I once shared an office with someone who paused at the end of every sentence and then said with unvarying regularity, “...type of thing...”
For maybe five minutes this seemed like an endearing quirk; after five hours I thought she might have Tourette's; after five weeks I began to look kindly upon death as an escape route.
Language evolves. A regular revolution ensures that words and phrases come and go; some stay the night, others form long term relationships with us.
William Shakespeare would probably be flattered and somewhat amazed that we could certainly pick out several hundred phrases from his work that are used in everyday situations four hundred years later. As far as I know, Shakespeare didn’t have a Twitter account in the seventeenth century, nor did he have access to any other social media, television, radio, or podcasts.
Despite studying his works in some detail I have been unable to locate characters who regularly exit the stage, closing their speech with a quick “innit...” or even “D’ya know what I’m sayin’?...”
Of course it is wonderful and exciting that in this age an event can take place and within a fraction of a second, anyone in the world with internet access can be part of that event, or at the very least have a clear connection to it, in both a literal and emotional sense.
However (there was always going to be a ‘but’ wasn’t there?) such a state also lends itself to fashionable words or phrases spreading across the globe with the same velocity and reach as a Simon Cowell talent show.
Thus, early 2011 is infected with what we scientists call the ‘Look and Listen Problem’. From nowhere, and now at default setting for all media interviewees is the unquenchable desire, when answering a question, to launch a reply by commencing with either “Listen...” or “Look...”
Listen. Let’s take a closer look at this unwelcome phenomenon.
This week, during the final Test of The Ashes cricket in Australia, Paul Collingwood of England, was asked about his retirement. Each answer was neatly packaged by inserting a “Listen” or “Look” at the start of each reply.
Commentating during the same match, Shane Warne, began each segment of his analysis with a hearty “Look...”
Back home in England, suddenly a politician can no longer answer John Humphreys or Nicky Campbell with a hollow answer unless it is prefaced with a startling “Look..”
Some media people have taken the L ‘n’ L craze so much to their hearts that it has become a recurrent, seemingly involuntary response to any question. Dan Sabbagh, head of media and technology at The Guardian is a regular guest on radio programmes and podcasts. He has become mesmerised by the dazzle of the L ‘n’ L and has reached a tipping point where every single response to a simple question from Steve Hewlett is dragged along reluctantly behind the hanging knuckles of the sharp “Listen...!” prefix.
Look. Why has the L ‘n’ L craze dug in so deeply (mainly across the Commonwealth, strangely)?
I think L ‘n’ L serve two separate but closely linked purposes, each with similar weight.
Interviewees in the searing searchlights of the media don’t like to appear nervous. They fear it transmits easily (though often we can’t tell), so hoiking out a swift and assertive “Listen...” may give the illusion that the speaker is so on top of his or her game that they can bat away the question with ease. It implies that the question is rather beneath them. It has a hidden appendix which says, “Listen... for God’s sake why are you asking me such an idiotic question? I’m rather cleverer than you and consequently I will teach you (if your tiny snivelling brain can cope with my intellect) a swift lesson so you won’t ask such an imbecilic question next time.”
“Look...” has a similar but even more forceful hidden codicil to its twin brother.
“Look...” when stated with a weary sigh and married to a stern intonation says, “Look... you’re wasting my time. You should know this already. It is so flamingly obvious and is written in the sky above you in rainbow verdana text. I could drop into any kindergarten in the country and find a two year old who could answer your moronic question, but instead, I’m going to patronise you and tell you the way it is in the manner of Jack Donaghy educating Liz Lemon. Clearly you are a buffoon and unworthy of my time.”
So by hurtling into a response with the L ‘n’ L adjunct, the interviewee not only covers nerves by sounding forceful and patronising, they further win the bonus of achieving an additional second or two of thinking time, which can make all the difference while brains scan for an appropriate response. Intriguingly, I’ve yet to note the L ‘n’ L technique used by youthful responders, leading to the possibility that the thinking time of the younger generation is swifter, and that nerves are less of an issue, or at least less of a social faux pas than they might be to the more mature guest who may wish to be viewed as a worldly wise, slightly weary, commentator on current affairs.
Once we notice the preponderance of L ‘n’ L it becomes a fascination to mentally note the trigger that is set in motion as “Look...” and “Listen...” are snowballed down the mountain by the interviewee, creating an avalanche of woe for the listener.
For lovers of language, we must be grateful that Shakespeare is not amongst us today as he may have seen it as his duty for Mark Antony to stand before his peers bellowing “Listen... Friends, Romans, Countrymen, lend me your ears!”
Or Macbeth, interviewed by Jeremy Paxman on Newsnight, “Look... Is this a dagger which I see before me?”
Look... Listen... Stop.
Terence Dackombe, January 2011
This week I have:
Been obsessed with Joan Didion, read a splendid compilation of her work, and delivered a speech extolling her magnificent use of language.
Dined at the Frontline Club in London, and jabbered away to such an extent that a man of the cloth missed his last train.
Watched Chelsea F.C. play with the style and panache of an out of date Christmas pudding.
Attended a dinner/theatre performance of ‘A Bedfull Of Foreigners’ in a converted water mill by the Thames in Berkshire