The spread of a London ludling (Argots, Part 3)

When discussing argots, the conversation must inevitably turn to rhyming slang. In this series I’ve already mentioned it a few times, so let’s take a closer look. No one knows exactly when or how it started, but it seems in London of the 19th century, some folks needed a cryptolect. In order to create one, they used the playful mechanism of rhyme. The OED’s earliest entry comes from 1846: aunt joanna, meaning “piano”.

That another early term round the houses is rhymed with (and so used to mean) “trousers” also tells us the prevailing accent of the region is non-rhotic. This is a characteristic of many accents of England, but in the area in question the dominant accent is so strongly associated with the argot it is often termed Cockney rhyming slang, though, as we shall see, there are other varieties. Cockney, though sometimes used to describe all Londoners, is distinctly working class and particularly of the city’s East End: it’s the dialect of Eliza Doolittle and Michael Caine.

As I’ve shown in previous articles, the line between ludling and argot is fluid, with ludlings sometimes moving into argotic territory and back again. The border between the two is intelligibility to outsiders. Even with her childhood ludling, idig, Jessica Weiss recalls,¹

[…] creating variations of idig at the neighborhood pool, making it even more impossible for boys and teachers to understand.

If Weiss succeeded in this effort, her ludling would have become increasingly argotic.

There is often a kind of layering based on the need for covertness. This is the case with 86, which I’ve mentioned previously. It combines a borrowing from another language, normalizes the spelling into English, then passes it through the filter of rhyming slang in order to assign the word the meaning, “cancel”.

Indeed, rhyming slang, which I’ve raised a few times as being clearly ludic, can turn quickly from a game to something quite devious. At the base level, it’s straightforward: take a word you want to indicate, rhyme a phrase with it, then substitute the phrase with word. This gives you terms such as:

plates of meat: feet
sorrowful tale: jail
trouble and strife: wife

This is easy to decipher; the substitute phrases not only rhyme with the word they indicate, but are linked semantically. If you weren’t in on the game, you still might puzzle out the meaning, especially given contextual clues. If you hear someone’s in a sorrowful tale, for example, you might at least start thinking in the right direction.

At the next level, there’s no semantic relationship to follow, only the rhyme. Some examples are:

apples and pears: stairs
butcher’s hook: look
loaf of bread: head

One could still hope to get some information from context. Consider “I went up the apples and pears” versus “the apples and pears are over there”. In the second one, someone could really be talking about fruit, but in the first, the preposition up lets you know the phrase is not being used in a standard way, and then thinking about things one goes up, you might very well hit upon stairs.

The rhyme still acts as a bridge to the meaning, but a further level removes that bridge. As Professor of English Simon Horobin notes:²

The tendency for slang to be altered in speech, and for speakers to omit the second, rhyming, component, can make such terms particularly opaque to an outsider.

When this shortening is performed, we are left with:

bubble: Greek
raspberry: fart
tea: thief

The redacted rhymes being respectively and squeak, tart, and leaf. Suddenly it gets pretty hard—you have to guess what completes the phrase as well as what it rhymes with. Here are some I’ve previously mentioned, so you can also see how their connections attenuate:

aunt: piano
round: trousers
plates: feet
sorrowful: jail
trouble: wife
apples: stairs
butcher’s: look
loaf: head

One imagines using 80 or even eight to mean “cancel” could have been another trick in this game. A similar case to 86 appears in:

dukes: hands

Together with 86 and raspberry (often shortened to razz), dukes is one of only a few words commonly used in American English derived from rhyming slang. It’s exclusively used in the context of telling someone to prepare to fight in the phrase, “put up your dukes.” Because this association was so strong, the word was also verbed, through a standard process of our language to simply mean “fight”, as in duke it out.

So how did we get from hand to duke? Forks had already been used as a slang term for hands via a fairly obvious analogy, then rhyming slang added duke of York to the mix. Which is also confusing, because duke has also been used to mean “walk” using the same rhyme or “cork”, “chalk”, or even an actual fork. Note non-rhotacism at work again for some of these.

