R.I.P. "Getting It"

I'd just like to take a moment to mourn the passing of a once oft-used phrase "s/he gets it" (in a new media sense). For those blissfully unaware it was used as a shorthand, in geek circles, as code for people that understood the implications of the likes of RSS, open APIs etc. - the whole web 2.0 shebang.

Unfortunately, if you needed that explanation and had to follow the ubiquitous wikipedia link, you would have been deemed, at the time, as someone who most definitely didn't "get it". (Note this has nothing to do with "getting it". I think there were a number of people who quite smugly "got it" but actually, when it came down to it, didn't get any.)

We would nod and smile and point at our colleagues who "got it" and those who didn't "get it" (evinced by an addiction to the likes of AOL and/or having Yahoo or MSN as your homepage - even though we all worked for these companies - or just asking "dumb" questions in meetings) we would condemn with a shake of the head and a smirking "they just don't get it". It was bordering on the religious, this state of "getting it" grace we had, and bestowed on or denied others.

I think it may have been Facebook that sounded the final death knell to "getting it". When hoardes of people have found themselves effortlessly social networking, sharing bookmarks, sharing their online data in order to improve their experiences, and even - shudder - using RSS feeds without even realising it, there really is no need to get it.

And, ironically, being active on Facebook I imagine will be much more conducive to getting it than Last.fm or Flickr ever have been...

Things Best Left Unsaid

I embarrassed myself the other day in front of a respected fellow knowledge worker by mispronouncing the word "renege". To make matters worse, my co-worker's method of notification was simply to use the word in conversation later in a different context, but this time with the correct pronunciation quite deliberately spoken.

It's not a unique occurrence; throughout my life I've mispronounced words. At times it may have been because of my estuary twang, at other times simply because I'd never heard the word spoken before - a symptom of reading more than you speak, or certainly reading in literary languages that don't constitute everyday conversation.

But why get renege wrong? I've been kicking myself and trawling my memory as to when exactly it started. Did I ever know how to pronounce the damn word?

I've traced it back to an adaptation of the British tendency to ridicule words with a hint of foreign (mostly French) roots. Examples from my own comedy repertoire that require incorrect stress and/or a dramatic flourish include Chesham Bois [pron. Cheshum Bwuh - as if the commuter suits are pretending they are still en Provence] and ménage à trois [requires an extra long second vowel sound and a fixed gaze from beneath slightly hooded eyes].

But what frightened me most about "renege" was that I had ceased to remember that I was mispronouncing it. Over years of use I had lost the dramatic pause on the second vowel sound, the roll of the eyes, the well timed curl of the mouth, that all let the listener know that I knew I was mispronouncing it.

And the shocker is that due to my core silliness and insecurity (which I'd previously considered part of my charm) alongside a failing memory, I have realised there are untold language landmines out there ready to destroy any vestiges of a reputation I have for possessing even an ounce of intelligence.

So in conclusion, this is a personal plea, that if you ever hear me mispronouncing a word or phrase and are in any doubt as to whether I know I am doing so, please quietly and firmly let me know as soon as possible before I make a tit of myself again.

Just give me a week or so before you give me the lowdown on my spelling, grammar and general vocabulary, a girl can only take so much humiliation in one week.

Talk to the Slide Cos the Board Aint Listenin

The title has absolutely nothing to do with anything, I just irritated myself this afternoon by saying in a meeting "James, can you talk to this slide?" when referring to a printed out page of a powerpoint presentation. On the tube home this evening I was trying to think of the best way to ridicule this horrible turn of phrase adopted from US corporate culture (apologies to those of you who still might not understand what it means and to those of you who have posted on the same subject), and the title sounded marginally funnier than "I talk to the slides, but they don't listen to me". I also reflected on the fact, if fifteen years ago I'd asked someone to talk to a slide, I would have been in a park and psychotropic medication would have been involved.

I suppose it's tenuously related to a growing self awareness - it's a journey I've been on for a while now. Shit, reading that sentence back, I really am full of this much crap and actually, in these past few years of personal discovery, one of the most important lessons I learnt was via the Greek medium (yes I did - in Athens) who told me, "In your working life you are a Thatcher, in your personal life a wanker" (translated directly from the Greek). Which proved both revealing and responsible for a certain warmth towards the Iron Lady; that and the senile fragility (hers) as well as the belief that my life has similarly picked up a little since my voice lowered and I've managed to survive on less than six hours' sleep a night. It's only a matter of time before I go for the upswept power bouffant.

Continuing on an 80s tip, as well as my Thatcherish tendencies and decadent champagne quaffing at the weekend, I also went to see Morrissey and The Crucible at the Gielgud (latter has a personal connection with the 80s - it's the last time I saw it). Both were incredible, highly recommended - I madly applauded Miller's masterpiece (everything about this RSC production excellent) and wished I had the balls to stand up and shout "bravo" - book now to avoid disappointment.

Sunday was the last night of Morrissey's tour which we managed to wangle tickets for at the last minute. He opened with Panic and finished with Stop me if you think that you've heard this one before, and this time I found myself far less inhibited - I squawked when he came on, swooned when he looked up at me (and the other fans) teetering in the gods of the Palladium, and when he claimed that "You have Killed Me" I actually found myself screeching "WE LOVE YOU" (that's the royal we). And as for when he removed his shirt, rubbed it over his sweaty torso and threw it into the crowd...

This weekend is far more contemporary, off to see Fuerzabruta at the newly reopened Roundhouse. Will supply a sentence review.