hat-trick

It’s another sporting term this week. A hat-trick is when someone has three successes in a row. It’s most often used in football for when the same player scores three goals in the same game (not necessarily consecutively). We also use it metaphorically when lots of good stuff happens in a row.

So what put the hat into hat-trick? Well, the answer isn’t football, but cricket. ‘Hat-trick’ first appeared in the 19th century when a bowler who took three wickets with three consecutive balls was often rewarded with a hat – or there would be a collection for the bowler to buy a hat. This is believed to date back to 1858, when HH Stephenson, an English cricket player during the game’s roundarm era (I don’t know what this means), took three wickets in three consecutive deliveries (I also don’t know what this means. Various male relatives and ex-boyfriends have tried to explain the rules of cricket to me. None have succeeded). This was for the All-England Eleven against the twenty-two of Hallam at the Hyde Park ground in Sheffield, in 1858. To celebrate this achievement, the spectators held a collection (something which was quite usual at the time when a professional sportsperson did something great), and Stephenson was given a hat bought with the proceeds.

The term ‘hat-trick’ first appeared in print in 1865 in the Chelmsford Chronicle (now the Essex Chronicle) and was eventually adopted by lots of other sports, including football. And the first hat-trick in an international soccer game was by Scottish player John McDougall against England on 2 March 1878 (which is exactly 100 years before I was born). And the fastest World Cup hat-trick, measured by time between goals, belongs to Fabienne Humm of Switzerland, who scored her three goals in the 47th, 49th and 52nd minutes against Ecuador in the 2015 group stage.

Footballers who score hat-tricks don’t get a hat, sadly, but traditionally they’re allowed to keep the match ball as a memento. Oh, and if you score two goals in a match, it’s called a ‘brace’.

hooligan

I’ve recently been watching Ryan Reynolds’ and the other guy’s programme about Wrexham football club. And in the most recent episode I saw, they talked about the ridiculousness that is football hooliganism – a largely British (and male) phenomenon (although embarrassment would be a better word). It’s actually referred to as the ‘British [or ‘English’] disease’. With that out of the way, they then talked about the etymology of the word ‘hooligan’. Sometimes the WOTW just writes itself.

The word ‘hooligan’ has been around since the late 19th century, and first appeared in print in London police court reports in 1894. These were referring to the name of a gang of rowdy yoofs in Lambeth – the Hooligan Boys. There are a couple of theories as to where the word ‘hooligan’ came from, but arguably the most popular is that it originated from the surname – Houlihan – of a rowdy Irish family who may or may not have existed in real life. Another theory is that it came from one Patrick Hoolihan, an Irish bouncer and thief who lived in London. And finally, there’s an even older theory – apparently General Wade, the English commander-in-chief during the Jacobite rising of 1745, misheard the local Scots-Gaelic word for midge (‘meanbh-chuileag’) and coined the word ‘hooligan’ to describe how angry he was with getting bitten by the little buggers.

Football hooliganism isn’t a new thing – English men have been being stupid about ball games since the Middle Ages. Fights between groups of youths often took place during football matches between neighbouring towns and villages on Shrove Tuesdays and other holy days. Merchants who were worried about the effect of this on trade called for the control of football as early as the 14th century. In fact, King Edward II banned it completely in 1314, as did Edward III in 1349.

The good news is that since the 1980s and 90s, a widescale crackdown on football-related violence has been fairly successful. And although organised football-related punch-ups are still a thing (?), these days British football fans have a better reputation abroad. Long may it continue.

amateur

You know what an amateur is. Someone who’s not a professional, or who isn’t very good at something. These days ‘amateur’ has a bit of a negative association, and we even use it as an insult for something or someone that’s a bit crap – ‘the writing was rather amateurish’ or ‘what a bunch of amateurs’, for example. But, it actually has a sweet little backstory.

