Sunday Nibble #50: American vs. British brands

Long-time readers know that I’m fascinated by the differences between American and British English, two languages that are so close and yet so far away.

In some cases, each language has a very different meaning for the same word — joint, rubber, trolley. In others, the two words for the same thing are very different — stove and cooker; pacifier and dummy; trunk and boot.

One dead giveaway to origin is the word that comes after “different” in making a comparison. In American English, we’d say that “X is different than Y.” In British English, it’s “X is different to Y,” and that sounds so wrong to me that I can’t even explain it.

Perhaps it’s because the preposition “than” indicates removing from something, which is what we’re doing in making a distinction, while the preposition “to” indicates motion toward, which is the exact opposite of what we’re saying.

Interestingly, exactly the same difference exists in Spanish in Latin American and Spain. Here, the pattern is the same as American English — “X es diferente que Y,” although the preposition is closer to that than “than.”

Meanwhile, in Spain, the phrase is “X es deferente a Y,” which is a word-for-word translation of the British version.

It gets really fascinating in the case of brand names, or even stores. For example, the British Equivalent of America’s Dollar Tree is called Poundland, which makes total sense given the currency in the UK. Still, I’m sure many an American tourist has seen the name and giggled at the thought that it’s actually some kind of brothel or budget motel.

More mysterious is the name change of the brand TJ Maxx. In the UK, it’s the same company, but known as TK Maxx for very vague reasons.

At least that one would probably also be obvious. But when it comes to other brands, you might be lost in the woods when trying to figure out the American equivalent without a primer.

Say you’re cleaning up that vacation rental in London and need some Lysol to do the job. You’re not going to find that anywhere. What you want instead is Dettol, which is really just the same thing under a different name.

You might even sometimes hear it used as a comedy punchline when a character runs across something or someone really disgusting. “Ewwww. Ma, fetch the Dettol!”

Say you want to write a note to someone and you’re in the stationers in Hull. You’re looking for a Bic, because it’s your favorite brand, but if you ask a Brit to loan you a Bic, you’re probably going to get a blank stare. Instead, if you want a ballpoint pen, you’d need to ask for a Biro.

Named for its Hungarian inventor Lazlo Biro, it debuted in 1938 and, ironically, was produced by BIC Manufacturing anyway. So, to be honest, Biro is the real name and Bic was how they chose to market it in the U.S.

But oh no! While you’re writing that letter, you make a mistake, and you can’t erase ink. What do you do? Why, you grab the Wite-Out, of course! And, surprise — it’s also a Bic product! But of course, what a perfect pair.

This is probably a pretty well-known story by now, but Liquid Paper, the major competitor to Wite-Out, was invented by one Bette Nesmith Graham, whose son went on to be a musician with the made-for-TV band The Monkees.

But you’re not going to find this in the UK, either. Instead, you need to look for the Tipp-Ex, which was originally a German invention but took Europe by storm in the late 1950s.

Well, that was a lot of work, so how about some snacks? You’d grab a bag of Lay’s potato chips, but they don’t seem to be anywhere. What you’re looking for as you stroll High Street in Chesterton, Cambridge would be a bag of Walkers. Same brand, different name and flavors.

If you’re not into salty, there’s always sweet, but there’s a bit of a trap here. If you want an American Three Musketeers bar, you’re not going to find it. Instead, what you want is a British Milky Way, which is different than (to?) an American Milky Way. If you want an American Milky Way, then ask for a Mars Bar.

Confused yet? Well, keeping to the space theme, if you’d like some cold goodness from a Dove bar of any sort, over there, you’d ask for Galaxy. Again, same brand, different name.

If Dove ice cream isn’t your thing, then go for a Good Humor bar, although anywhere in the UK, you’d have to ask for a Wall’s. (Note: if you’re in the U.S., that link may just redirect right back to Good Humor, proving that it is, indeed, the same brand.)

Finally, if ice cream is too cold, pop open a pack of Starburst. In the UK, you’ll have to ask for Opal Fruits, which was the original name before the product was rebranded in the U.S. Of course, it was rebranded for a while in the UK, too, before being relaunched under its original name.

Now, you may have learned some different brand names in this article, as did I — but the thing I really learned was that, damn, the Mars company seems to control just about every sweet snack on the planet, and that’s just a bit disconcerting.

Wednesday Wonders: Fooled by famous frauds and fakes

I think we’ve heard enough fake cries of “fake news” over things that are true, but here are five times in the past that people just made shit up and pawned it off as real.

The Mechanical Turk

In 1769, Maria Theresa, empress of Austria-Hungray, invited her trusted servant, Wolfgang von Kempelen, to a magic show. Von Kempelen knew his physics, mechanics, and hydraulics. The empress wanted to see what he’d make of a stage illusionist.

In short, he was not impressed, and said so in front of the court, claiming that he could create a better illusion. The empress accepted his offer and gave him six months off to try.

In 1770, he returned with his results: An automaton that played chess. It was in the form of a wooden figure seated behind a cabinet with three doors in front and a drawer in the bottom. In presenting it, von Kempelen would open the left door to show the complicated clockwork inside, then open a back door and shine a lantern through it to show that there was nothing else there.

When he opened the other two doors, it revealed an almost empty compartment with a velvet pillow in it. This he placed under the automaton’s left arm. The chess board and pieces came out of the drawer, and once a challenger stepped forward, von Kempelen turned a crank on the side to start it up, and the game was afoot.

