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#irish-english — Public Fediverse posts

Live and recent posts from across the Fediverse tagged #irish-english, aggregated by home.social.

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  1. In #Persian, we've got a saying "A handful, a sample of the pile". It's for generalization of a small sample to a whole group.

    For instance, I see few math students who use a small whiteboard. I say "See! This is a handful, a sample of the pile". Here I'm saying most(or all) math students use a small whiteboard.

    What are the equivalent sayings in #BritishEnglish, #AmericanEnglish, #IrishEnglish and #AustralianEnglish?

    What about other languages? If you are a native speaker, what similar saying or proverb have you got in your language?

    If you like, a boost will be good :)

    #English #proverb #ForeignLanguage #LanguageLearning #Learning #Irish #British #American

  2. Reconstructed 17th century English sounds a lot like Irish English. So why is Irish English so phonetically conservative? When English was brought to Ireland, Irish already distinguished vowels before /r/ and palatal /k/ and /g/ before front vowels.
    youtube.com/watch?v=rRZiUQv4F0E

    #EarlyModernEnglish #LanguageEvolution #IrishEnglish #phonology #linguistics

  3. "Without knowing, I had used that thing for which the English reserve a visceral dislike: their language, loaded and aimed by the old enemy."

    —Eavan Boland, on using the word "amn't" in a London school at the age of 6 or 7

    #language #IrishEnglish #dialect #poetry

  4. Eavan Boland and the emergence of a poetic self

    I picked up Object Lessons (1995) by Eavan Boland (1944–2020) thinking it was a memoir, but it’s more focused than that: a meditation on the emergence of her identity as a poet, specifically a woman poet and an Irish poet.

    This identity is further complicated by her emigration from Ireland as a five-year-old girl when her father, a diplomat, took up work in London in the mid-20th century:

    Hardly anything else that happened to me as a child was as important as this: that I left one country and came to another. That an ordinary displacement made an extraordinary distance between the word place and the word mine.

    In England, everyday words reinforced her sense of difference and lack: ‘They [the other children at school] could say “orchard” instead of “garden” with the offhand grace imparted by nine-tenths of the law. I could not.’ But it would be an Irish English word that crystallized her alienation:

    The inevitable happened. One day my tongue betrayed me out of dream and counterfeit into cold truth. I was in the cloakroom at school in the middle of the afternoon. A winter darkness was already gathering through one of the stubborn fogs of the time. A teacher was marshaling children here and there, dividing those who were taking buses from those who were being collected. “I amn’t taking the bus,” I said. I was six or seven then, still within earshot of another way of speaking. But the English do not use that particular construction. It is an older usage. If they contract the verb and the negative, they say, “I’m not.”

    Without knowing, I had used that thing for which the English reserve a visceral dislike: their language, loaded and aimed by the old enemy. The teacher whirled around. She corrected my grammar; her face set, her tone cold. “You’re not in Ireland now” was what she said.

    This account elaborates on Boland’s description of the incident in her poem ‘An Irish Childhood in England: 1951’, which I excerpted in a 2014 post about the Irish use of amn’t.

    In her mid-teens Boland returned to live in Ireland and began to explore the inchoate sense of Irishness from which she felt semi-estranged:

    Language. At first this was what I lacked. Not just the historic speech of my country. I lacked that too, but so did others. This was a deeper loss; I returned to find that my vocabulary of belonging was missing. The street names, the meeting places—it was not just that I did not know them. It was something more. I had never known them. I had lost not only a place but the past that goes with it and, with it, the clues from which to construct a present self.

    I had to learn a new sensory idiom. A fog in the mouth, for example, which was different from the London one: less gritty, with more of an ocean aftertaste. An unkempt greenness on the streets. A drizzle which was interseasonal, constant. Different trees. Different birds.

    Nurturing this idiom, she found, years later, that ‘language can reclaim location’, a beautifully concise expression of this insight.

    It was not just Irish English with which Boland familiarized herself. In her final year in school she was struggling with Latin, resentful of its difficulty. Then came a turning point:

    It was something about the economy of it all: the way the ablative absolute gathered and compressed time. One day, again figuratively, it was a burdensome piece of grammar. The next, with hardly any warning, it was a messenger with quick heels and a bright face. I hardly knew what had happened. I began to respect, however grudgingly, the systems of a language which could make such constructs that, although I had no such words for it, they stood against the disorders of love or history. They had left the mouth of the centurion and entered the mind of a Sicilian farm worker. They had forged alliances and named stars. And at that point of my adolescence, where the words I wrote on a page were nothing but inexact, the precision and force of these constructs began to seem both moving and healing.