‘Amateur’ originates from the French word, ‘amateur’ (bet you couldn’t have guessed that), which itself comes from a Latin word, ‘amator’. ‘Amator’ means ‘lover’ or ‘one who loves’. That comes from the verb ‘amare’, which means ‘to love’, and is where we get words like ‘amorous’, ‘enamoured’ and ‘amiable’ from.

So why does ‘amateur’ relate to love? Because historically, an amateur was someone who took part in something just for the love of it, not for any money or kudos. Of course, we do still use ‘amateur’ in this way, but it’s been rather overtaken by the more negative meaning. Shame.

There are lots of famous amateurs throughout history who’ve done amazing things without any formal or professional training. Here are just a few of them.

Hedy Lamarr – she got all the good genes, didn’t she?

Hedy Lamarr

Known for her acting skillz in Hollywood during the 1930s and 1940s (she was promoted as the ‘world’s most beautiful woman’ by Louis B Mayer), Lamarr co-invented an early version of frequency-hopping spread spectrum communication. Before you say ‘so what’, know that without this technology we wouldn’t have many modern wireless communications including wi-fi, Bluetooth and GPS. Which means I, for one, would be constantly lost. This was despite Hedy having no training in engineering.

Roger Bannister

Roger Bannister was a medical student and an amateur middle-distance runner. On 6 May 1954, he became the first person to run a mile in under four minutes, something most people thought was impossible at the time. He did all of that while studying to become a doctor and without a professional training regimen. Bannister went on to become a neurologist and Master of Pembroke College, Oxford.

Philo Farnsworth

At the age of 21, while labouring on the family farm, the excellently named Philo Farnsworth developed the first fully functional all-electronic image pickup device (AKA a video camera tube) and the first fully functional and complete all-electronic TV system. His innovations laid the groundwork for modern TV (thank god – otherwise what would we all point our living-room furniture at?). And, you’ve guessed it, he didn’t have any training in this field (only in actual fields, hahaha). Oh, and if you didn’t know that but his name sounds a bit familiar, it might be because the ‘Futurama’ character Professor Farnsworth was named after him.

Well, now I feel like quite the underachiever.

yonic

I expect you know what ‘phallic’ means. But you’ve probably never heard of ‘yonic’, which is basically the female equivalent* (shakes fist at patriarchy) – an adjective that describes objects or symbols that resemble or represent the female genitalia, particularly the vulva.

‘Yonic’ is derived from a Sanskrit word, ‘yoni’ (योनि), which means ‘womb’, ‘uterus’ or ‘vulva’, as well as ‘source’. In various Eastern religions and spiritual traditions, the yoni is revered as a symbol of divine feminine energy and fertility, and the origin of life. The concept of the yoni is often associated with the goddess Shakti in Hinduism, representing the creative and nurturing aspects of the universe. Yoni and linga (the masculine version) iconography is found in Shiva temples and archaeological sites across the Indian subcontinent and southeast Asia.

The yoni may well be the oldest spiritual icon not just in India but in many ancient cultures. It’s only here in the West that we’ve traditionally treated feminine sexual organs and sexuality as taboo – in Indic religions (i.e. Hinduism, Buddhism, Jainism and Sikhism) and other similar ancient cultures, the yoni has long been seen as as a deep philosophical and cosmic truth that represents feminine power and potential. It’s closely linked with the natural cycles of the moon, earth and life itself. Take that, patriarchy.

Roses are often considered a yonic symbol, which seems a bit odd to me as men often give them to women as a romantic gesture. Maybe they should be giving us more phallic flowers. Like the phallus impudicus, for example, AKA the common stinkhorn, a fungus renowned for being shaped like a penis and for having an absolutely horrible smell. Hmmm, maybe this is why I’m single…

*Which presumably gets paid 13% less than her male counterpart.

milquetoast

A milquetoast is a person who’s meek or timid, lacks character or is ineffective. A wimp or a wuss, if you will. I first heard this term in the PS4 game ‘Bloodborne’ where it’s one of the starting classes. If you’re not a gamer then you might not have come across it, although I did also hear it in ‘American Horror Story’ (‘Delicate’, in case you’re wondering) the other day.