Furthermore, there are other dukes, meaning:

bent or rent (of Kent)
nose (of Montrose)
rain (of Spain)

And duke is far from alone in this; bottle is a similarly troublesome example, carrying a large range of meanings:

ass (and glass)
bowler (of cola)
bum (i.e., ass; of rum)
copper (i.e., policeman; and stopper)
daughter (of porter)
ear (of beer)
horse (of sauce)
shop (of pop)
two (of glue)
watch (of scotch)

The other way around, laugh can be expressed using:

bird (bath)
bubble (bath)
cow’s (calf)
bobble (-hat and scarf), also wooly (-hat and scarf), hat (and scarf)
jimmy (Giraffe)
rory (McGrath)
steffi (Graf)
tin (bath)
turkish (bath)

The rhymes here ending in ⟨-th⟩ (/θ/), show how some dialects of English are losing that sound. Those dialects are moving from voiced and voiceless dental non-sibilant fricatives (/ð/ and /θ/) toward voiced and voiceless labiodental fricatives (/v/ and /f/).

I’ll note this is only a moderately large group of synonyms; if I were to list the terms for say money or drunk, for example, they could easily become articles of their own. At any rate, one can see how byzantine the argot is, with current or passé words or words more or less acceptable among different groups.

You might also have noticed some references in this last group are distinctly non-19th century. Indeed, the lexicon continues to expand, with “popney”, focusing on slang deriving from the names of famous people, including.

becks (i.e., David Beckham and Posh Spice): dosh (money)
calvin (Klein): wine
scooby (Doo): clue

Some traditionalists don’t approve of such coinages, deriding the new slang as “mockney”. There are distinct regional versions throughout England and Northern Ireland, reflecting local terms and rhymes, as bacon (sarnie, slang for “sandwich”): “Pakistani” does for some Northern English dialects. There is also a New Zealand branch and an Australian one that gives us its own terms, like:

apples (and rice): nice
kanga (roo): screw (i.e., prison warder)
noah (-’s ark): shark

86 appears to reflect a rhyming slang culture in America. No one knows exactly where the term sprang up, but the possible etymologies seem to focus on New York City: some suggest it came from Delmonico’s Restaurant, and was the item number of their house steak, which they’d frequently run out of, and others say it was the address of the front entrance to a famous speakeasy called Chumley’s, and would be shouted to let patrons know they should flee out the back door. Neither holds up to scrutiny, and one of the OED’s example sentences tells us the word,³

[…] among habitues has as many etymons as Homer had home-places, such probably being boozed up ex cathedra.

So why do so few rhyming slang terms remain in American English? Perhaps I’m overestimating how thriving the culture was and there was never a lexicon deeper than the few remnants I’ve pointed out. Or maybe the cryptolect was so deep and impenetrable it evaded detection, let alone being recorded. I like to think there are dimly lit corners of America where a marginalized culture still communicates below mainstream society’s radar using an argot rooted in rhyming slang.

Addendum

As many of you know, alongside my work in games, I’ve often delved into narrative fiction, exploring worldbuilding, dialogue, and more. I’ve also continued to have the pleasure of wearing my editor’s hat for Mariah Torsney’s Roseleigh, a captivating historical fiction novel. I previously wrote a guest post for her blog about the Irish language and its relation to the country’s struggle for independence. Her book also uses rhyming slang, dovetailing neatly with this article.

Read subsequent articles in The Argots series

Part 4: The Mysteries of Zūja-Go

Read previous articles in The Argots series

Part 1A: The Slang of Empyrea’s Automata

Part 1B: Canargy: a Cant How-To

Part 2A: Serious and Playful Cryptolects

Part 2B: Me Talk Pretty Ludling

Notes

“The Secret Linguistic Life of Girls: Why Girls Speak Gibberish”, Schwa Fire, Jessica Weiss, 2015.
“Only Fools and Horses in the OED”, Oxford Dictionary blogs, 2018.
Peter Tamony, Americanisms: Content and Continuum, 1964, quoted in in “eighty-six”, OED.

Linguistic adventures in girl world (Argots, Part 2B)

When I was in the second grade, Zoom burst onto the children’s educational television scene like an excessively energetic preteen through a giant paper logo. Although my parents subscribed to the belief television rotted the mind, meaning we didn’t have one, I was able to catch Zoom from time to time, in the homes of friends or family not TV Amish. Nonetheless, there must’ve been some type of adult supervision or who’d have watched PBS instead of Batman? As the show was educational and I was in the target demo (seven–12-year-olds) they’d sometimes show it at school, and even PBS was better than classwork.