    As Boland developed her poetic ability and her confidence in its effect, she found herself entering a heavily male tradition. There were pivotal encounters with avatars of that tradition: with Padraic Colum at an elevator; with Patrick Kavanagh in a café in Dublin (his style of speech ‘shy and apocalyptic’).

    But the constraints of history and structural intransigence pressed tight:

    Gradually the anomaly of my poetic existence was clear to me. By luck, or its absence, I had been born in a country where and at a time when the word woman and the word poet inhabited two separate kingdoms of experience and expression. I could not, it seemed, live in both. As the author of poems I was an equal partner in Irish poetry. As a woman—about to set out on the life which was the passive object of many of those poems—I had no voice. It had been silenced, ironically enough, by the very powers of language I aspired to and honored.

    Object Lessons abounds in eloquent, carefully honed ideas about womanhood and nationhood and the complications of a poetic self at their intersections. For this post I’ve selected just a few language-themed passages; if they appeal to you, you’ll enjoy Boland’s book.

    #amnT #books #EavanBoland #gender #HibernoEnglish #identity #Ireland #IrishBooks #IrishEnglish #irishLiterature #IrishPoetry #languageAndGender #literature #poetry #words #writers #writing
  5. Saw this sentence with both the Irish English "give out" and a standardized-English "give out":

    "The banks often give out¹ that the rules are too tight and they can’t give out² the money people need."

    ¹ complain
    ² issue, distribute

    Source and commentary: stancarey.wordpress.com/2013/0

    #language #dialect #idioms #IrishEnglish #EnglishUsage #phrases

  6. Today someone called a layer of snow "shallow."

    I don't think I've ever heard that used to describe snow. It feels wrong; even though (in the US at least) we say "deep" snow all the time. Shallow is for water, or people. Not for snow. Snow can be light or thin, but not shallow.

    Do other people use this phrase? I know English is weird, but it startled me that I'd never noticed this quirk before.

    #englishusage #copyediting #askmastodon #englishishard #americanenglish #BritishEnglish #irishenglish

  7. "Agin" = "against" is a feature of colloquial Irish English. Hence the joke "He who is not for us is a Guinness" ["agin us"], and the dialect word "aginner": one who opposes or begrudges something

    #dialect #words #IrishEnglish #HibernoEnglish #language #puns

  8. Tickled by a comment on this post about two dialect words that shows Julie Andrews, in Mary Poppins, mispronouncing "stravaging" the same way I did:
    stancarey.wordpress.com/2020/0

    #language #dialect #etymology #slang #words #IrishEnglish

  9. I asked the writer, who said the quote was accurate and that my instincts were right: the child's parents were from Donegal! So with her assent I added a phrase to indicate dialect, for readers' benefit, and avoided "[sic]".

    Further reading, for the curious, on "be's" and related idioms in Irish English stancarey.wordpress.com/2015/0

    and on what Jessica Mitford called the "pedantic, censorious quality" of "[sic]" stancarey.wordpress.com/2014/0 [2/2]

    #copyediting #dialect #IrishEnglish #sic #acwri #editing

  10. Always wondered if the Irish phrase "make a hames of" (="make a mess of") came directly from the horse's mouth, so to speak. Found support for that origin in Tom Phelan's memoir, and updated this old post:

    stancarey.wordpress.com/2012/1

    #language #etymology #idioms #words #IrishEnglish #HibernoEnglish

  11. I'm copy-editing a nonfiction book by an Irish writer and added a note of explanation after its use of "minerals" to mean "soft drinks, esp. soda pop"

    So I'm curious: Are you familiar with the usage "mineral" = "soft drink, soda pop"?

    #language #words #Mastodaoine #Ireland #dialect #IrishEnglish #editing #copyediting

  12. The latest @grammargirl podcast discusses the origins of language, and at the 8-minute mark has a bit on calques in Irish English, citing my post on the "after perfect":

    grammar-girl.simplecast.com/ep
    #language #dialect #grammar #linguistics #IrishEnglish #podcast

  13. ‘Lucky might get going all of a sudden. Then we’d be banjaxed.’ (Samuel Beckett, Waiting for Godot)

    Banjaxed and bockety are a fun pair of words in the Irish English vernacular. Banjaxed I heard from an early age; bockety was not in my west-of-Ireland dialect, but I adopted it later for occasional use.

    The words have similar but distinct meanings.