Apparently the term is much more common in American English than it is over here. That’s probably because ‘milquetoast’ comes from an American comic strip called ‘The Timid Soul’, which was published in 1924. Created by American cartoonist Harold Tucker (HT) Webster, the comic strip featured a character called Caspar Milquetoast, who was himself named after the American dish milk toast, which is, you’ve guessed it, toasted bread in warm milk. Why America, why?

Webster described Caspar Milquetoast as ‘the man who speaks softly and gets hit with a big stick’. Aw. He’s named after milk toast because it’s light and easy to digest, and good for people with weak stomachs. Caspar was featured in books, films, radio programmes and vaudeville acts, and, according to a 1945 article in ‘Time’ magazine, was as famous as Tom Sawyer, and even more so than Don Quixote. Wow.

HT Webster drew more that 16,000 single panel cartoons in his lifetime. In 1927 a severe case of arthritis meant he could no longer draw with his right hand – so he taught himself to do that with his left, and his career carried on for another 25 years after that. I can’t even paint the nails on my right hand without making a hash of it, so kudos to Mr Webster.

(Credit: H. T. Webster, public domain, via Wikimedia Commons)

slogan

If you hear the word ‘slogan’, you probably think of advertising and Don Draper (or, if you’re a little bit older, of Samantha’s husband Darren in ‘Bewitched’). And you’d be right – the OED defines a ‘slogan’ as ‘a short and striking or memorable phrase used in advertising’. That might make you assume that ‘slogan’ is a fairly modern word. But you would be wrong. Very wrong, in fact…

‘Slogan’ first appeared in writing in the 16th century, but it’s actually much older even than that. Let’s take a little trip to the beautiful Scottish Highlands. ‘Slogan’ comes from a Gaelic term, ‘sluagh-ghairm’, which means ‘battle-cry’ or ‘war-cry’. Scottish Highland clans cried these cries to rally their troops, signal that they were ready to start kicking some ass and to intimidate enemies during battles. Each clan would personalise their battle cries to reflect their identity, heritage and allegiance. I couldn’t find any specific examples of the exact words they used, but historians seem to agree they’d be something along the lines of ‘Die, you English bastards’.

‘Sluagh-ghairm’ was adopted into English as in the 18th century as ‘slogan’. And, as the need for rallying battle cries diminished, it came to represent a memorable phrase used to convey a message.

If all this talk of Scottish battle cries means you’re now thinking of Mel Gibson yelling ‘they’ll never take our freedom!’, then you’d be right. It’s very likely that Scottish warriors at the Battle of Stirling Bridge in 1297 (during the First War of Scottish Independence), led by Mel Gibson, sorry, William Wallace, used sluagh-ghairm battle cries to bolster their spirits and unsettle their English adversaries. They didn’t do it in kilts, however, as these weren’t widely worn until many centuries later. Oh, and there was a bridge at the Battle of Stirling Bridge, even though the creators of ‘Braveheart’ decided not to include it.

nostalgia

I’ve always thought this sounds a bit like a medical condition (oh dear, I’ve got a nasty case of nostalgia) and it turns out, I’m right – although it isn’t anything contagious. As you of course know, nostalgia is a noun (person, place or thing) that describes a sentimental longing or affection for the past.

The word itself hasn’t actually been around for all that long. It was coined by a Swiss physician named Johannes Hofer in the late 17th century (1688, to be specific). He used it to describe a medical condition observed in Swiss mercenaries. These mercenaries were a powerful infantry force made up of professional soldiers who served in foreign armies from the late Middle Ages into the Renaissance. Their proven battlefield capabilities made them sought-after troops-for-hire, especially among the military forces of the kings of France. The Swiss Constitution of 1874 banned the recruitment of Swiss citizens by foreign states, and these days there’s only one Swiss mercenary unit left – the nattily-dressed Swiss Guard at the Vatican.

