WRONG KIND OF LEIF?
Sarcasm, understatement and irony can be traced back to the Viking era claims Claus Grube, the Danish Ambassador, as he says the similar sense of humour between Denmark and the UK originates from our shared cultural heritage.
Daily Telegraph
When Erik the Red (950 – c1003 AD) set out in 982 to explore a large and little known land mass North West of Iceland the men sailing with him were still not used to calling him Erik the Red. The Norwegian climate then was much the same as it is now, and as a rather weak child susceptible to the cold he had earned the cruel nickname Erik the Blue. The nickname stuck, he hated it, and it had become his life’s ambition to assume a nom de guerre more suited to the brave, strong fearless warrior of his self image. Erik Bloodaxe would have done nicely, but irritatingly, someone else had got there first. Erik the Merciless? Erik Skullhammer? Dread Erik?
Much against his better judgement he had been persuaded to take his oldest son, Leif Eriksson, on the voyage. Great leader and fighter that Erik was, a man of arms bloodied but triumphant in countless battles, he should, he thought, have a son and heir in his own image. Leif was not that son. Or that heir. Leif was not the embodiment of his father's vision. Leif did not cut the mustard. Had Erik wanted a thin, pale, sensitive boy who – awkwardly for a Viking – had recently renounced all forms of violence and become a vegan; had he wanted a successor given to carrying a slim volume of tortured verse in his hauberk – which in truth was rather too heavy for him – Leif would have been just the man. Leif didn't really want to be a military man and explorer at all. He longed to be a fashion designer. Suffice it to say that Erik did not share this view, notwithstanding Leif's attempts to soften the blow with the frankly disingenuous claim that he could specialise in designing chain mail that was chic and trendy as well as practical.
Not a day passed without Erik cursing the Nordic tradition that made the oldest son his heir. His younger sons, Thorvald and Thorstein, were as ferocious and bloodthirsty as even he could wish. Last year, Thorvald had won the coveted Pillager of the Year award. At the age of seven Thorstein had annexed the Faroe Islands, personally putting half the population – not all that many admittedly, but even so, fair play to the lad, thought Erik – to the sword. But as for Leif! Words failed him.
Leif had cherished a private dream that he could change his father. He wanted him to be a prophet of a New Age of enlightenment - a warrior, yes, but a warrior for peace, harmony, justice and inclusiveness. He had held strong views about his father's new name, but had little hope that his treasured idea to replace Erik's hated soubriquet would win approval. He could just about believe that he might have got away with proposing Erik the Supportive, or even Erik the Really Good Listener, but deep down he had long ago conceded that however much he yearned for it, Erik In Touch With His Feminine Side was never going to hit the jackpot.
In the end, a compromise was reached – one of those compromises that everybody hates, but that nobody hates quite enough to carry on arguing. In a way, 'The Red' could be said to denote warmth, which Leif could pretend meant his father was friendly, open and encouraging, while Erik saw some economic advantage in suggesting that the climate of his homeland was more temperate than it really was. It was a trick he was to use again later in life when it came to naming Greenland.
'Choosing Erik the Red' mused Erik, 'could be the first recorded use of sarcasm in Norse history.'
Leif looked up.
'Or irony' he said.
'What?'
'Sarcasm and irony. They're different things. We've been doing about it with Mrs Sigurdsson in linguistics.'
Mrs Sigurdsson. Mrs Bloody Sigurdsson. Not for the first time Erik pictured himself advancing on Mrs Sigurdsson, axe in hand. Here he was, trying to establish an all conquering dynasty, and there she was filling his dynastic successor's (God help him!) head with stuff about linguistic niceties. Faced with spear and halberd, bow and axe, what would be more use to him – the ability to conceive and execute a devastating counter attack, or the ability to distinguish between sarcasm and irony?
He realised with horror that his son was still talking.
'….......it's really quite interesting. You see, sarcasm is often treated as a special case of irony. Einarsson and Jonsdottir found that ironic insults, where the positive literal meaning is subverted by the negative intended meaning, will be perceived to be more positive than direct insults, where the literal meaning is negative. Then a few years later somebody else pointed out that within developmental research sarcastic utterances are the utterances with positive literal meanings, negative intended meanings and clear victims.'
Erik bristled. 'Leif,' he growled 'get your miserable backside out of here now.'
'Ah, now, that's a bit different. I think it's synechdoche, you know, when one part – in this case the backside – stands for the whole, the whole body. We can see another good example in the expression 'hired hands'. We're supposed to be doing it next week, but.......' The boot hit him squarely in the back as he retreated.
Several weeks into the voyage Erik and his men sighted land, which they at first believed to be Iceland. They didn't realise until they were advancing up the beach that they had been blown off course and were in fact invading Britain near what is now Bridlington.
' 'Ow do' muttered the old man. He was sitting in a deck chair entirely by himself, trousers rolled up and a small cloth knotted over his head. A crumpled parchment beside him appeared to be folded back to the racing page. He had a flask of ale beside him, and on his lap lay a platter of what looked suspiciously like whelks. Pale to start with, Leif now paled a good deal further.
'Tha's brought a change in t'weather' grumbled the old man, nodding at the gathering clouds. 'Come over here, not so much as a by your leave,' he continued to nobody in particular, 'even bugger the bloody weather up. Aye,' he nodded with grim satisfaction, 'we can do sarcasm, you see.'
'No, no, I don't think so!' interjected Leif. 'Mrs Sigurdsson says that sarcasm is a form of wit that is marked by the use of sarcastic language and is intended to make its victim the butt of contempt or ridicule. It's a bit more sophisticated than a simple insult which I believe is what you've just used.'