    If something is banjaxed, it’s ruined, broken, confounded, or shattered (including in the ‘tired’ sense; cf. killed in Irish slang). It’s often applied to damaged or destroyed machines – vehicles, phones, computers, household appliances – or their parts. It can apply to people, if they’re injured or drunk, for example, or to abstractions like plans or systems.

    If something is bockety, it’s physically unsteady, impaired, or imperfect. It’s more likely to be usable than if it’s banjaxed: a bockety chair or bicycle might wobble but function, whereas a banjaxed one is not to be trusted, if it can be used at all. Body parts are often bockety too. I’ll return to this word later.

    This car in David Mach‘s installation The Oligarch’s Nightmare, pictured at the Galway Arts Festival 2023, is well and truly banjaxed. And that wheel looks fierce bockety.

    The origins of banjaxed (occasionally bandjaxed) are uncertain. The OED says it was ‘perhaps originally Dublin slang’, which doesn’t get us far, while the Oxford Dictionary of Modern Slang speculates that it was formed by association with banged, bashed, and smashed. Maybe.

    Green’s Dictionary of Slang suggests that the noun banjax was a semi-euphemism of ballocks. Dave Wilton, at Wordorigins.org, writes that it’s a short leap from ballocks as a verb meaning ‘make a mess’ to banjax with a similar sense. (See my post on ballocks/bollocks/bollox/bollix at Strong Language for more on that word.)

    Banjax(ed) has always felt vaguely rude to me, bordering obscurely on vulgarity; etymology might underlie this feeling. There’s also a bilingual pun about banjax being the ladies’ toilet, since bean /’bæn/ is Irish Gaelic for ‘woman’, and jacks is Irish English slang for ‘bathroom’.

    The noun banjax, which may predate the verb, appears in Seán Ó Casey’s 1920s play Juno and the Paycock: ‘I’m tellin’ you the scholar, Bentham, made a banjax o’ th’ Will.’ Wiktionary defines it as ‘a mess or undesirable situation made as a result of incompetence’ – I’d qualify the subordinate phrase with a ‘sometimes’.

    Banjax (v.) appears in a few major dictionaries, including Merriam-Webster, American Heritage, Green’s, and Collins, which notes the common connotations of incompetence. It usually occurs in the form banjaxed (i.e., as a past participle or participial adjective). Some Irish writers are especially fond of it, like Edna O’Brien:

    Van Gogh knew a thing or two, but think what it did to his brain, banjaxed it. (Johnny I Hardly Knew You)

    ‘Emma had suggested that you hide, said your presence might banjax her position.’ (A Pagan Place)

    ‘Say the separating machine got banjaxed up at the creamery,’ Morgan said. (‘Tough Men’, in The Love Object)

    and Flann O’Brien:

    The torture had him banjaxed altogether. (The Hard Life)

    ‘Michael Gilhaney,’ said the Sergeant, ‘is an example of a man that is nearly banjaxed from the principle of the Atomic Theory. Would it astonish you to hear that he is nearly half a bicycle?’ (The Third Policeman)

    They drive away the roller and here is his black heart sitting there as large as life in the middle of the pulp of his banjaxed corpse. They couldn’t crush his heart! (At Swim-Two-Birds)

    Green’s has further citations, mostly from Irish writers.

    Mark Davies’s GloWbE corpus highlights banjax* as an example of Irish dialect: 59 of its 77 hits are from Irish English, 52 of them for banjaxed. And of the 16 British ones, several are duplicates or appear on Arseblog, a blog about Arsenal football club written by an Irishman.

    Banjaxed shows up in Scottish English too, sometimes in high-profile places. In the rebooted Star Trek film from 2009, Scotty describes the shield emitters as ‘totally banjaxed’.

    Banjaxed objects in GloWbE include body parts (my arm, my right knee, her knees, Robbie Keane’s Achilles heel), machines and tech (websites, rental bikes, a car), and physical objects (bed, door lock). Anatomical/medical references proved popular in the pandemic, as the Coronavirus Corpus shows:

    I was as banjaxed by the coronavirus as anyone else. [source, NZ]

    But there undoubtedly are a number of people whose lives have been banjaxed by the thing. [source]

    That means tens of thousands of those will go on to be rendered banjaxed by Long Covid. [source]

    Most of all, abstract entities are banjaxed, often of a political or structural nature: Ireland, the country, the economy, our banking system, the country’s accounts, etc. Country is the most frequent collocate: ‘the country is banjaxed’, ‘the party that banjaxed the country’, etc.