Despite all this military success, when they were fighting away from home, Swiss mercenaries all got terribly homesick (bless them), pining for their beautiful Swiss landscapes. This was the medical condition that Hofer observed – symptoms were thought to include fainting, high fever and even death. Cases were so serious, and led to so many desertions, illnesses and deaths, that the mercenaries were banned from singing the ‘Kuhreihen’, a melody traditionally played by Swiss alpine herdsman as they drove their cattle to or from pasture, in case it pushed the mercenaries over the figurative edge.

After seeing all this extreme homesickness, Hofer combined two Greek words to describe it: ‘nostos’, meaning ‘homecoming’ (the word ‘nostos’ also refers to a theme used in Ancient Greek literature when an epic hero returns home, usually by sea) and ‘álgos’ meaning ‘pain’.

For many centuries, nostalgia was considered a debilitating and potentially fatal medical condition. But by the 1850s, it began to lose its status as a disease, and this meaning had almost completely vanished by the 1870s (although it was still recognised as such in both the First and Second World Wars, mainly by the American armed forces). Nowadays nostalgia is seen as an emotion rather than a condition – a yearning for the ‘good old days’, even if they actually often weren’t that great.

misanthrope

A misanthrope is a noun (person, place or thing) that describes someone who doesn’t like or trust their fellow humans, and avoids human society. They tend to be cynical and pessimistic, and are often loners. Hmmm, maybe I’m a misanthrope... Anyway, my issues aside, you can also use misanthrope as an adjective (a describing word) – so someone can be ‘misanthropic’.

‘Misanthrope’ has its origins in Greek. It combines two Greek words: ‘misos’, meaning ‘hatred’, and ‘anthropos’, meaning ‘human being’ or ‘person’ (‘anthropos’ is also where we get the word ‘anthropology’ i.e. the study of the cultural, social, biological and evolutionary aspects of human life and behavior). Put them together and ‘misanthrope’ literally means ‘hater of humanity’.

When I asked ChatGPT what ‘anthropos’ meant, it said ‘human being or man’. I called it out for being sexist, and it apologised and corrected it to ‘human being or person’. I then asked it for some examples of misanthropes in fiction. The results were all male, and in books by male authors (Holden Caulfield from ‘The Catcher in the Rye’ by Salinger, Meursault from ‘The Stranger’ by Camus, Scrooge from ‘A Christmas Carol’ by Dickens, Ahab from ‘Moby-Dick’ by Melville and Gregor Samsa from ‘The Metamorphosis’ by Kafka). When I pushed it for some female misanthropes by female authors, I got Miss Jean Brodie from ‘The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie’ by Muriel Spark, Edna Pontellier from ‘The Awakening’ by Kate Chopin and Mildred Montag from ‘Fahrenheit 451’ by Ray Bradbury. The latter is clearly a MAN. I said that and it apologised again and gave me Miss Havisham from ‘Great Expectations’ by well-known female author Charles Dickens. SIGH. It’s a shame that even brand-new technology already has sexism baked in.*

This is why I’m a misanthrope. Also, litter.

* As an experiment, I also asked ChatGPT who the five greatest tennis players of all time are. I got three men and two women, which I’ll let slide as I didn’t give it an even number. It then described Federer as ‘one of the greatest tennis players of all time’ and Williams as ‘one of the greatest female tennis players of all time’. I DESPAIR.

magniloquent

I specialise in making businesses’ words easier to read and understand. It’s not about dumbing down – it’s about using the same words we’d say in conversation, and eliminating formal business-speak that people think makes them sound smart, but in fact just makes their words harder to understand. Here’s an example from a well-known supermarket’s* website Ts&Cs:

Before Emma: ‘We may update these Terms from time to time and any changes will be notified to you via the e-mail address provided by you on registration or via a suitable announcement on the Site.’

