The pop star Sam Smith appears not only to have a magic mirror which affirms that he’s stunning and brave, but also that he’s a lovely little thinker. During lockdown, self-isolating in his £12 million home, he filmed himself weeping because he was already bored with his own company. ‘I hate reading,’ he cried, suggesting that if you have no life of the mind, you’ll always be a bad companion to yourself – even if you do refer to yourself in the plural. Having said this, he then had the nerve to say: ‘When people mess up a pronoun or something… It kind of ruins conversations. It’s going to take time. We’re changing a language here.’
I don’t expect everyone to have my almost ‘parasexual’ attachment to the English language
Someone who hates reading dares to make a claim that he is set on changing the loveliest tongue known to man; the language of Shakespeare, Churchill, and Burchill. Surely this cannot be allowed? But I fear that the damage has already been done. The language is changing, due to what we might call syntaxidermists, who get hold of something beautiful and make it weird.
There’s not an area of modern life that’s safe from the dead hand of the syntaxidermists. Naturally, the political arena has taken the biggest hit, with words that used to be treated with appropriate restraint – fascist, Nazi, genocide – tossed around with the carelessness of frisbees in a park. ‘Extreme right-wing’ means anyone who believes that there may be worse places to live than the UK; if you are one of these people, you will be encouraged to ‘do better’ (do nothing but agree with me) ‘educate yourself’ (always prompts me to think of the books I haven’t read, particularly the great Russian writers – as opposed to the modern meaning of ‘stay up all night watching a man in a dress yelling online’) and come over to ‘the right side of history’; failure to comply will see you blocked on X – luckily, by the kind of people you’d happily pay not to see.
Then there’s ‘sustainable development’ – let’s all live in caves again! – and ‘net zero’ – death to all humans! There are ‘activists’ who believe in throwing paint around to persuade people that these things are desirable, but the majority of activists aren’t active at all, but rather people who stay indoors with the curtains drawn screaming at others on the internet. Then there are ‘fat activists’ – the same, but while eating cinnamon swirls as a gaggle of similarly chunky girlfriends call you ‘kween’.
Activists are often ‘non-binary’ (a boring person’s idea of being interesting), ‘neuro-diverse’ (ditto, but also a fidget) or ‘on the spectrum’ (same again, but a fidget with a stage mother). A friend says, ‘working as a mental health professional, almost every diagnostic category has been co-opted into the diminished sense of self that has become the motif of the age; over 15 years working in this field, barely a day goes by when I don’t encounter someone who’s “a bit bipolar” or “a bit OCD”. Strikingly, the only psychiatric condition that remains unfashionable is schizophrenia. The rest are fair game.’
They often have ‘allies’ (hangers-on to unhinged people in order to make themselves feel edgy) who are ‘joyful’ (spend a great deal of time interfering with themselves while cry-bullying online). These people are invariably slavishly devoted to ‘inclusivity’ (fetishising 4 per cent of the population in order to look down on the remaining 96 per cent) and ‘diversity’ (people of a variety of hues parroting the same opinion on everything from breakfast to Brexit – see the BBC); herd-thinking is essential for both, and those who refuse will be excluded and divested by captured institutions. But they probably deserve it, as they’re ‘divisive’ (an opinion popular with the majority of people that the ruling class don’t like) and ‘toxic’ (the same, but females defending their rights from angry transvestites). So remember, ‘Be Kind’. (Shut up, women, the men are speaking!) These people always ‘identify’ as good, though they are obviously bad – but not in a fun way, ‘bad’ itself having been through several incarnations.
You can’t get away from the vandalism of our lovely tongue in the personal realm either; there’s bound to be some ninny ‘living my best life’ and ‘making memories’ in their ‘forever home’ on their socials. They may well have a ‘fur-baby’, the poor desiccated souls; they’re probably ‘super-busy’ too (spending too much time on their socials). They’re keen on ‘journeys’, ‘narratives’, ‘lived experience’ (rewriting of history starring Brave Little Me), ’my truth’ (lies a lot) and ‘my authentic self’ (whole life is a lie). They may well be ‘passionate’ (always on the verge of a temper-tantrum) and a ‘perfectionist’ (nit-picker who never finishes anything). They will probably have a ‘partner’ (who won’t marry them as they’re waiting for something better to come along). They will likely ‘struggle’ (complain) with ‘mental health’ (a vague feeling of discontent with their lives – understandably) and ‘trauma’ (someone once laughed at their pronouns).
Never mind, let’s have some ‘retail therapy’ (sure sign of a shallow grasping half-wit). Do you fancy something ‘artisanal’ (looks like it was dropped down a flight of stairs between making and point of sale)? Or ‘vintage’ (some old crap that might be better sent in a landfill site)? Or even a little ‘pre-loved’ number (clothes that you love so much you get rid of them, and not even in the bin where they belong). You might want to go to a ‘makers’ collective’ (two squabbling step-sisters making £350 un-dyed linen dresses inspired by the shape of a bin-bag). But don’t mock it, because it’s ‘curated’, as it now appears that every semi-literate dunce who puts together a collection of stuff, however banal or ill-considered, is now on a par with the experienced, knowledgeable and distinguished kingpin of a museum. And it’s probably ‘iconic’, which everything is these days, reaching a tipping point in 2022 when I heard the Mayor of Leicester, Peter Soulsby, use it on Radio 4, referring to Ugandan Asian immigration to Britain in the 1970s. This was undoubtedly a good thing – but how was it ‘iconic’?
I don’t expect everyone to have my almost ‘parasexual’ attachment to the English language. I sometimes think that I love words more than anything else on earth – and this is probably not quite appropriate. But they’re there for all of us, and those who seek to ‘change a language’ – whether silly Sam Smith insisting on pronouns or some sinister swine insisting that a penis can be female – will eventually degrade your life if you let them succeed. It’s true that language is a living, changing thing – but what’s going on now isn’t part of that lively tradition. Instead, our language is being held hostage by people who hate it, as they hate everything beautiful and grounded. That’s why I’ve named it syntaxidermy – because while our captured words look like they always did, they’re now dead inside.
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