    Finally, a fun piece of trivia: banjaxed was Terry Wogan’s favourite word:

    Which explains this:

    *

    Now for bockety. Loaned directly from Irish bacaidí /’bɑkəd̪i/, it’s a synonym of bacach /’bɑkəx/, both of which, as far as I know, can function as an adjective, meaning ‘lame’, ‘halting’, ‘imperfect’, or as a noun, meaning ‘lame person’ (or ‘mean person’, ‘sponger’, etc.).

    The adjectival use of bockety is more common, and is the only use listed in the OED. The first of two closely related senses is dated to 1842, the second to 1902, though I doubt that’s the final word:

    1. Of a person: unable to walk without difficulty; infirm, lame. Also of a body part: injured, impaired.

    2. That has fallen into a state of disrepair; likely to fall apart or break down; rickety, ramshackle.

    A search on Irish forum boards.ie shows the popularity of reference to body parts: there are bockety legs, knees, feet, hips, backs, ovaries, heads, teeth, and entire bodies. There’s often a sense of long-term impairment or gradual deterioration, whereas a banjaxed body part tends to indicate a more sudden or severe injury. At least that’s my intuition.

    Bockety often refers to everyday objects, such as wheels, bicycles, furniture, or other parts of a home that have fallen into disrepair but may remain functional. If only barely: Mary McAleese, president of Ireland in 1997–2011, writes in her memoir of ‘a bockety office chair’ that would ‘lurch suddenly to the left and throw me onto the floor’.

    OED aside, bockety is absent from mainstream dictionaries but appears in Irish English ones, whose examples refer to a bockety sign, chair leg, and hay rick (A Dictionary of Hiberno-English by T.P. Dolan) and a bockety wardrobe, pig’s bladder (used as a football), and hoor (a quasi-derogatory term usually applied to men) (Slanguage by Bernard Share).

    I last saw it in the wild a few weeks ago, when I caught up on a long, comic article about the Metaverse in New York Magazine by Paul Murray, author of the award-winning Skippy Dies and The Bee Sting:

    . . . the unlovable lo-fi graphics and interpersonal randomness can give Horizon Worlds a kind of a perverse, bockety charm. Unlike Twitter or Instagram, there’s no scope to broadcast your brand here; everybody’s just thrown together, like at a ’90s music festival with no music.

    Other examples that I’ve seen by Irish authors include:

    The door had been wedged open by a bockety chair on which was sellotaped a hand-scrawled sign: ART THIS WAY. (Doireann Ní Ghríofa, A Ghost in the Throat)

    I won’t see you riding your bockedy bike (Pat Ingoldsby, ‘For Hughie’, in Salty Water)

    . . . we were admitted to a room that felt like an oul’ one’s tiny parlour: a red formica-topped table, a couple of battered kitchen chairs, the smell of cooking oil and boiled cabbage and stale smoke, an old Bakelite radio set on a bocketty occasional table.” (Declan Hughes, All the Dead Voices)

    You may have noticed the three spellings (bockety, bockedy, bocketty) in those three uses: a not unusual degree of variation in an anglicized Irish loanword – see my post on mar dhea for notes on this.

    GloWbE has just 4 hits for bockety (none for the variant spellings), referring to spectacles, roads, and pop music (bockety pop is a microgenre I’m unfamiliar with). The iWeb corpus has 18, though 8 refer to the Sarah Argent play The Bockety World of Henry & Bucket, about ‘two friends who live in a bockety world of discarded objects’.

    Also featured in iWeb are a bockety shopping cart, table, framework, cage, beads, stairs, mobile phone, and bicycle – which is banjaxed too: Róisín Ingle’s Irish Times article on cycling begins thus:

    I’ve been freewheeling around Dublin town since the red letter day aged eight or nine when I inherited a thoroughly banjaxed third-hand bike that once had belonged to several older brothers or sisters. It was blue and bockety, the saddle leather battered and worn, the chain creaky and in need of a good dose of 3-in-1 oil, but it was mine, all mine.

    Which brings us full, bockety circle. To see us out, here’s a video of a dog named Bockety and their pal helping a farmer plant potatoes in County Kerry. Absolute full marks for Irishness.

    https://stancarey.wordpress.com/2024/03/15/banjaxed-and-bockety-words-in-ireland/

    #000000 #banjax #banjaxed #bockety #dialect #etymology #HibernoEnglish #Ireland #IrishEnglish #IrishLanguage #IrishSlang #language #slang #words

  14. Saw a nice example of habitual "be's" in Irish English, in Pat McCabe's novel The Stray Sod Country:

    "Och sure you know Balla, she had replied, there never be's much stir round there, about anything."