After Emma: ‘We might update these terms. If we do, we’ll email you to tell you about the changes using the address you gave us when you signed up. Or, we’ll tell you about them on our website.’

This guy looks like he’d use five words when one would do

Same content, but written in a much more straightforward and easy-to-understand way (also, in three short easy-to-digest sentences instead of one incredibly long one).

So what does this blatant plug have to do with ‘magniloquent’? Well, this week’s word is an adjective (a describing word’), used for language that’s intended to sound very impressive and important. So basically the ‘Before Emma’ example above. You can also use it to describe a person who uses that type of language.

The origin of ‘magniloquent’ is Latin – ‘magnus’ means ‘great’ and ‘loqui’ is a verb meaning ‘to speak’ (we also get ‘eloquent’ from ‘loqui’). Smush the two together and you get ‘magniloquus’, which is the Latin predecessor to ‘magniloquent’.

We started using ‘magniloquent’ in English in the 1600s, although its synonym (a magniloquent way of saying ‘word which means the same’) ‘grandiloquent’ had already been kicking around for a hundred years or so. Both these words are still used today, although ‘grandiloquent’ is probably the more common of the two. Unless I’m around of course…

*It’s Tesco’s general terms and conditions. Hey Tesco, I’m available for work if you want your words to be more readable?

parchment

You know what parchment is – ye olde paper, usually made from some poor old animal’s skin. But did you know it’s named for a city? OOH.

The word ‘parchment’ comes from a Latin word, ‘pergamenum’. This is derived from ‘Pergamon’, the name of an ancient city in Asia Minor (now Turkey), which was renowned for producing top-notch parchment back in the day.

Parchment was big business. That’s because it lasted longer and was easier to make than papyrus – the papyrus plant was primarily grown in Egypt and other regions with similar climates, making it difficult to get anywhere else. That meant parchment would take over as the preferred writing material in Europe during the Middle Ages, and remain in use for centuries afterwards.

‘Reconstructed’ (which I assume means ‘made up’) view of the Pergamon Acropolis by Friedrich Thierch, 1882

Pergamon was the capital of the Kingdom of Pergamon, which was founded in the 3rd century BCE by the Attalid dynasty. The Attalid guys loved a bit of art and science, and Pergamon was a cosmopolitan city that attracted scholars, artists and intellectuals from all over the Mediterranean. It was also home to a famous library that rivalled the Library of Alexandria in Egypt (which was mahoosive), being home to at least 200,000 scrolls.

(In the interests of being a little bit historically accurate – although that’s not something the normally stops me – parchment had been used in Asia Minor long before Pergamon became a major city. Not sure what they called it though…?)

Sadly Pergamon didn’t survive, and by medieval times was no longer a major city. The good news is that it’s now a UNESCO World Heritage Site, and you can even go and tourist there next time you’re in Turkey.

eclipse

On Monday (8th April), there was a total solar eclipse. Sadly you could only see this if you were in North America – here in the UK it was only a partial (described as a ‘small grazing’ on one website I saw). I didn’t manage to see any of it, but it did get me wondering – where does the word ‘eclipse’ come from?

These days, ‘eclipse’ refers to the partial or complete obscuring of one celestial body by another, or the shadow cast by one celestial body on to another. We also use it metaphorically to describe someone or something being overshadowed by something else.

‘Eclipse’ comes from ancient Greek, from ‘ekleipsis’, meaning ‘an abandonment’ or ‘a failing’, to reflect those poor old ancient Greekies being abandoned or failed by the sun or moon. Over time, the word was adopted into Latin as ‘eclipsis’, then into Old French as ‘eclipse’, before finally making it to Middle English as, you’ve guessed it, ‘eclipse’.

Eclipses have long been viewed with some superstition, and there have been various odd things that have happened during them. Here are just a few.

