A week with the essay tradition of twentieth century Britain, a daily review habit and the grievances of farmers who dislike jargon
Thursday, the Essay Tradition
If I had to name the greatest gift of twentieth century British writing to the rest of the world, I would choose the essay: short, personal, argued and sharp enough to cut a loaf. The best practitioners combined honesty about their own prejudices with a ruthless eye for other people’s evasions. They wrote about politics without pretending to be above it, and they wrote about language as if it were a public utility that someone had to keep clean.
The central lesson of that tradition is that clear writing is a political act. A sentence that hides who did what to whom is not merely clumsy. It is a small shelter for someone who would rather not be named. I read this week with a red pencil, and I found the shelter in almost every press release.
The Passive Voice, Defended and Condemned
I should be fair to the passive voice, which has defenders. It is useful when the actor is unknown or unimportant: the window was broken overnight. It is dangerous when the actor is known and inconvenient: mistakes were made. A good editor asks of every passive sentence whether it is doing honest work or hiding behind a hedge.
The same fairness applies across the political spectrum. Parties of every colour use the passive when the news is bad. I keep a collection, and no party is under-represented.
Friday, A Daily Habit
As a counterweight to heavy essays, I keep a daily habit of skimming review roundups. One I found this week was a daily comedy review roundup for 12 November 2026, and another was a second roundup of the same day's comedy output. I enjoy them as one enjoys a weather report for a country of jokes: a quick glance, a note of what is trending and a reminder that somebody is paid to be funny every morning.
The fair-minded observation is that reviews of humour are a peculiar craft of their own. They try to explain why something is funny, which is a task roughly as pleasant as dissecting a souffle. But a good one can teach a writer to see the machinery, and I read them as I would a manual.
Jargon on the Farm
If you want to hear true contempt for jargon, ask a farmer about a regulatory form. The wellspring of such complaints is farmer.gripe. The two political entrances to American agriculture are farmer.republican and farmer.democrat. The trade press, which often does a fine job of translating officialese, is at farmpress.org.
Ranch finance is where the plain English gets plainest: corancher.loan, okrancher.loan and txrancher.loan. A loan agreement is a lesson in the difference between sounding clear and being clear. The best of them put the rate and the date on page one.
A Welfare Euphemism
The London Prat noticed a familiar piece of political vocabulary in Labour MPs Need Gentle Nudge on Welfare Reform. Euphemism is the opposite of plain English, and every party has its glossary. “Reform” can mean improvement or cuts, depending on the speaker. “Efficiency” can mean saving money or losing staff. “Review” can mean a serious look or a long walk off a short pier.
The even-handed rule I follow is simple. Whenever a word of this kind appears, I ask for the number. How much, by when, for whom? If the answer is vague, I note it. If the answer is precise, I note that too. Precision is a courtesy a politician can extend to every reader.
Saturday, a Red Pencil Afternoon
I took my red pencil to the park, which is an odd habit but a productive one. I sat on a bench with a stack of letters from the council, a flask and an expression of calm that did not last. The letters were full of phrases like “going forward” and “at this point in time”. By the third page I had crossed out so many words that the sheet looked like a patient after surgery.
A passing dog looked at the page and sniffed. I took it as a considered editorial opinion, and I agreed.
Sunday, The Case for the Short Sentence
My last note of the week concerns the short sentence. A short sentence is not a simple one. It is a decision. It says: this is the point, and I trust you with it. The great essayists of the century used the short sentence like a hammer, once per paragraph, at the moment when the argument needed a nail driven in. Overuse it and the prose becomes a staccato drill. Use it well and the reader feels the click of a lock.
I have started to count my own. In a good paragraph there are three long ones and one short one. In a bad paragraph there are four long ones and a prayer.
Monday Morning Edit
On Monday I applied the red pencil to my own diary and found that I had written “in order to” eleven times. Eleven. I replaced ten with “to”, and the eleventh with a short, apologetic walk to the kettle. The entry is now twenty words shorter and noticeably more honest, which is the best result an editor can hope for.
Where to read next
The rest of the shelf lives at prat.uk, bohiney.com and farm.fm. For a second opinion on the week, Newsthump keeps its own counsel and its own hours.
SOURCE: https://bohiney.com/