By David Astle
Verbs are “doing” words. We learnt that in school. Yet lately verbs have been doing weird things for many of you. This year my inbox has copped a dozen emails from readers either addled or miffed about certain verbs.
Take elevate, say. Belinda Cullinan hates the verb’s trendy overuse. Cosmetic ads promise to “elevate your look”. Rather than locations, tour operators offer a chance to “elevate your experience.” Before Valentine’s Day, retailers were out to elevate your romance, which sounds suspiciously like the mile-high club. No question, Belinda has identified something in the water. Even brokers at NAB vow to “elevate your business”. Like a linguistic earworm, elevate is bound to reverberate now that you know of its zeitgeist appeal.
Quip is another verb, a steady blip on Eliza Vaughan’s radar. Harmless on paper, quip is a fancy word for wisecrack, or to deliver that wisecrack in company. A zinger. A jest. Yet Eliza notes the verb’s shift over time. PG Wodehouse once owned the action, but nowadays senators and execs have claimed dibs.
Wordsmith David Astle has received plenty of emails about verbs this year.Credit: Jo Gay
Scrolling the news of 2025, I soon learnt politicians were striving to undo their quip’s damage (like NZ’s PM Chris Luxon’s apologising for his dig about King Charles’ baggy trousers), just as CEOs were chomping humble pie due to a quip’s fallout. “I didn’t realise the microphone was on” scenario.
Sexist? Often. Unwoke? Always. Which is to say the mood ring has darkened for quip. Once a prized unit of social currency, the noun/verb has soured. Become problematic, regressive, typically saying what should be left unsaid, or not even thought. Of course, Kathy Lette remains the action’s champion, toasting the “quip-lash” of Australian idiom, our humour hailed as “drier than Prince Andrew’s armpit.”
Yet her advocacy is rare, since quip has flipped. Peddling one-liners on social media, I understand the value of a good gag. Generating laughter is a unifying force. The art of making paper planes, say, is caller aerogami. That’s a quip: innocent, daggy, a victimless pun.
Yet the moment a joke excludes or denigrates, the risk any quip can run, then suddenly “what” (the word’s Latin origins, via quid) mutates into “what did you just say?!”
Again, keep your eyes peeled, as quip is on the move.
Again, keep your eyes peeled, as quip is on the move. Oscar Wilde could weaponise words via quips. Come this millennium, however, the quip’s audience holds the armoury. Now the immediate circle, as well as online scouts, have converted into jurists. Plenty of wit will pass muster, we know, attract the right emojis, win new followers, but quipmongers should note the verb’s tremor. Don’t look now, bon vivants, but quip has changed beneath your nose.
Leaving us with verb #3, and the vigil kept by Yolanda Sztarr who wrote, “To waffle means different things in Australian/British versus American English. For us, to waffle means to speak or write at length in a vague or trivial manner, while Americans see the word as failing to make up one’s mind – much like waver.”
Confusingly, Merriam-Webster, America’s main tome, allows for both senses, though local lexicons stick with the prattle concept. That said, it’s easy to imagine how the tangents converge. When pollies aren’t quipping, or elevating our hopes, they’re usually waffling as a means of shirking a decision. At least most of us can agree on waffle, the noun, defined as “a glorified pancake living on the grid.” Bullseye, delicious, as that’s a good quip.
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