• The Battle of the Eclipse (585 BCE): One of the earliest recorded instances of an eclipse influencing human affairs happened during this battle between the Lydians and the Medes in what’s now Turkey. According to the ancient Greek historian Herodotus, there was a total solar eclipse in the middle of the fighting, which both sides took as a sign to stop battling and make peace. So that’s nice. On the flipside, during the Battle of Muye (c. 1046 BCE) in ancient China, a total solar eclipse terrified the soldiers, causing panic on both sides. It’s thought that one side (the Zhou) used this to their advantage to boost morale, claiming it was some sort of divine favour, and went on to defeat the Shang dynasty.

• The death of Henry I (1133): The OG Hazza died from eating a shitload of lampreys, a type of jawless fish (yum), during a feast. His death also coincided with a total solar eclipse which many people took as a portent of his impending demise, or as a sign of divine displeasure at all those poor fish he ate.

• The New Madrid Earthquakes (1811–1812): This was a series of powerful earthquakes – in fact, some of the most powerful ever recorded in the contiguous United States (I had to look up what that means – it’s all the states that are connected to each other, i.e. the 48 adjoining states on the North American continent – so it doesn’t include Alaska and Hawaii). The earthquakes happened during a time of heightened celestial activity, including multiple solar and lunar eclipses. There’s no scientific connection here but it must have brown trousers all round for anyone in the middle of them.

bellwether

A bellwether is ‘an indicator of trends’. Here’s a very egotistical (and patently untrue) example:

‘Emma’s family and friends often look to her as a bellwether of fashion.’

Bellwether can also mean ‘one that takes the lead or initiative’, which is also not true of my fashion sense.

Nowadays you’re most likely to see the word ‘bellwether’ in political or economic commentary. Here’s an actual example from the Washington Post:

‘Gannett, the nation’s largest newspaper chain and considered a bellwether for the industry, is just the latest to shake up its print offerings.’

So what do trendsetters have to do with bells or, indeed, wethers? Well, to answer that, please come with me to… a sheep farm.

All flocks of sheep have a leader. And shepherds and farmers have traditionally hung a, you’ve guessed it, bell around the top sheep’s neck. A ‘wether’ is a word for a male sheep (nowadays the term specifically means a castrated male sheep) – so the leading sheep is called a ‘bellwether’.

This term for the sheep prime minister has been around since the 15th century. And over time we started to use it to refer to anyone who’s the leader of the pack (or flock), who takes initiative or who establishes trends that are then taken up by others.

If you’re wondering how the sheep choose their leader, they either do that themselves, by letting the most dominant one take the lead, or the farmer does it for them. Why does the farmer want to rig the sheep election? Well, they might do this because one sheep is particularly good at navigating obstacles or familiar with the terrain, and can therefore keep the rest of the sheep on the straight and narrow. Who knew? (Well, all the sheep farmers, obviously.)

marionette

It’s World Puppetry Day today, which is organised by the Union Internationale de la Marionnette (UNIMA). So that’s why I’ve chosen ‘marionette’ as this week’s WOTW (as no one calls it).

A marionette is a puppet controlled from above using wires or strings (so other types of puppets like ventriloquists’ dummies or Sooty aren’t marionettes – except in France, where it refers to any type of puppet). As you can probably guess from the spelling, the word ‘marionette’ comes from French. For some reason we lost an ‘n’ when it came into English, as the OG French term was ‘marionnette’. That comes from an Old French word, ‘marion’, which means ‘little Mary’. This is likely because the earliest marionettes were used to depict biblical events, in which the Virgin Mary was a big star.

How much is that scary puppet in the window?

Puppetry has been around for bloody ages, and some historians claim they actually predate actors in the theatre. In fact, there’s evidence of string operated puppets as far back as 2000 BC in Egypt. But who cares about that when we can talk about HAUNTED PUPPETS?

In 2015 paranormal investigator Jayne Harris filmed a supposedly haunted puppet every night for three months using a timed night vision camera. She was called in after its previous owner, who inherited it from his late father, claimed it tried to CHOKE HIM TO DEATH in the middle of the night. You can read more and see the (slightly underwhelming) video footage in this article.

