It was hard not to enjoy Hillary Clinton’s ”misspeaking” last week. Talking about a visit she made to Bosnia in 1996, Senator Clinton described a dramatic adventure in which her plane landed under fire and she was obliged to sprint heroically along the runway, between the bullets, in the manner of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, before diving into a rescue vehicle. She stopped just short of telling us that she then drank a glass of water which came spouting out of her bulletholes like a sprinkler.
All very impressive. The problem arose when reporters looked back at old TV footage of this daredevil entrance to Bosnia. This showed the aircraft landing smoothly and the senator (then First Lady) disembarking with smiles and waves, before strolling in leisurely fashion across the Tarmac while a child read a welcoming poem. No guns. No sprinting. Not so much as a spot of rain. Less Butch and Sundance, more Newman and Redford in their trailer having a martini.
Confronted with this evidence, Clinton admitted: ”I did misspeak the other day.” She learnt a thing or two about language from her husband, eh? She didn’t lie. She didn’t exaggerate. She didn’t deceive, dissemble, pretend or even mislead — she simply misspoke. Like when a policeman says: ”Have you had anything to drink?” and the words:”’Two bottles of chablis” accidentally come out as: ”Haven’t touched a drop since Christmas, officer.” These slips of the tongue are so easily made.
An enthralling etymological debate is raging online regarding the meanings of ”misspeak” in its original Old English form (”to grumble”), in Chaucer’s day (”to speak insultingly”), and in 19th-century America (”to speak unclearly or fail to tell the whole truth”).
But we all know what went on in Hillary’s case, don’t we? I’m not sure there is a word that specifically means ”embellishing an anecdote in order to make oneself sound more interesting”, but we need a word for that and ”misspeak” will do as well as any. (”Embell-self-glamming” would be more fun, but its construction sounds a little German. And the Germans probably don’t do it. They’re more likely to need a word which means ”downplaying an anecdote in order to make oneself sound slightly less efficient” and I expect they’ve got one. Coined years ago, neatly prepared in case of future-use requirement.)
We’ve all worried that our own true selves aren’t exciting enough to cut the mustard. I like Hillary Clinton much more for the endearing attempt to jazz herself up than I would if she had really hurtled down a bullet-riddled Bosnian runway. That’s exactly the kind of thing I might say at a dinner party, for fear that my real holiday anecdotes (”I got a bit of sunburn and tasted various local fish recipes”) will send the person next to me to sleep.
But I suppose that’s not what people are looking for in a national leader. Perhaps the risk is too great that president Clinton (Mark II) would feel gripped by a sudden worry that she was boring the Chinese ambassador and spice up the occasion by claiming she had just nuked Shanghai.
Nevertheless, the insecurity signified by Hillary’s Bosnian tale makes me feel much closer to her. I am inspired to go on the record myself and apologise for all the instances of ”misspeaking” that I can remember.
To Michelle
Hello Michelle. Do you remember when we were eight and I told you that I had been born a boy? I wasn’t born a boy. I was just a tomboy. And tomboys were a bit too predictable because the Famous Five were big on TV at the time, so I thought I’d go one better. I’m sorry I fooled you. But I must say, I hope you’re a bit less gullible these days.
To Clare
Hi Clare. Here’s the thing. I didn’t meet Gary Numan on holiday. I simply saw a man who looked a bit like Gary Numan in a cafe. To be fair, I did think it was him for about five minutes. Until I saw the birthmark. I’m assuming you don’t still have that autograph on your bedroom wall? If you do, I suppose you’d better take it down. It isn’t Gary Numan’s signature, it’s mine.
To Jess
Let me take you back to the postcard I once sent you from Africa. I’ll come right out and say it: we weren’t chased by an elephant. We just saw an elephant. It was a safari holiday and we had paid to see an elephant and there one was. I was a bit scared because it was big, but I appreciate that is not exactly the same as being ”very nearly trampled to death”.
To Robert
I don’t really think Tom Jones propositioned me. He just told me he had a nice suite at the MGM. And he twinkled a bit. But he’s a twinkly man. And I was interviewing him about the series of concerts he was giving at the MGM. Now I come to think of it, I probably asked where he was staying. I should not have given the impression, therefore, that I have been desired by one of the world’s great sex gods. I just sat near him.
To the man in the blue tie from the wine tasting
I do not work at MI6. I was trying to seem at home in that high-powered gathering. I realised my mistake immediately, because if I really did work at MI6, then I would have to pretend that I didn’t. The fact is, I don’t actually work anywhere. I sit at home typing. – guardian.co.uk Â