Since appearing prominently in a “League of Extraordinary Gentlemen” comic, the 1939 government poster, “Keep Calm And Carry On”, has enjoyed quite a resurgence. Originally designed to help the British Public cope with the outbreak of war, the slogan has recently appeared on... well, probably everything.

Today, my daughter received a packet of “Keep Calm And Carry On” biscuits; later in the day, I received a bundle of letters, held together with a “Keep Calm And Carry On” clothes peg; one of the offices I entered during the course of my day had a “Keep Calm And Carry On” poster and, glancing in a shop window, the first thing to catch my eye was a display of “Keep Calm And Carry On” mugs.

I took it as a sign.

Now, on the face of it, it appears to be just another fad (anyone remember “I'm Backing Britain”?) No doubt the companies currently taking advantage of the fad believe they're tapping into a knowing, post modern, post ironic sensibility that feels able to smile at the naivete of an earlier, more innocent Britain. But I think they may be not entirely correct in this assumption. It’s a piece of artistic ephemera but, unlike many objects of its kind, it consists of words and words, as we all know have power and I have no doubt that those particular words were chosen very carefully indeed.

In the phrase as a whole, as well as in the very concept, there is an element of nannying and, in spite of their protestations to the contrary, many Britons love being told what to do and in fact find the idea of being nannied rather comforting. But there is no hectoring in the first clause; “Keep Calm” is less officious than the more correct “Remain Calm”, the alliterative monosyllables being at once commanding and comforting and the exhortation to “Carry On” intimates that nothing has to change (no-one likes change, of course) and that, in the unlikely event of any problem arising, it will be taken care of. It was exactly what the British public needed and the government knew it. The ubiquitous crown, (which adorned all official government stationery until well into the 1970s) is rendered almost decorative in the face of the statement itself.

But why is it so popular at the moment?

I think that when people see “Keep Calm And Carry On” written in that firm, no-nonsense, official government, wartime typeface, they are engaging in more than irony. There is, in Britain, a genuine sense of insecurity in the face of such things as global terrorism, financial collapse, environmental uncertainty and corruption in high places, a metaphorical cuddle of the kind represented by the phrase “Keep Calm And Carry On” is probably just what is needed.  And in a world where workplace bullying is endemic, where over half of all Britons work through lunch and where the pressures of making a living are almost greater than they have been in living memory, we can fool ourselves that we are still in a post-modern era of irony but isn’t the case that, deep down, many believe that to “Keep Calm And Carry On” is really the only way we’ll get through these difficult times with sanity and health intact?

The phrase is, in my opinion, being, put to its original use. This time, though, it isn’t the government doing the urging; it’s us – the British public, acknowledging that we are in need of reassurance. Indeed, the government would do well to consider just how this particular little bit of wartime propaganda has found its way into 21st century popular culture before everyone loses their sense of irony.

I have always suspected that had English not been the language of America then the likelihood that it would become the world’s lingua franca might have been severely lessened.  But, like many of my countrymen, I find it hard to suppress a shiver whenever I come across another Americanism in what ought to be a perfectly good piece of English literature.  Yet, suppress it, I frequently do. Language evolves and, at present, English is evolving into American.

That doesn’t mean I won’t point out to students that the term, “different than” has no place in any English essay and that there is only one thing you do in a bathroom and it isn’t what Americans think it is but, by and large, I know when I’m fighting a losing battle.  However, the latest shot across the bows of English is one about which I might it find it rather more difficult to remain sanguine.

For I learn today, that Indiana has become the latest American state  to no longer require children to learn cursive – joined up – handwriting.  The rationale is that they are unlikely to need that skill in the future and so keyboard skills are taught instead.
Doubtless, keyboard skills are important – at least for the time being – but I fear that the decision not to provide children the wherewithal to write properly may well be one that the U.S. comes to regret.
 
In the first place, writing may consist of letters but it is only the relationship of those letters, one with another, which conveys meaning.  To put it simply, the base unit is not the atom (a letter), but the molecule (groups of letters) which bind together to form compounds (words). Learning to write using only the letters as laid out on the keyboard (itself little more than an arbitrary compromise at best) will surely rob the molecules of their meaning and character.

