Proicit ampullas et sesquipedalian verba

Long words can be intoxicating like the most worshipped of Scottish whiskeys or French wines. Like a club with a plain black door that hides a den of exciting treasures only a few can experience, they attract some and repulse others. The casual tossing around of Greek and Latin portmanteaus or even just semi-portmanteaus can be as thrilling as discussing the price of a semi-detached in Tunbridge wells. And even better if there’s a bit of French to make the whole thing more like a villa in Provence.

The knowledge of anarcho-syndicalism and the desire to breathe its rich aroma and dispel it like some word- a-day halitosis is as beguiling for some as a 1926 Macallan or as facetious as a 1985 La Tâche Domaine de la Romanée-Conti for others. It’s like joining a club, there are different levels for different people and for some even the thought of joining is as unsettling as the thought of Thatcher in her underpants.

So when does an interest in words and their history, or the secret joys of any rarity, become pretentiousness and the first attempts at becoming a pedagogue? And as we all know any word that starts with that fearsome Latin paed word is dangerous territory these days. The simple answer is when it is done to deliberately exclude others most likely. But there’s a tricky one because if it doesn’t exclude others then it’s no longer a club, and people won’t get the thrill of individuality from it. Enjoyable pretentiousness is suddenly an oxymoron and there’s no need for a club.

So the answer must be more complicated than just the fear of disenfranchising others and rather that comedy should be at the heart of all things. Without the realisation of preposterousness, pretentiousness becomes a prevaricating exercise in the discovering a person’s simplicity.

Without these little distractions perhaps it would be an archos world and we all need a tic-tac to disguise our bad halitus every now and again.