Running for six seasons, the show featured a diverse cast of rugby-shirted, precocious showbiz kids relentlessly dancing, singing, being wacky, shallowly discussing the serious topics of the day, and presenting activities for you to do yourself—games, arts & crafts, and recipes. I was to learn much later the show was inspired by Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-In, so the general zaniness, camera tricks, and running gags all were borrowed from that context. There was no script; presumably they simply loaded the “Zoomers” up with caffeinated drinks and unleashed their hijinks on the hapless viewing public.

The Fannee Doolee word game, the sung Boston zip code in the address to the show’s letters department (02134), Bernadette’s signature butterfly arm move, and Ubbi Dubbi are the main pop-culture residue of the show, with the last being a ludling already then known to me as Double Dutch. The girl culture of my school adored all these things. They pushed for activities from the show to be done in class, they flashed the Bernadette, and they spoke fluent Ubbi Dubbi.

Although my interest in languages was even then in effect, I was not entertained by this ludling. As I mentioned, I already knew it, as well as Pig Latin and a pretty unusable one called Triple Chinese. I could, but preferred not to engage in Ubbi Dubbi. Nonetheless, we come here to an interesting element of ludlings: they are typically created and used by girls.

Of course, simply by their nature as games, ludlings appeal to a younger audience. But the value of a secret language also appeals to the group as Meredith Doran explains:¹

Language is one of the cheapest tools available to kids. You don’t have money or power, but you’ve got words.

As for why these cryptolects come from the mouths of young women in particular, Jessica Weiss, a writer who tackled the topic, says:²

[G]irls are drawn to […] ludlings, because using them builds social bonds. Though girls aren’t threatened in the same way as others who use secret languages, like prostitutes or criminals, using gibberish creates a sense of exclusivity and power for girls at a time when they are otherwise inherently powerless.

Exploring a different phenomenon, the recent appearance of a paragoge, or “exclamatory syllable”, in utterances like fine-uh, stop-uh, etc., linguist John McWhorter attempts to pin down the distribution of its usage:³

[…] I have heard this primarily in, to use the technical term for the dialect, white girl.

He is partially joking, but attributes the utterance to younger women “of all shades” speaking mainstream American. He finds it not to appear in black English, among older speakers, or men. This brings these threads together, as McWhorter notes:⁴

It’s an example of the fact that when language changes it tends to be women who lead the change.

One illustrative example he presents is the change in English verbs in the third-person present from endings in -eth to -s:⁵

So Henry VIII, writes to Anne Boleyn, 1528, “Written with the hand of him which desireth as much to be yours as you do to have him.” […] Then Queen Elizabeth, to whom he was related quite directly, 1591, writes, “My deare brother, As ther is naught that bredes”—not breedeth — “bredes more for-thinking repentance and agrived thoughtes than good turnes to harme the giuers ayde,” […].

As bona fides at least of my acceptance of linguistic innovation, if not being a white girl, I -uh! I’ve done it for so long, in fact, I have no idea when or whence I picked it up. Though I do remember detecting a need for it as early as 1980, and making some (unsuccessful) experimental utterances, I do not flatter myself that I originated it; I’m definitely not a girl-culture influencer.

So is the fact of my gender the reason I didn’t gravitate to the pop-cultural whirling dervish of Zoom and its Ubbi Dubbi? Nope; it was something else. Certainly I was not a great conversationalist—some might call me laconic now, but I was frequently taken for a mute in my youth. Language as a game and tool for me focused instead on a branch concerned with rebuses, ciphers, and puns.

Furthermore, my objection to all the ludlings of my youth was an aesthetic one: the sounds inserted by them, /ʌb/, /eɪ/, and /ɒŋ/ (in Ubbi Dubbi, Pig Latin and Triple Chinese, respectively), are ugly to my ear, and so much more so when you hear them repeated throughout sentences or within words. Consider Ubbi Dubbi versus Matteänglisch: the latter doubles each vowel sound and infixes a /b/, a very similar process. But taking the word interesting as an example yields the pair:

ʌbintʌberʌbestʌbing
ibinteberebestibing

Perhaps if Zoom had brought Matteänglisch—naturally renamed something cutesy—to the American small screen in the early ’70s I’d have been more ibinteberebestebed in zoom-ah-zooming with the girls.

Read subsequent articles in the Argots series

Part 3: Rhyming and Stealing