    #dialect #language #IrishEnglish #grammar

  15. Week 45, 2023: What @[email protected] album languages grew the most this week?

    The craic approaches ninety as the Irish rise to the top yet again. 🥇🇮🇪🎉

    📊 #Wikidata 🎶🎵 #ExMusica @[email protected] #HibernoEnglish #IrishEnglish #Hibs

  16. Edited an article with the text "a HR meeting" and left the "a" intact. In Irish English the name of the letter H is aspirated: "haitch" rather than "aitch".

    This is deeply controversial in some quarters, as I reported here: stancarey.wordpress.com/2013/1

    #language #linguistics #phonetics #speech #sociolinguistics #IrishEnglish #dialect #editing #haitch

  17. Interesting piece on developing Irish Alexa via 'voice disentanglement', though some details seem off: I've seldom if ever heard anyone say 'bath' like 'bat' or 'bad', and the 'r' sound in Irish English is not 'overpronounced' – it's just pronounced, unlike in non-rhotic accents

    nytimes.com/2023/07/01/technol #language #linguistics #accent #Alexa #IrishEnglish #dialect #speech #generativeAI #Amazon

  18. "Hold yer whisht"

    I recall a discussion about this phrase not long ago. I just now heard it in "Darby O'Gill and the Little People," spoken by Brian Connor, king of the leprechauns!

    #IrishEnglish #HushNow

  19. CW: Irish English dialect

    A line of dialogue by Eilís Dillon, "Wasn't it herself told me ye were coming today", inspired an essay I wrote on #IrishEnglish for the Stinging Fly, abridged here in the Irish Times:
    irishtimes.com/culture/books/w
    #language #dialect #grammar #Ireland #Mastodaoine #linguistics

  20. A grand Irish usage

    In Irish English, the word grand has the familiar meanings: impressive, magnificent, high-ranking, very large, etc. – size being etymologically salient – but its most common use is in the dialectal sense ‘OK, fine, satisfactory’. As such it often appears in brief, affirmative replies:

    How’s it going?
    Grand, thanks.

    Was the sea cold?
    It was grand.

    How did the interview go?
    I got on grand.

    I’ll pick you up in an hour.
    Grand.

    I’m sorry about that.
    Ah no, you’re grand. [Don’t worry about it.]

    This use of grand is so routine and prevalent in Ireland that it’s virtually a state of mind (and hence popular in T-shirt designs and the like). This comes in handy for understatement in injurious situations:

    News site TheJournal.ie makes frequent use of grand in its story tags, such as ‘grand job’ (OK, fine), ‘grand so’ (OK, fine), ‘sure it’s grand’ (it’s fine, it’ll do), and ‘be grand’ (It’ll be grand, i.e., It’ll do fine). It also puts it in headlines:

    Grand has more strongly positive connotations in some contexts, such as the popular phrase grand stretch, referring to the longer evenings in spring and summer. Here’s an Irish Examiner piece:

    The closeness of these senses is apparent in the OED, which categorizes them together (A11a) as a colloquial usage ‘historically commoner in North American, Scottish, Irish English, and English regional usage than in standard British English’. It defines it thus:

    Used as a general term to express strong admiration, approval, or gratification: magnificent, splendid; excellent; highly enjoyable. Also: (in weakened use, chiefly Irish English) satisfactory, fine, all right. Also in ironic use.

    The OED separates off sense A11b, limiting it to people’s state of being: ‘well, in good health. Frequently in negative contexts.’

    Use of grand can stray into ambiguity. If you offer someone dessert and they say ‘Grand’, it means they accept – though without particular enthusiasm. If they say ‘You’re grand’ or ‘I’m grand’, they don’t. (Often, though, declining a first offer is just politeness; offer again, with more encouragement, and they may well accept. ‘Ah, go on, so.’)

    Flaw in Hibero-English that yes and no ("grand" vs "I'm grand") virtually indistinguishable. Just accepted lift offer and person drove off.

    — Eoin Butler 🇵🇸 (@eoinbutler) April 17, 2013

    Ambiguity between the main standard sense (‘impressive, magnificent’) and the main Irish sense (‘OK, acceptable’) can also arise, as it did momentarily for me when I read these lines in The Enemy by Lee Child:

    We found the O Club without any trouble. It occupied half of one of the ground-floor wings of the main building. It was a grand space, with high ceilings and intricate plaster mouldings.

    Irish English dictionaries’ treatments of grand are worth noting. Here are three reputable sources:

    Brewer’s Dictionary of Irish Phrase and Fable, by Sean McMahon and Jo O’Donoghue, sums up the Irish usage as indicating ‘modest satisfaction’, adding that it’s also used (as in standard dialects) ‘as a synonym of “posh”, with an implication of snobbery: “She’s very grand.”’