Erik and the old man both stared at him. It was Erik who reacted first. He turned to the old man. 'Right. Where are your lot? We're here to invade. You know, sacking, plunder, pillage, all that.'
The old man jerked a gnarled thumb over his shoulder. 'Dug in over there' he said. Erik could easily make out a few small groups of men, mostly old, mostly ragged, mostly thin, mostly ill-equipped, peering out from behind some hastily erected barriers.
'Dug in!' he cried, 'Dug in! I've seen marigolds dug in better than that!' For once, a look of pride and admiration flitted across Leif's face. 'Well done, Dad' he murmured.
Erik raised his voice to a mighty bellow. 'In the name of Odin, I claim this land!' But his voice was carried away from the Britons and out to sea by the breeze.
'Pardon?' yelled the Britons, 'We didn't quite catch that! We're a bit deaf, you know!'
Erik tried again. 'You are now under my absolute rule! And remember, in victory I am vengeful!'
'Sorry!' came the reply. 'It's ironic really - we can't hear you but we pretty much know what you're saying! And as you can see, we can manage politeness and courtesy, even if you wouldn't recognise it if you fell over it!'
There was a brief consultation between Erik and his men, before Erik and Leif advanced, alone, towards the British positions, to a point where they could make themselves heard.
Erik had now worked himself into a fine fury and was about to challenge them to battle when to his surprise he felt Leif's restraining hand on his shoulder. Leif's aversion to violence was such that he now surprised even himself.
'We come in peace!' he shouted, at which Erik looked aghast, but Leif ignored his glare and carried on. 'We seek to develop mutually beneficial social and cultural ties to enrich both our societies!'
'No we don't........' began Erik.
'We have observable similarities in our approach to irony and sarcasm,' continued Leif, 'but we are clearly a more literal minded people than you, and do not understand how you can fall over politeness and courtesy. I wonder, is it an aphorismus – you know, something that calls into question the definition of a word? Could you please explain?'
There was some excited chattering the other side of the barricades.
'We don't think so,' came the reply. 'Could be a hyperbole but it's probably just a simple figure of speech. No offence, but it implies that the person you're talking to is unable to recognise something very obvious. Something to do with our British sense of humour. We've had invaders before but none of them have ever really got the hang of it. Sorry, but it's not so funny if you try to explain it. Ironic, isn't it?'
Leif whispered urgently in his father's ear. Erik thought briefly and the Britons watched nervously as a slow smile spread over his features. He nodded.
'OK,' began Erik, 'we propose a cultural exchange.'
'Humanities! Scholarship! The arts! Poetry!' broke in Leif feverishly.
'No need to go over the top,' muttered Erik, before addressing himself to the Britons again. 'We will send a cultural attaché to develop links.' And since there was clearly no need for further debate or negotiation, he turned on his heel and stalked back down the beach, Leif trotting along behind him.
His crew were amazed. Erik himself, of all people, Erik the Red, appeared to be passing up the prospect of a good punch up – with a disorganised and ill-equipped rabble for opponents at that! - in favour of, well, what?
'What will we do now for a bit of pillage?' wondered some.
'Erik the Red? Erik the Yellow, more like!' muttered others, both treasonously and sarcastically.
'Bit of trouble?' taunted the old man as they brushed past him. 'Can't stand the thought of cold British steel? Or should I say cold British iron-y!' He cackled hideously, but Erik ignored him as he swept past. For Erik was now a man with a plan.
'Home! And don't spare the oarsmen!' he bellowed as he boarded his longboat.
Back home, Erik summoned his two younger sons, Thorvald and Thorstein, to his presence.Their interest was aroused as he briskly and concisely outlined the first stage of the British 'campaign'. He told them about the poor defences; he told them about the elderly and badly equipped defenders; he told them about the insolence of the old man on the beach. These people, they thought, were there for the taking. Then they listened in horror as he told them about the discussions regarding figures of speech and the British sense of humour and the promise to send an attaché to develop social and cultural ties. His face grave, he told them that he was making Leif personally responsible for the success of the project.
'But we don't have a cultural attaché.....' objected Thorvald. Erik smiled as he summoned his aide de camp.
'Bring forth the cultural attaché!' he commanded, and Mrs Sigurdsson was brought into the room, looking flushed and proud.
'It's a very great honour sir,' she began, but Erik raised his hand for silence.
'You must prepare for a long posting, perhaps a very long one,' he said, 'but rest assured that for a project of this significance and magnitude I will make sure that Leif is there throughout to guide and support you.'
'I don't know how to thank you sir,' she burbled as she was shown out.
'But Britain, are we to abandon it?' asked Thorvald when she had gone.
'Yes. It's ironic really - I'm abandoning Britain to the tender care of Leif and Mrs Sigurdsson, but I'm sure their much vaunted love of culture will see them through! In the meantime my true heirs and I can concentrate on a very much bigger fish.'
'Greenland?'
'Yes, but what lies beyond that?'
'What does lie beyond that?'
Erik smiled wryly.
'I may not live to see it myself, but beyond that lies a great country which you may conquer, and if so, you will then be free to do exactly as you please. I give you this chance because I believe you two to be the bravest of the brave. It's why I think of this great country as the land of the free and the home of the brave.'
Thorstein swallowed hard.
'Are you being sarcastic, Dad?'
Erik grinned broadly.
'Sarcastic?' he said. 'Me? I wouldn't know the meaning of the word.'
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ANAGRAM CORNER
VLADIMIR PUTIN
DUMP RIVAL IN IT!