I am informed by primary school teachers of my acquaintance, that children learn to read, in part by building phonemes from groups of letters rather than from the letters themselves – “ea” “ch” “oa” “th” “ng” “er” and so on.  We butt these together to form words - “each” “other” “oath” “together” “thing” and so on and it is through cursive writing that children learn and practise building these relationships.  In other words, joined up writing not only makes that essential connection between the idea and the way it is expressed, it helps children, quite simply, learn how to spell in a way that writing using a keyboard is not able to do.

I realise, though, that spelling is becoming a dying art so perhaps I shouldn’t worry too much. Let’s just leave it to our spell checkers, shall we?

One thing that does concern me a little though is the faith that appears to be being invested in the longevity of the keyboard as interface of choice.  How much longer are we going to have to put up with this silly little piece of Victorian mechanics hitched inelegantly to 21st century electronics, this throwback, this sad little chimera?  Rather like those 19th century visualisations of machines of the future, powered by wondrous substances but controlled by railway signalling levers and ships’ wheels, it’s an anachronism that surely must be approaching the end of its appointed time.

Weblog’s a little late this week.  I just got back from a trip to Flanders and the battlefields of the First World War, which, not entirely coincidentally, is both the time and the setting for the highly innovative and exceptionally well-received novella, “The Circling Song”. (Can’t remember who the author is but, well worth the read.)  Anyway, as usual on these trips, I managed to pick up one or two little bits of information that are normally deemed too insignificant to be included in most history books.  One in particular, struck me. 

Far and away the most visible reminder of the carnage of that war are the cemeteries.  Immediately following the war, it was decided that no fallen soldier was to be repatriated. Instead, France and Belgium granted pieces of land in perpetuity and the Commonwealth War Graves Commission set about the gargantuan task of finding and identifying as many of the fallen as possible.  It was, of course, not always a straightforward business.  Makeshift cemeteries would be shelled and shelled again, so that troops and bits of troops might be buried and re-buried several times in only a few months.

Nevertheless, many scores of thousands of men have identifiable graves and it was decided that families might wish to add – beyond the official name, regiment, rank and date of death – their own inscription. There was a snag, of course.

In the first place, there was a limit of 66 letters per man and, in the second, each of those letters would cost 7 pence – the equivalent of three-and-a-half new pence sterling.  When one considers that the weekly wage of the average labourer in 1918 would have been around one pound ten shillings – approximately  150p – that charge amounts to quite a financial commitment.

Even the simplest inscription (“NOT FORGOTTEN” is common, as is “REST IN PEACE”) would have cost somewhere not unadjacent to a third of one week’s salary.  To put it into perspective, the average weekly wage in the UK at present is around £450, with many earning far less.  I don’t know many low-paid workers who could run to £150 for a two or three word inscription.  Murdering darlings, indeed.

Naturally, officers tended to have wealthier families so they are the ones whose graves tend to have the more thoughtful, hence, longer inscriptions.  And it’s interesting to note that wealth occasionally bought other privileges.  I’ve recently heard of a grave bearing an inscription of over 160 letters, although this is very far from being the norm.

A number bear the Latin maxim, “IN DULCE ET DECORUM EST PRO PATRIA MORI” to demonstrate not only a knowledge of classical ideals but also the ability to stump up the equivalent of 450 quid for the privilege of doing so. Ironic, really in light of Wilfred Owen’s equally ironic use of the phrase in his poem of the same name, published after the war. (Incidentally, Canada and New Zealand refused to allow inscriptions in the interests of equality. The British, of course, had no such qualms)

Whilst I was there, last week, my wife texted me a few lines of A.E. Housman which (had I had the tragic necessity to require an epitaph for my own lost boy), I would have moved heaven and earth to have afforded.

Here dead lie we because we did not choose

to live and shame the land from which we sprung.

Life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose;

but young men think it is, and we were young.