    The late Terry Dolan’s Dictionary of Hiberno-English says the adjective is ‘used very widely in HE to indicate a general sense of wellbeing’, and cites Shay Healy (Irish Daily Mail, 23 December 2009) describing it as ‘a powerful word that can confirm the truth or varnish a lie in a way that keeps the social wheels permanently oiled’.

    Bernard Share, in Slanguage, defines grand as ‘fine, first-class, all right’ and quotes two instructive examples: ‘Generally, in their marriage, they got on. “Fine, not great, but grand”, she repeatedly summed up the four years of their relationship’ (Nell McCafferty, Sunday Tribune, 1996); ‘Happiness is not a condition that a normal Irish person ever recognises. Being “grand” is the most we aspire to’ (Frank McNally, Irish Times, 2007).

    If you’re Irish, or an Irish English speaker, this use of grand is probably an intrinsic feature of your dialect. If you’re not, and you hear it used but are uncertain how it’s intended, my advice is to not worry. It’ll be grand.

    [more posts on Irish English]

    #adjectives #dialect #grand #grandStretch #HibernoEnglish #Ireland #IrishEnglish #language #pragmatics #semantics #usage #words

  21. Giving out, Irish style

    The phrasal verb give out has several common senses:

    distribute – ‘she gave out free passes to the gig’

    emit – ‘the machine gave out a distinctive hum’

    break down, stop working – ‘at the end of the marathon her legs gave out’

    become used up – ‘their reserves of patience finally gave out’

    declare, make known – ‘management gave out that it would change the procedure’

    In Ian Fleming’s Casino Royale I read an example of this last sense: ‘At the moment the Communist Party is giving out that he was off his head.’ Had Fleming been Irish, this line would be ambiguous – give out in Irish English commonly means complain, grumble, moan; or criticise, scold, reprimand, tell off.

    I think this give out comes from Irish tabhair amach, same meaning. It’s intransitive and often followed by to [a person]. People might give out to someone for some mistake, oversight, or character flaw, or about politics, the weather, or the state of the roads. Or they might just give out in an unspecific or habitual way.

    Here are some examples from literature:

    He always seemed to be in bad humour and was always giving out. (Joe McVeigh, Taking a Stand: Memoir of an Irish Priest)

    Pot Belly gives out and tells Slapper he’s not to be going home in this weather. (Claire Keegan, ‘The Ginger Rogers Sermon’, in Antarctica)

    She had a good figure, although she was always giving out about her too-tight size twelve jeans, but she said buying a pair of size fourteens would be giving in. (Fiona O’Brien, Without Him)

    ‘If I eat any more turnips I’ll turn bleedin’ yellow.’
    ‘Ah, don’t be always giving out,’ said Mother. (Christy Brown, Down All the Days)

    Giving out to him the whole time: ‘I’ve hated you for years, you old fecker, so take this.’ (Anne Emery, Obit: A Mystery)

    Both brothers would do Mr McGurk’s voice but Tee-J did it brilliant. He did Mr McGurk as a cranky old farmer who was always giving out. (Kevin Barry, ‘White Hitachi’, in Dark Lies the Island)

    Greenfinch (Carduelis chloris) giving out to me about something

    Irish give out is sometimes intensified by adding stink, yards, spades, to high heaven, or the pay:

    Afterwards in the car my mother would give out yards to my father for being so generous to his sponging relations. (Sinead Moriarty, Keeping It In the Family)

    Of course you prefer your little pet of a daughter who gave out stink to me this morning and wanted me to shift myself and my bed and I in the throes of mortal suffering. (John B. Keane, Letters of a Love-Hungry Farmer and other stories)

    I heard the mother giving out stink to the father about it the other night; she was doing the old shout-whisper… (Donal Ryan, The Spinning Heart)

    ‘I had her mother on the phone to me last night, giving out yards.’ (Clare Dowling, Can’t Take My Eyes Off You)

    ‘We’re gone fierce boring now. Real suburbanites, I guess. Mowing the lawn and giving out yards about the neighbours.’ (Joseph O’Connor, Two Little Clouds)

    For all we know, they give out to high heaven behind closed doors but we’ve no indication of that so we have to presume they are ok with things. (JoeyFantastic on Munsterfans.com forum)

    …even if I did have to listen to him giving out the pay about the dangers of the Teddy Boys now inhabiting the place. (Brendan Behan, Confessions of an Irish Rebel)

    Bernard Share, in Slanguage, says give out is an abbreviation of give out the hour, and is also seen in the form give off. I haven’t encountered these versions much.

