1 Feb 2010(Mon)

The restrictions of the Japanese phonetic alphabet – with five pure vowels and only 14 consonants to fit around a (fairly) rigid CVCV pattern – may leave a certain scope for confusion, but the extent of this country’s lexical borrowing continues to know few bounds. Upon flicking on the TV yesterday evening to catch what was ultimately a straight-sets defeat for Andy Murray in the Australian Open tennis final, I was initially disappointed not to have the option of an audio feed from the host broadcaster as I often like to choose for football, but I needn’t have worried as it turns out English is the only language this sport makes any sense in anyway. When, in a rare and all-too-brief moment of hope for British fans, the Japanese commentator kindly informed us that Murray led faivu gēmusu tu surii, sāvingu fō za setto (five games to three, serving for the set), you had to wonder if any casual Japanese viewers would have the faintest clue what on earth was going on.

 

This is probably quite an extreme example, and it does of course follow reason that when part of a country’s culture is exported overseas, it should take with it a certain amount of vocabulary. English, for example, has seen no reason to translate the names of karate, judo, or any of the other martial arts that arrived in its spheres from Japan; nor even the kihon (basics), kata (forms), or waza (techniques) that budding karateka or judoka might learn in the dojo where they are practised. For all the naitokurabu (nightclubs) and hanbāgā (hamburgers), you are bound to get a bit of karaoke and sushi in return.

 

No doubt aided by the relatively recent nature of its popularisation, bastardised Anglicisms are notoriously abundant within Japanese sakkā (soccer – I shall resist the urge for an Anglo-American debate by acknowledging that futtobōru can be a blanket term for a number of codes, including ragubii etc). A game in the riigu (league) or kappu (cup) begins with the kikkuofu (kick-off), after which a middofirudā (midfielder) might attempt a surū pasu (through pass) or an ārii kurosu (early cross) to a fowādo (forward) in the penarutii eria (penalty area). Supposing the intended recipient has not strayed ofusaido (offside), there are then three possible outcomes: either this tiimumēto (teammate) will shūto (shoot), a difendā (defender) will burokku (block) and concede a kōnā kikku (corner kick), or the opponents will kuriā (clear) and perhaps try and mount a kauntā atakku (counter attack) of their own. Failure to achieve the right result, of course, runs the risk of being subjected to būingu (booing) from your own sapōtā (supporters).

 

Although you do get the odd exception creeping in from a third language – ‘defensive midfielder’, for example, is boranchi after the Portuguese volante, while J. League fans inspired by Serie A might sing forza ragazzi or facci un gol – this probably all serves to underline the ‘universal language’ claims both of English and of football itself. Things can, however, get a little confused when you throw in wasei-eigo, which are essentially pseudo-Anglicisms invented by – and/or for the dubious benefit of – Japanese who don’t really speak English. Heddingu (heading) is all well and good in the present participle, but feels a little strange when used without any morphological alteration to mean ‘header’, and is derived into the even more cumbersome heddingu shūto when the striker tries to divert the ball into the net off his noggin. An attempt on goal from just outside the eria is called a middoru shūto (‘middle shoot’), which I can’t decide if it’s actually quite handy or just plain wrong, while a defender’s illegal use of an arm to burokku would just be a hando (‘hand’), with no mention of the poor ball whatsoever.

 

Meanwhile, the amount of borrowings used within management speak, both in business and in sporting circles, suggests that virtually any loan word can become a buzzword with the right suit and tie, and this makes you wonder where it’ll all eventually stop. Perhaps we should be thankful that football and language in general haven’t quite reached the level of tennis just yet, but then again, I suppose corruption wouldn’t be corruption without the odd little perk for some. It would certainly save me a lot of time each week if, instead of painstakingly translating these articles for the Japanese version of my column, I could simply produce a Japaniizu bājon obu mai koramu instead.