From ‘Grexit’ to ‘Spain in the neck’: time for neologisms, puns and break-ups

It took an Herculean effort for me to use the socially acceptable ‘neck’ in my entry into the coinage sweepstakes.

Still, if I say so myself who shouldn’t, even my neutered term hits a double whammy by being both a neologism and a pun. The newly fashionable ‘Grexit’ is also a double whammy as it’s a portmanteau word, a sum of two borrowed parts. But it isn’t a pun, unless it’s a subtle play on grex venalium. If that’s what it’s meant to be, then it edges ahead of my contribution, for being not only neologistic and punning but also posh.

For those of you who had the good sense to play truant during your Latin classes, ‘grex venalium’ means a venal throng, a heard of hirelings. One can’t think of a more fitting term to describe our European leaders, as they’re leading the continent into an abyss.

Take Romano Prodi for example, who no longer heads the EU Commission, but still has EU interests close to heart. Said interests, he has suggested, will be irrevocably damaged should Greece leave the euro: ‘Exit would bring down the whole house of cards, with one state falling after another: it would reach Portugal, Spain, then Italy and France,’ he said.

Yes! my friends must be screaming, as they punch their left palms with their right fists. But the prophesy isn’t quite accurate. Those states will suffer even worse than they are suffering now, but they won’t fall. What will fall is the EU, and not before time. The ensuing thud will be deafening, and we should all start wearing earmuffs. But in the shorter term a tumble awaits most politicians involved in pushing Europe over the edge, and I’d like to commiserate with the sheer scale of the human tragedies unfolding before our very eyes.

Just look at poor Angie. First she lost Nicky, the love of her life. Then she lost the right to choose her next mate by being pushed into bed with François, a man whom she secretly despises. Now she has lost North Rhine-Westphalia, a big chunk of her trousseau. By itself that wouldn’t be so tragic, except that this loss is a harbinger of the ultimate one to come: the poor dear is going to lose her job. And what has she done wrong? Hasn’t she been a perfect little wife, keeping her eye on the family finances and raising her children in her own image? Didn’t she teach them to look after the billions, and the trillions will look after themselves? And now they’re all turning against her, one by one. That’s gratitude for you.

Or look at Dave. By thunderously taking Nicky’s side in his predictably doomed struggle to save his marriage to Angie, Dave acted in the spirit of the Sermon on the Mount: ‘…bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you…’. Nicky had indeed been cursing Dave, even telling him to shut up, something your Mum must have told you never to say. And yet Dave, like an abused wife who refuses to walk out on her loutish hubby-wubby, stood by his man. When François came to London for a stag do before taking a plunge with Angie, Dave wouldn’t even talk to the impostor. Loyalty or what? Now, as a reward for the one selfless act of his life, Dave won’t be invited to the wedding – or any subsequent bash thrown by the newlyweds. On the plus side, when he himself is thrown out on his ear, he won’t have any problems finding a title for his memoir. Bipolarisation of Europe suggests itself.

But at least Angie and François can find some ersatz solace in each other’s embrace. Think of all those marriages breaking up all over the continent, where the divorced spouses have no fall-back mates. The coalition in Holland has gone Dutch, and the country is about to see red: Holland is about to move left of Hollande (I told you it was time for puns, especially bad ones).

And Italy had done a full Monti, only to show the world that her economy is sagging and badly in need of a lift, and her southern regions need a Botox treatment. She may have to shun the wedding of Angie and François – that is, assuming the marriage is still on, and François doesn’t leave Angie at the altar.

I’d treat you to more rotten puns whose sole aim is to laugh in the face of tragedy. But I can’t: tears are suffocating me too much, I can’t get another word out. So I’ll have to tell you about the major Spain in the neck some other time.

 

 

 

    

 

 

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