Saturday, 14 February 2015

English is Never What it Was

Joe Bennett is, without any doubt, my favourite columnist. Living as I do on the borders of Auckland, sole fiefdom of that old harridan Granny Herald, I don't often get to read his work in print. But anthologies of his columns exist, published by HarperCollins, with titles like Celebrity Cat Recipes and Fish Like a Drink. And of course you can always grab his latest from the Christchurch Press over on the Stuff website.

So (and I can't imagine why I haven't thought of this before) here is a link - the first of many to come no doubt - to Joe's cogitations. This one is on the English language, Latin, thunderstorms and corporotocracy. It's especially relevant to all of us over the ripe old age of fifty and given to grumbling about the sad state of English today.


1 comment:

  1. And the entry on his poor dead chicken. It brought back memories.

    For, when I was a lad, I bought a little chick -- a black rock -- and I found one day that she was unlike the other fowl. I sat her on a fence and she just sat there. She became my friend. I named the hen, Henrietta.

    She followed me everywhere and we played. I put her on the merry-go-round in the yard and gave it a gentle spin. She held on and apparently enjoyed the ride.

    I remember that fateful day that she was in the alfalfa field when my dad was mowing. He accidently got her in the neck. It was not totally severed. She could not be saved.

    But she was delicious.