Comments on: JUST BECAUSE YOU READ IT IN A BOOK DOESN’T MEAN IT’S TRUE

By: Rob

Rob — Fri, 26 Jun 2009 13:49:10 +0000

well cheers to that.

The humanities are in a state because they don’t allow linguistic innovation.

Wittgenstein wrote: ‘The limits of my thought are the limits of my language’. But a young Wittgenstein, if he stayed in academe, would get beaten into shape and quickly lose the flexibility of language needed to think what he did.

By: Ciaran McCabe

Ciaran McCabe — Fri, 26 Jun 2009 09:52:43 +0000

French quarter, bog Latin.
Ciaran

By: dave

dave — Fri, 26 Jun 2009 09:51:38 +0000

Ciaran,
Are you Latin or French?

By: Ciaran McCabe

Ciaran McCabe — Fri, 26 Jun 2009 09:47:50 +0000

Orwell surely would have said “separate.”
Fucking copywriters.
Ciaran

By: dave

dave — Fri, 26 Jun 2009 09:42:47 +0000

Rob.
George Orwell said that what seperated English from the dead languages, like Latin or even French, was that English was constantly being refreshed from below, while they were cast in stone and couldn’t be altered.
Slang, nowadays mainly black American, is what’s kept English changing and alive and adaptable to countries and cultures anywhere in the world.
What I dislike is academics insisting that all slang must be rooted in the past, I love it constantly changing.
Nowadays a £10 note is an ‘Ayrton’ (short for Ayrton Senna).
It’s a creative language, I like it when peoole play with it. That’s why I like The Sun.

By: Ciaran McCabe

Ciaran McCabe — Fri, 26 Jun 2009 09:40:40 +0000

“I couldn’t never spell …”
Got that right.
Fucking art directors.
Ciaran

By: john o'driscoll

john o'driscoll — Fri, 26 Jun 2009 09:36:21 +0000

Just because it’s written in a blog it doesn’t have to be true.

For the record.

I couldn’t never spell Ciaran’s name. No one can.

John Marles actually said “All I want to do is CATCH a fucking” fish”. This was reference to a conversation he was having with the said David Bryans, who was a bit of an expert fly fisherman and had just politely resisted Johnny M’s drunken request to join him in a fishing expedition.

I have no recollection of Richard Foster or Terry Bunton at the dinner. That could be the drink.

Actually I did lie. I didn’t see Ciaran’s enlarged testicles. But guessed they were big by the way he was walking.

‘I didn’t do fights’ No, Ciaran starts them. I just like to remind my dear friend of the evening in the Limerick yacht club when, while masquerading as a priest on vacation from the states, he nearly had me beaten up by an irate husband HE’D told to fuck off.

But one thing is completely accurate David.

Ciaran did get a kicking that night and his fellow diners thoroughly appreciated it, for when he came back to the restaurant and told us what had just happen to him we pissed ourselves laughing.

J O’D

By: Rob

Rob — Fri, 26 Jun 2009 09:30:24 +0000

yeah, I want to hold onto the Todd Sloan story too. Since he lived in the nineteenth century, surely there would be recorded uses of the expression ‘on your tod’ from many years before Elizabeth Taylor? Dave may be right to disdain the ‘30-ish middle class university graduates’ but etymology is supposed to be evidence-based. If these linguists are simply going on conjecture then it’s because they are not doing their jobs properly, not because they are middle class.

By: Anca

Anca — Fri, 26 Jun 2009 09:03:57 +0000

@Ben

Anything that starts with 99% chances of failure.

By: Ciaran McCabe

Ciaran McCabe — Fri, 26 Jun 2009 07:33:26 +0000

Dave,
Rather sad to see John O’D’s memory starting to resemble that of George Lois, he can’t even spell the name of one of his best friends correctly. To set the record straight, I didn’t do fights and here is an accurate recounting of the night to which he refers.
I had returned from New York to London on a visit and a friend threw a small cocktail party. After one or two drinks we repaired for dinner to September on the Earl’s Court Road. During the first course, John Marles fell into his soup muttering “I only want to find a fucking fish.” In an act of extreme kindness I decided to escort John home. I left the restaurant propping John up all the while. As John stepped out onto the Erl’s Court Road a speeding car almost hit him. Showing amazing presence of mind I whipped John back on to the pavement while simultaneously leveling a swift kick to the side of the speeding car. I then proceeded across the road only to hear a very loud braking noise. Suddenly I was confronted by a rather large gentleman bent on inflicting pain. Quickly springing into action, I threw my bespectacled face at his fist and hurled my testicles at his booted foot, ending up on my back on the Earl’s Court road with a bemused John Marles inquiring “Are you alright?” Rising gamely to my feet I drove John home in his brand new BMW (courtesy of RSA, a small production house he had just joined). Richard Foster and Terry Bunton being present can verify this story and lay bare O’D’s pathetic falsehoods. The next day I lunched at The Reform Club with a good friend, David Bryans. They were kind enough to supply a couple of goose-down cushions to help me avoid eating while standing up.
I tried to interest both Ridley and Tony into making a modest budget thriller out of the incident, but to no avail.
Ciaran