(A speech given recently to a rally of the Flat Earth Society, Queensland.)

We have been robbed!

Two generations of Australians have been deprived of much of our great heritage. This is an election year. With the help of intelligent people like yourselves, we can do something about it.

What am I talking about? Decimals, of course! On the 14^th February, 1966 a political blunder denied our children a treasure trove of wonderfully interesting history. On that day a new system of measurement was forced upon our unprepared country. The politicians told us that it was a good thing. But was it?

Those rogues promised us that metric calculations were so easy that you didn’t even have to be the full quid to master them. By the way, ‘calculate’ comes from the Latin word Calculi, and alludes to the small limestone pebbles used by the Romans to help them with their arithmetic. Also ‘metron’, from which the word ‘metric’ is derived, is the Greek word meaning to measure. Gosh, everything I have to say about numbers is interestingly old. Why, then, bother with these newfangled decimals?

The basis of this introduced system of measurement is relatively easy. A metre can be divided into milimetres (Milli - Latin), decametres (Deka – Greek), centimetres (Centum – Latin) and kilometres – (Khilioi – Greek). All you have to do is remember that Greek and Latin alternate. There is little of our own history in the names. ‘Real’ numbers, however, were a lot more interesting. For example, take linear measurement as it used to be not so long ago.

We’re told that the most useful measurement for ancient people was the inch. This was the length of three barleycorns laid end to end. I wonder if it was better to buy cloth in good years, when the ears of barley were bigger and the inch was longer. Or would you shop where the soil was rich, so that your money would go further all year round? If that were the case people would walk miles to buy their goods in fertile areas. But was that a statute mile (1760 yards) or a Roman mile (1620 yards)? Or if they had to cross water, was it the nautical mile (1852 yards)? Or was it even the original thousand paces? Anyway, prior to 1690, people would have walked a country mile for such a bargain, but after that date measurement, in England, was standardized.

The word ‘inch’ in Old English meant a twelfth. So it would seem that the ‘foot’, or twelve inches, was actually the more important measurement. I’ve been told that this was the actual length of the foot of one of the Roman Emperors. The cubit, or the length from the elbow to the extended fingertip, was also Roman, but was not much used after the occupation of Britain ended. Did the word ‘foot’ have a more sinister meaning then? Did the English keep this term after the Latin invaders had left their country, just to show how much they had been downtrodden?

Anyway, whatever the reason for keeping the name, three of those feet made one yard. The word ‘yerde’ in Old English meant a staff, and I suppose that a straight piece of branch of that length would have been a handy size in the Middle Ages, when people were vertically challenged compared to today.

Another woody measure was the rod, which was five-and-a-quarter feet long, just the right length of stick to clip the ear of the leading ox in a plough team, for that is where the name for this measurement was derived. Four rods made a length of 22 feet, sometimes called a chain, which played a crucial part in the early calculation of area. If you were ploughing slowly, were you dragging the chain?

A piece of land one chain wide by a furlong in length made an acre. The name furlong is also associated with ploughing; it was the distance a team of oxen could pull a plough before they had to rest. The name literally means ‘a furrow long’. In areas where the beasts were strong and healthy, did they boast larger acres than where the animals were underfed? What do you think? A penny for your thoughts.

Oops, I’ve mentioned money. The silver penny was just about the only coin the common folk would have seen in the Middle Ages. Few people had enough wealth to need a higher denomination. Two hundred and forty of these pennies could be made from a pound of silver, so somebody coined a phrase and called the larger denomination of currency a ‘pound’.

Those of us who are old enough, remember a wealth of names for the money we (sometimes) had. The ‘zac’ was six pence and the ‘tre’ three. Then there was a halfpenny, called a ha’penny, and a quarter of a penny, called a farthing (fourthing in the 13^th Century). Some wealthy people had ‘quids’, ‘fivers’ and ‘tenners’; the one, five and ten pound notes. And I’ve also heard the gangland terms of a ‘pony’ and a ‘monkey’ meaning the rare amounts of twenty-five and fifty pounds. Imagine the mug punter who found that he had bet a pony on a donkey. I bet he felt a bit of a monkey.

Another bet is that no pre-decimal student will ever forget the scholarly delights of having to calculate one pound, seventeen shillings (twenty shillings to the pound) and seven pence (twelve pennies to the shilling) three farthings (four farthings to the penny), multiplied by fifteen and a half. The answer had to be given in guineas (a guinea is one pound one shilling). Wonderful, wasn’t it?!?

I really believe anyone with an ounce of sentimentality will see what the modern generation is missing. Math today does not measure up to the math of my day. Surely it would be of benefit for modern scholars to return to the pre-decimal values.

Some people disagree, however. They think that the modern currency is centsible. But how can you spend a penny now that we have decimalization? We can’t have it both ways you know. ‘In for a penny, in for a pound’, as they say!

On the other hand, a few people say that it is only natural to have a counting system based on the number ten, not twelve (as in pennies to the shillings) or sixteen (as in ounces to the pound). But it was the ancient Scots who introduced two wonderful counting words into our language, and probably made the ‘dozen’ a special number. You see, the old highlanders would have been too cold to remove those very inadequate sandals they called brogues. They could not count past ten with only their fingers to use, but sometimes this was not enough. That is why they devised a cunning solution: if there was one left after ten had been counted, they would say there was ‘ein leven’ or one left over. If two remained, they would say there was ‘twa leven’ or two left. So that is how we get the words eleven and twelve.

"But what," I have been asked, "would our friends in tartan do if there were more than two left over?" Actually, I don’t know the answer, but they might have done what the Ilyowera Aboriginals do to this day, and ignore what they cannot count. In the language of these people from the Northern Territory there are no numbers past four. They count one (Anyenda), two (Aturra), three (Wurreda), four (Wopea) and everything else is a ‘Big Mob’. Surely, anybody with more than four of anything has sufficient. We might be able to learn a lot about our own greed from our dark-skinned friends from the Top End.

Another problem for some people is the way we signal numbers. If we want to indicate ‘one’, we hold up one finger. The people on the North Coast of New Guinea think that this is a most unusual thing to do. They fold one finger into the palm of their hand to signify one. It is safe there in their grasp. (Is there a New Guinean saying: ‘a finger in the hand is worth…’?)

Anyway, I am miles away from my original argument, that of persuading you to support a return to the old ways of measurement. My learned friends, I ask you to stand up for the fact that decimals do not give us our pound of flesh. Don’t hide your ideals under a bushel. Throw your weight behind the cause. Show the measure of your resolve.

But do I hear somebody ask whether all the hard yards, of learning absolutely tons of pre-decimal measurements, is really worth it? Of course it is. I wouldn’t have missed it for quids.