Called the Mechanical Turk, it was good, and regularly defeated human opponents, including Benjamin Franklin.  and Napoleon Bonaparte — although Napoleon is reported to have tried to cheat, to which the Turk did not respond well.

Neither its creator nor second owner and promoter revealed its secrets during the machine’s lifetime, and it was destroyed by a fire in 1854. Although many people assumed that it was actually operated by a human and was not a machine, playing against it did inspire Charles Babbage to begin work on his difference engine, the mechanical precursor to the modern computer.

In the present day, a designer and builder of stage illusions built a replica of the Turk based on the original plans, and watching it in action is definitely uncanny.

Moon-bats and Martians!

This is actually a twofer. First, in August 1835, the New York Sun ran a six part series on discoveries made by the astronomer John Herschel on the Moon. The problem: The press flat out made it all up, reporting all kinds of fantastical creatures Herschel had allegedly seen and written about, including everything from unicorns to flying bat-people, all thanks to the marvel of the fabulous new telescope he had created. When Herschel found out about it, he was not pleased.

The flipside of this came sixty years later in 1895, when the astronomer Percival Lowell first published about the “canals of Mars,” which were believed to be channels of water that ran into the many oceans on the planet.

In reality, they were just an optical illusion created by the lack of power of telescopes of the time. This didn’t stop Lowell, though, and he went on in the early 19th century to write books that postulated the existence of life on Mars.

Of course, Lowell was not trying to perpetrate a fraud. He just had the habit of seeing what he wanted to see, so it was more self-delusion than anything else.

The Cardiff Giant

This would be Cardiff. The one in New York, not the capital of Wales. The year is 1869. The “giant” was a petrified 10-foot-tall man that had been dug up on a farm belonging to William C. “Stub” Newell. People came from all around to see it, and that did not stop when Newell started charging fifty cents a head to have a look. That’s the equivalent of about ten bucks today.

The statue was actually created by George Hull, who was a cousin of Newell’s. An atheist, Hull had gotten into an argument with a Methodist minister who said that everything in the Bible had to be taken literally. Since the Bible said that there had been giants in those days, Hull decided to give him one, and expose the gullibility of religious types at the same time.

Cardiff, after all, wasn’t very far from where Joseph Smith had first started the Mormon religion, and that sort of thing was not at all uncommon in the area during the so-called Second Great Awakening.

Although a huge hit with the public to the point that P.T. Barnum created his own fake giant, the Chicago Tribune eventually published an exposé with confessions from the stonemasons. That didn’t seem to make one bit of difference to the public, who still flocked to see the statues. Hull and his investors made a fortune off of the whole adventure.

Piltdown Man

Less innocuous was a hoax that actually sent a couple of generations of anthropologists and evolutionists down the wrong path in tracing the ancestry of humans. In 1912, Charles Dawson, an amateur archaeologist, claimed to have discovered the fossilized remains of a hitherto unknown human species in Piltdown, Sussex, England.

The key part was that while the skull had a human-like cranium, it had an ape-like mandible, or lower jaw. In other words, having traits of both species, it could easily have been the long-sought “missing link,” a transitional form that provides the evolutionary bridge between two species.

The first so-called missing link, Java Man, had been discovered twenty years prior to Dawson’s. Unlike Dawson’s Piltdown Man, Java Man, now known as homo erectus, has been accepted as a legitimate transitional form between ape and man.

Dawson’s downfall came after the discovery of more transitional forms and improved testing methods that authenticated many of these. When researchers finally turned their attention back to the original Piltdown Man fossils, they determined that the skull was only about 500 years old, the jaw, only a few decades. Both had been stained to simulate age.

In 1953, they published their findings, which were reported in Time magazine, but the damage had been done, setting back anthropological studies, because more recent, legitimate discoveries were doubted because they conflicted with the fake evidence.

It seems likely that Dawson was the sole hoaxer. What was his motive? Most likely, he wanted to be nominated to the archaeological Royal Society, but hadn’t yet because of a lack of significant findings.

In 1913, he was nominated because of Piltdown, proving yet again that it’s possible for a fraud to profit — if they’re white and connected.

Vaccines and autism

We’re still feeling the repercussions of this fraud, which was first perpetrated in 1998 by a researcher named Andrew Wakefield. This was when he published results of studies he carried out which, he said, showed an undeniable link between childhood vaccinations, particularly measles, mumps, and rubella (MMR) and autism.

In Wakefield’s world, “undeniable link” meant “cause and effect,” and a whole bunch of parents proceeded to lose their minds over the whole thing. We’re still dealing with the fallout from it today, with diseases like measles and whopping cough — which should have been eradicated — suddenly causing mini-epidemics.

Eventually, when they could not be replicated, it came out that Wakefield had flat-out falsified his results, and his papers and findings were withdrawn and repudiated by medical journals.

What was his motive for falsifying information without any regard for the lives he endangered? Oh, the usual motive. Money. He had failed to disclose that his studies “had been funded by lawyers who had been engaged by parents in lawsuits against vaccine-producing companies.”

But, as with Piltdown Man, we’re still seeing the effects and feeling the damage a generation later. This is why now, more than ever, we need to rely on actual scientific findings that have been replicated through peer review instead of rumors, myths, or memes.

Happy April 1st!