Linguistic quirks

I find myself in perpetual fascination with the way language changes and evolves quite independently of the efforts of those that vainly attempt to shape it. Almost invariably, new additions stem from very humble origins, and frequently they owe success and ultimate permanence to their being so strikingly apt and infused with quite unconscious (or sometimes intended) humour.

A reputable local English-language newspaper recently reported that someone had made "a complain" (rather than a complaint) to his local council about something or other. I was struck by the fact that this solecism was carried, quite innocently, and with a perfectly straight face, by a daily which is not usually given to allowing grammatical boo-boos to infiltrate its august pages.

It took my memory back some half a century, to an army regiment in which soldiers oft were wont to make a "complain" to their superiors about something that was bugging them. This so amused a group of young officers that the expression was adopted, semi-seriously at first, until (although it did not quite make it into the Manual of Military Writing) it eventually became an integral part of regimental slang. I like to think that in 50 years it has, like Rossini's Calunnia, spread and advanced stealthily from those modest beginnings, until it is now almost official universal parlance.

My mind still being on that faraway parade ground, I recalled two other vivid expressions which (though they have not been accorded the accolade of universal suffrage) make me chortle even more heartily.

The first one concerns a lunch table in an officers' mess where one parti- cular major, well remembered for being extremely picky, found the bill of fare for that day less than to his liking. He beckoned to a steward and bade him ask the cook if he would fry him an egg instead. The servant did not appear to find this a problem; he inclined his head and disappeared.

However, he was back in two minutes, and bending over the officer, whispered, "Chef wants to know, d'you want it join, Sir?" (imma tridha join, Sinjur?) The major, mystified but not wishing to show his ignorance of such basic culinary practice, nodded mutely.

Subsequent hurried consultation with the regimental messing officer shed light on the mystery. Apparently the mess servants (not by any means professional waiters), when posted to the officers' mess, were given a crash course in their new art, and they were taught, with unbending ultra-Victorian adherence to British army tradition, that a civilised meal consisted of hors d'oeuvres, soup, fish, entrée, joint, dessert and savoury.

The helpful steward was merely trying to ascertain whether his superior wanted his eggie immediately or whether he preferred to wait until the main course was served. It's a pity, somehow, that this particular expression didn't make it into everyday language: wouldn't it be nicer if we called our main course "join" instead of the more prosaic "seconds"?

The second episode says a lot about the healthy appetite of the average Maltese soldier of the Fifties. One young subaltern on manoeuvres accepted (somewhat in breach of army tradition) an invitation from his platoon sergeant to partake of a quick lunch in the nearby sergeants' mess, rather than having to endure a half-mile trek to the officers' mess and back.

The food and the service arrangements in the sergeants' mess were even more hearty than those prevalent in the more rarefied atmosphere of the higher ranks' dining room, and the young officer was swiftly presented with a fragrant, steaming mountain of macaroni with tomato sauce, which he promptly proceeded to demolish with gusto.

But then he was nonplussed by the waiter asking him if he wanted food ("trid ikel, Sinjur?"). He promptly retorted with spirit that having so enthusiastically polished off his plate in record time, it was patently obvious that he was all in favour of ikel, and what the hell did the man think he'd been doing the past five minutes if not tucking into ikel? His sergeant friend quietly pointed out to him that what the waiter was in fact enquiring was whether the officer wanted a main course.

After initial imperative hunger pangs had been assuaged by the plate of macaroni, the young man had time to observe the neigbouring tables while waiting for his ikel to arrive. He realised that in the language of that particular establishment, starters were ghagin (even if it happened to be minestra) and seconds were ikel.

Presumably, the gargantuan appetite of a senior NCO in the middle of the 20th century considered a starter (even three-quarters of a pound of macaroni in a rich sauce) to be mere frippery, little more than an amuse-gueule, and only the like of red meat and half a ton of potatoes to be real food fit for real men.

But a more recent occasion caps it all (and this one has entered the language). A water heater in my house having given up the ghost, I called a plumber in, and this worthy recommended that I would experience considerable reduction in my electricity bills were I to install a 'solar system'.

I immediately conjured up vivid visions of swirling nebulae and colour colliding planets on my roof, and wondered if they would provide me with more hot water than a bank of solar panels and a prosaic water tank.