    Dermot, she said again, say something. Give off to me but don’t stay quiet. (Dermot Healy, The Bend for Home)

    You’ll find give out = complain, criticise, etc. in many dictionaries of Irish slang, but it’s not slang: it’s an idiom in most or all of the dialects on this island, a regular feature of vernacular Hiberno-English. And it doesn’t end there.

    On Twitter, Oliver Farry said ‘people in Kansas and Missouri use give out in much the same way as Irish people do’. This was news to me, and I’d be interested to hear more about it – or about its use anywhere else in this Irish sense. Including Ireland: I use it myself. But don’t give out to me if I’ve overlooked something important.

    Update:

    LanguageHat follows up, wondering about the Kansas/Missouri use of the phrase. A few commenters from these States have never heard it, so its distribution is evidently limited.

    Eoin McGee’s book How to Be Good with Money (Gill Books, 2020) has a sentence with Irish English give out ‘complain’ followed by standardized-English give out ‘issue, distribute’:

    The banks often give out that the rules are too tight and they can’t give out the money people need.

    [Hiberno-English archives]

    #books #dialects #giveOut #HibernoEnglish #idioms #Ireland #IrishBooks #IrishEnglish #IrishLanguage #IrishSlang #language #phrasalVerbs #phrases #polysemy #semantics #usage
  22. Ijit, idjit, eejit, idiot

    After reading a lot of Stephen King in my teens and early 20s, I went about 15 years not reading him at all. Then I came across Dolores Claiborne in a local bookshop and immediately bumped it to the upper reaches of my book mountain. I’ve long admired the film adaptation, so I was more than a little curious to visit the source.

    Set on an island off the coast of Maine, New England, it’s a memorable story told very well as a continuous narrative in Dolores’s dialectal speech. It has one lexical feature that I want to mention here. No spoilers follow:

    …the biggest ijit in the world coulda told he didn’t think I’d do any such thing once I finally understood what’d happened

    I don’t remember seeing the word ijit in print before. Obviously it’s a regional form of idiot – like idjit, another variant – and means more or less the same thing (see eejit, below), but it’s interesting how its pronunciation /’ɪdʒət/ ‘idget’ differs from the standard /’ɪdiət/ ‘iddy-uht’. I suppose this is related to the tendency for /dj/ to shift to /dʒ/ in words like due and during.

    Ijit has only one hit in COCA; idjit has three, including the amusing line ‘an optimist […] is just a crossword puzzle way of saying idjit’. Browsing Google Books, though, I see that they’re not so rare, ijit occurring for instance in a story by Jacques Futrelle, who lived not far from Maine in Scituate, Massachusetts.

    I expect they occur here and there around the English-speaking world. Wordnik aggregates several colloquial examples of both forms. Rooting around some more, I see that ijit is also an old African American word, mentioned in Hubert Anthony Shands’s Some Peculiarities of Speech in Mississippi (1893):

    Eejit is the Irish English equivalent, and is common in fictional and vernacular dialogue. It doesn’t connote intellectual difficulty – idiot can – instead signalling foolish behaviour, be it chronic or occasional. Eejit is softer than idiot, and is not generally used hurtfully but to gently criticise someone the speaker knows and may well hold in affection. I imagine this is also true of ijit and idjit, but I’m open to correction.

    Eejit can, of course, be used in self-criticism, as in this example from Jennifer Johnston’s novel Shadows on Our Skin:

    And he hadn’t done his homework, let alone his extra homework. Eejit. Eejit.

    T. P. Dolan’s Dictionary of Hiberno-English offers a few literary examples of eejit and a note on pronunciation: that it approximates the Irish rendering of d and i. Take for example the Irish words Dia (God) /’dʲi:æ/ and idir (between) /’ɪdʲər/. [Edit: See the comments for more on this.]

    ‘You’re the biggest eejit this side of Cork,’ his old father used to say snappishly. (William Trevor, Fools of Fortune)

    Common modifiers of eejit include big, awful, feckin’, fuckin’, and oul’ (also ould, aul’, auld). Its jocular flavour made it a frequent favourite in the TV comedy Father Ted, and might help explain why the word was found to be not unparliamentary when it was used in the Northern Ireland Assembly.

    Irish English as Represented in Film by Shane Walshe presents some uses of the word in films, but you’ll have to turn your head sideways to read them. Like an eejit.

