: a (hassled) driver, diner, drinker, reader, sleeper, swimmer, watcher (or viewer), player and cricketer. ''I'll be the bowler first. Can you go fielder Fred?" (Or, for some, a fire-fighter).

I'm also watching and playing that other summer sport - tennis. And it occurs to me: why is there no word tenniser?

Rules in English almost always have exceptions. But the word tenniser doesn't break any English rules or conventions, so why don't we use it?

Over my summer holiday, I went to find out why.

MYO douchebag

By Mae Wright

Mike Lundy's article Douches and other bags touched on the language practice of using 'bag' added to words to make them an insult about people - a 'human bag' full of whatever unpleasant stuff - douche, wind, scum, rats etc. (I also wonder if it has some link to using old bag or baggage as insult for an older women.)

If adding 'bag' makes an unpleasant substance into an insult, it follows that a bigger bag is a bigger insult. 

Which brings me to the douche satchel!   

Douche satchel from Urban dictionary:

a 'satchel' is a really big bag... of 'douche'. So someone who is a really big douche bag, would be a 'douche satchel' an expletive, used in instances of anger/frustration

That makes sense: some douchebags are very annoying and some are very, very annoying. The more overtly entitled and in-your-face, the more irritating and aggravating, so the larger the bag. I wonder, is this the beginning of douche insults escalating in baggage sizes? The douche backpack, the douche suitcase, the douche ski-bag? (Come to think of it, I'm sure I've dated a few douche ski-bags.)

Well, it so happened that I have been looking for a pattern to make a satchel, and had to eventually make my own to get exactly what I want. 

It was pretty easy to alter it to make it into a douche satchel.

So, here is my Douche Satchel pattern with instructions below. It's made up of Mike's eight components of a douchebag. If you're feeling extra creative, you might like to try making something like my pretentious douchey fabric printed on a medium grade calico (see at the below). 

For those who don't sew, you can still enjoy my instructions for the assembly of that most unpleasant man, the douche satchel!

Douches and other bags

By Mike Lundy

A scumbag, a windbag and a douchebag walk into a bar.

Just a regular Thursday at my local. We regulars glance at the door as each arrives, dismay or resignation crossing many faces. If I see any of them arrive, I will try to escape. Sometimes, for a while, I can deflect them by looking really busy with my phone, but that is only ever temporary protection.

The scumbag (who sometimes brings his mate, the ratbag) - not so hard to protect against. Just never trust what he says, avoid shouting him drinks (unless you want to donate to his personal finances), and avoid making direct insults even in jest. He can be funny in a cynical, defeated, nasty sort of way. But he can suddenly turn, so it's best never to let your guard down. Finish the drink and then say, 'Okay, have a good night. Gotta see a friend about my car.'

The windbag - easier still; just try to steer the conversation to something you don't mind hearing about. At length. Escape is usually possible after a 'decency' period of about 10 minutes of listening to what is often little more than a whinge, without getting a word in. As you slide off the stool, slide in a quick, 'Oh well, shit happens. Gotta run, have to see a mate about my car.' 'You do seem to have a lot of trouble with that car.' 'Yeah, it keeps happening.'

Artwork by TheBeardedCavalier

But the douchebag. Ugg. Just grating. 

He boxes you in your seat standing too close with his arms akimbo. Even his popped collar is irritating. And he's not so easy to get rid of with reports of car trouble. The douchebag knows exactly what is wrong with my car, and insists on telling me how to repair it with step by step instructions, and also declares that I must be causing this problem by riding the clutch, but then adds that it is a known weakness in that model as the original design for those Japanese cars was never been fully tested in Australian conditions. Et. Bloody. Cet. Era.

He is so busy demonstrating his seemingly endless knowledge, he manages to totally ignore my body language screaming that I want to be just about anywhere else.

Eventually, one of the bar staff comes over to collect the empties and the douchebag is forced to move back by her intruding arm, so I slip through the space and start walking, speaking with my head turned back to my old, no longer comfortable seat, 'That might be handy that information. See ya next time.'

Next Thursday, I'll try the other pub.

What is it about the him? What makes the douchebag so utterly annoying? And why doesn't the douchebag know he is one?

Gruntled

By Fred Shivvin

A meme on social media about gruntled being the long-lost opposite of disgrunted caused me to stop scrolling. Really? Haha emoji.

I googled it for a while. Heaps of hits resulted - even t-shirts and gruntled websites. The re-discovery of this word seems to have made a lot of people gruntled and amused.

Part of the humour lies in the way the unearthing of gruntled seemed to right a wrong, an unknown sense of something lacking, providing something that should have been there but was not. 

Where had the opposite of disgruntled been all this time?