Crisis = clanger + hypothesis

There is a much-repeated linguistic canard that the Chinese word for crisis combines the characters for danger and opportunity. It doesn’t really, but the popularity of this misconception testifies to its inherent appeal. We like to imagine that our often self-inflicted disasters have solutions that will propel us into a better future, solutions embedded in the very structure of these disasters and echoed in an ancient language we don’t understand.

It’s a nice idea.

Consider this photograph:

The loss of a letter C from the façade of this pharmacy suggests the activity of vandals, gravity, or an audacious magpie. One hopes that the other letters are not in danger of theft or collapse, and even if they were this would not constitute a crisis. But there is an opportunity here. If you’ll indulge me:

Already the accidental result makes a kind of crude existential sense:

We are . . . WeCare

Incorporating the green medical cross as a plus symbol also works:

We are [and] WeCare

Or they could go all out and replace the cross with a therefore symbol (.·.), thereby transforming their name into a compelling slogan:

We are, [therefore] WeCare

…albeit a slightly pretentious one readable only from certain angles. Not alone would this recall one of the founders of modern science (on which at least some modern pharmaceuticals depend), it would also make unexpectedly good syntactical sense.

(I have heard that Descartes’s inspiration for his catchy line was an angel who visited him in a dream, but it would probably be best if I didn’t get into the implications of that here.)

[more signs]

It’s all cut up. Uh huh huh.

Today’s signs inadvertently boast avant-garde literary credentials. (Wait, come back!) This quality is, of course, imputed by yours truly; the enjoyment of many signs requires a certain whimsical contrivance.

The strangeness of these summer sale signs, or more properly posters, is easily overlooked. On first glance they appear entirely unremarkable:

Yes, the bold colours and unfussy font effectively convey key information: a summer sale is taking place, and some items are available at 40% of their former price – or “up to 60% off”, as it is conventionally expressed. Cynical shoppers ignore the percentage, since it might refer only to a handful of undesirable items; moreover, the bigger the sale, the greater the rip-off the rest of the time. (There’s that cynicism.)

But from an aesthetico-linguistic point of view, the posters are a delight. See how the two key words were presented: “Sum Sale mer”. How wonderful! Had someone in the store’s marketing department been studying Dada or practising cut-up writing? Was the store selling anti-nuance cream?

Probably not. But the possibility brightened an already bright and sunny summer’s day – an especially pleasant thing to think about after three days of almost incessant Irish rain.

Visa check, Visa check, check-in man

Here is a notice at Ryanair’s check-in desk in Shannon Airport (click to enlarge (the image, not the airport)). Irish caricaturist Allan Cavanagh sent me this photo, and its contents immediately enchanted me – as all good chants do. It reads like a percussive jingle, which is a very unusual attribute in an airport sign.

Why is the line “Visa check” repeatedly repeated? Please don’t say it’s for emphasis; I couldn’t live with so dull a revelation, and would rather imagine that the word processor became self-aware and tried to revolt.

But is its chant of escape a chorus or a verse? What would come next, if the chant were extended? Would poetry suddenly emerge from the Langton’s-ant-esque loop of monotony? I would love to hear your ideas. Despite the banality of its subject matter and the maturity of its intended audience, “Visa check, Visa check…” may yet gain the popularity of classic chants like “Eeny, meeny, miney, moe”. Here at Sentence first, its rhythm suggested a riff on another well-known nursery rhyme:

Visa check, Visa check, check-in man,

Check my pass as fast as you can;

Cleave it, click it, and mark it with B,

Say a quick prayer for luggage and me.

Your cooperation in reading this blog post is requested

This sign stands in Kennedy Park, Eyre Square, Galway. As I passed, it cried out to be criticised, and who am I to yield right of wail?

First: Why write “The playing of football” instead of simply “Playing football”? If it was an attempt to sound more authoritative, it failed. It sounds awkward and turgid. It is an example (albeit a minor one) of what Ernest Gowers called “abstractitis”. This habit-forming condition looks poorly on municipal signs, which the public reasonably expects to convey information plainly and directly.

Next: What is the point of the second line? Why is there an elaborate request that people obey the order? Was the font too small, and was padding therefore required to fill the blank space? A more plausible hypothesis is that the line resulted from gobbledegook’s formidable ability to infiltrate the simplest of messages. Can you imagine if every sign accommodated this kind of prolixity? Instead of “No entry” we would be blessed with:

“Entry into this building is prohibited. In the interest of security your co-operation in complying with this order is requested.”

Instead of “Slow children” (already a strange sign, but no matter):

“The deceleration of your vehicle is mandatory. In the interest of children’s lives your co-operation in complying with this order is requested.”

Instead of “Keep off the grass”:

“The taking of walks on this grass is prohibited. In the interest of – oh, we don’t know why. But your co-operation in complying with this order is requested.”

As an attempt at politeness, the line neither works nor helps. What would work is if its verbiage were pruned, or omitted outright. What would help is if more green areas were provided for outdoor activities in the city, but that’s an argument for another time and place, and one that involves many more parties and factors. Even if the Council had a good reason for including their vague justification, they didn’t have to half-fill the sign with gobbledegook. They could have appended “in the interest of the public” to the first line and left it at that. So instead of:

“The playing of football on this green area is prohibited. In the interest of the public your co-operation in complying with this order is requested.”

they could have written, in 14 words instead of 25:

“Playing football on this green area is prohibited in the interest of the public.”

or plainer still, in five words:

“No football in this park.”

Whether or not the public agree with the decree, they are likely to appreciate being addressed directly and not having their time wasted by logorrhoeic fudge. There is more at stake than linguistic clarity and the public’s time.

The Cannibals of Galway

At the risk of sensationalising this blog beyond the bounds of credibility – if I ever had any in the first place – this sign was too good to miss. It’s behind a hot-food counter in a supermarket in Galway. Readers of a nervous disposition are advised to look away quickly, before their eyes are drawn to the blood-red sign now only centimetres away…

*

*

If you are deeply disturbed by the sinister implications, both corporate and gustatory, imagine my shock as I reeled out of the supermarket, my mind awhirl with the grisliest of possibilities, only to come upon this terrible scene at the docks, mere minutes away (click to enlarge):

*

*

If I had any doubt, after seeing the contents of the boat, that something gruesome and unspeakable was afoot, it was dispelled by those dark threatening clouds. Even as the sun sparkled on the water in the port, the ominous shapes overhead portended doom and dread. But what does it all mean? Where is Nancy Drew when you need her? And what’s that strange scratching noise coming from next door?

Moonwalking into the second dimension

Some elements of this sign show impressive attention to detail. Note for example the sharp heel, the deft facial profile, and the dynamic leading leg that evokes a pleasant but purposeful stroll by this pictogram-about-town. These careful features lead me to puzzle all the more about his crude claws and anatomically improbable following leg.

Best of all, though, is the incongruence of his choice of direction with respect to the giant authoritative arrow. Is he heedless or contrary, or is he some kind of subversive entity? Or do my eyes deceive me, and is he in fact breezily moonwalking his way away from the danger zone?

There are mysteries everywhere.

Attack of the 100 Foot Tissue

When I upload photos of signs and notices to Sentence first, I don’t mean to mock them but I can’t help having fun with them. A stroll down a supermarket aisle is enlivened by signs such as this one:

Apparently each hundred-foot mamsize tissue is sold singly, which seems about right, but whose mother did they measure? And despite the low cost, I think the market for this product is limited to a certain niche.

(SV is just an abbreviation of the name of the supermarket.)