    #books #dialects #DoloresClaiborne #HibernoEnglish #insults #IrishEnglish #language #phonetics #pronunciation #slang #speech #spelling #StephenKing #usage #words

  23. Plámás

    ‘Don’t mind his plámásing.’

    I heard someone say this on the Promenade in Salthill recently. It means: ‘Pay no attention to his flattery.’ Don’t and mind were merged, so the phrase sounded like /do:’maɪndɪz ’plɔ:mɔ:sən/.

    Plámás /’plɔ:mɔ:s/ [‘plaw-mawse’] is an Irish noun and verb used in Hiberno-English; it means empty flattery, ingratiating talk, disingenuous praise. I’ve seen it anglicised as plaumause, plamause, and plawmass, or simply by dropping the accents.

    It’s a word familiar to me since childhood, but I hear it only occasionally. A plámáser or plámásaí /’plɔ:mɔ:si:/ is a person engaging in plámás, while plámásach /’plɔ:mɔ:səx/ (‘flattering’) is the adjectival form. Here are some examples of its use.

    Christopher Nolan, in The Banyan Tree:

    now his big plámásing smile was back on

    Eamonn Sweeney, Waiting for the Healer:

    At midday, the inspector arrives. He is tall and thin and has the air of a true bureaucrat. Da tries to plámás him with coffee and some teacake I bought in the local shop.

    A photo caption on a travel blog:

    Eoghan plamasing the local women to get a cup of butter tea…

    The Laois Nationalist:

    On her re election as assistant treasurer Evelyn Dunne had words of support from her chairman Dick Miller: ‘She wont go out of her way to plaumause you or endear herself to you but I guarantee you she does the work.’

    The blog Hunter S. Thompson Books:

    Hunter S. Thompson a friend of the Mitchell brothers drifts in and out of this story. Reading it I can imagine him bounding around with his usual bow-legged gait, doing what he did best – plamasing everyone in sight, looking like he owned the place.

    A quip on the IrishDogs community forum, in response to someone looking for a lift for a dog:

    yeah plamause your way in there ;-)

    A comment at the Irish Left Review:

    Instead of the usual plamasach self-pitying oul’ guff which passes for analysis on the Irish Left…

    A comment at Indymedia Ireland:

    Concealing your argument with vague allusions and references without ever clarifying your point might impress and plaumause those already on your side, but it will only alienate everybody else.

    Tom Mac Intyre in The Charollais, cited in Bernard Share’s Slanguage:

    ‘We are, in no sense, boasting.’

    ‘Shur I know ye’re not, m’lord — I always knew ye’d go places, an’ I’m not just plawmassin’ ye now.’

    The origin of plámás is unknown. One suggestion is that it’s a corrupted form of blanc-mange, but the link seems tenuous. There’s a related word plásaí /’plɔ:si:/ (plausy, plauzy, plausey, plossey), which can mean either flattery or flatterer. See the previous link for examples.

    When plámás was mentioned in the London Review of Books (1999), it prompted a letter with this amusing comment:

    It is a word my Irish mother often uses in a verbal mode. I’d always thought it was ‘plum-arse’, as in ‘You’d think that Tony Blair could plum-arse them all into agreement, he’s certainly got the mouth for it.’

    I wonder if this line was borrowed verbatim. Plum-arse probably qualifies as an eggcorn, but it’s unlikely to gain any currency given the original term’s scarcity. Even in Ireland, plámás isn’t in common usage: an enthusiastic commenter on Boards.ie from Gorey, Co. Wexford thought plámás was a word his mother had invented.

    .

    (To mark long vowels in IPA, I’ve used ordinary colons instead of the standard triangular marks, because WordPress isn’t rendering the latter clearly.)

    [more Hiberno-English]

    Updates:

    Plámás making headlines in the Irish Times Magazine (7 March 2026), in which Australian columnist Brianna Parkins digs into the cultural differences between her native and adopted lands:

    If there’s one difference I’ve noticed in Ireland it’s that decision-makers will heap praise on me when they’re trying to pay me less than I would like. […]

    Like the time my colleague told me I need to “sweeten up” a person for them to essentially do their basic job description. I was annoyed I had to perform flattery to get them function but this was Ireland where it was considered manners so I did.

    What Irish culture might consider harmless plámásing, Australians might see as an attempt to “piss down their back and tell them it’s raining”. […] Personally, I prefer abrasive honesty while still yearning for the mandatory 10-minute friendly chit chat at the start of Irish meetings.

    Plámás, a coffee shop on Dominick Street in Galway, Ireland

    #dialects #HibernoEnglish #Ireland #IrishEnglish #language #speech #words
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