Tragedy!

Where would the BeeGees be without goats? Nowhere, apparently; and immortal Shakespeare’s oeuvre would be considerably reduced; all episodes of EastEnders would end happily; and much of Western theatre and literature would not exist. For it can be argued – and I do argue it, I argue it forcefully, I argue it with conviction, I argue it passionately – it can be argued (with justification) that the goat gave us an entire dramatic form.

You know of course that our word tragedy comes (from Late Middle English, through Old French and via Latin) from the Greek τραγωδία. But perhaps you have forgotten that this word means – yes! – song (or ode) of the he-goat. Etymologists appear baffled and somewhat skeptical: ‘the reason remains unexplained,’ confesses the hapless dictionary-entry writer, clearly unacquainted with either tragedy or goats. The Song of the Goat, then: not the plaintive and solitary yodellings of the least popular member of a team, but an entire dramatic form, arising from among the ancient Greeks in honour of the god Dionysos, an inveterate cavorter with goatish satyrs. Mention of divine and celestial goats takes us in entirely different directions, but we must restrain ourselves. The Dionysiac Festival (isn’t this interesting?) was where theatre was born; was the white-hot crucible in which was forged the dramatic forms of the western world; was the origin of all we now see before us on the flickering screens of TV and film.

There seems to be something enduringly serious about goat-inspired art. Perhaps we should not be surprised: goats are no sort of joke. And here we see them at the origins of the best of the most high-minded and profound of dramatic arts. So the next time you watch a weepie or read a satisfyingly tragic tale, thank the goat. Whether we need also be thankful for the BeeGees I leave to your own best judgement.