If that doesn’t convince you, what about Mr Fritz, a disembodied ventriloquist doll’s head, which was caught on camera BLINKING in the middle of the night. Mr Fritz was made by a prisoner at the World War II Stalag II-B concentration camp. His new owner noticed that the door to the case the head was stored in kept opening over night, so he set up a camera to see what was going on. You can see the footage of the blinks in this article (my apologies that it’s from the Daily Mail). HIS LIPS BLOODY MOVE TOO.

Sleep well tonight…

haggard

Today we use the word ‘haggard’ to describe someone who looks like crap, usually because they’re sick, under some sort of emotional strain or incredibly hungover. But it didn’t always mean that.

‘Haggard’ has its roots in falconry. In case you’re not familiar with that, falconry, also known as hawking, is a traditional practice of hunting with trained birds of prey, usually falcons, hawks or eagles. It dates back over 4,000 years and has been practised by various cultures around the world, including ancient Mesopotamia, China, Egypt and medieval Europe.

While the relationship between the falconer and the bird is built on trust and respect, traditionally these birds weren’t bred in captivity – they were either taken from the nest when very young or trapped as adults. And that’s where our word comes in. A bird trapped as an adult was called a ‘haggard’, from the Middle French word ‘hagard’, meaning ‘wild’ or ‘untamed’. Over time, the meaning of ‘haggard’ has evolved to describe someone who looks exhausted, or wild and unkempt due to fatigue or stress.

In 2010, UNESCO recognised falconry as an ‘Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity’ which acknowledges its cultural significance. These days it’s still practiced as both a sport and a conservation tool, and also to control pest birds and animals in urban areas. It’s also very well regulated to make sure the birds are treated ethically and that wild populations aren’t affected.

(The return of the goshawk as a breeding bird to Britain is due in large part to these birds escaping from falconers – the previous population was wiped out by gamekeepers and egg collectors in the late 19th and early 20th centuries.)

We get a few other words and phrases from falconry too:

• lure – from a device used to recall hawks

• rouse – this used to mean ‘to shake one’s feathers’, although we now use it for waking up

• pounce – previously this referred to a hawk’s claws, then to birds springing or swooping to catch prey

• to turn tail – AKA to fly away.

fathom

Fathom has a few meanings, the most well-known of which is probably as a unit of measurement for the depth of water, one fathom being equal to six feet (1.83 metres for my metric friends). ‘Fathom’ also has a figurative meaning which is when you use it to describe understanding or comprehending something – ‘despite her best efforts, she couldn’t fathom what the hell was going on’.

Fathom comes from an Old English word, fæthm, which means ‘outstretched arms’ or ‘embracing arms’. In fact, ‘fathom’ was once used as a verb to mean ‘embrace’ – so you could say you were going to fathom someone if you were going to hug them (although that does sound vaguely threatening). In the 1600s, ‘fathom’ ran away to sea, and the verb came to mean ‘to measure with a sounding line’ – a sounding line being a bit of rope with a weight on the end used to measure the depth of water. The measurements then became known as fathoms, because sailors used their outstretched arms to measure the length of these ropes or cables (which makes much more sense that what I was imagining – lots of sailors trying to measure the depth of water by getting in the sea and stretching their arms out). Eventually this measure was standardised as six feet.

At the same time as all this was happening on the ocean waves, landlubbers started using ‘fathom’ to mean ‘probe’ or ‘investigate’. That’s because it was all about getting to the bottom of something – just like those sounding lines.

myriad

I once got told off by a client for writing ‘a myriad of XXX’. She said that it should be simply ‘myriad’ whatever it was, because ‘myriad’ is only an adjective (a describing word), not a noun (a person, place or thing). Because I only remember the mean things people say to me, many years later I’ve finally googled this, and it turns out she was WRONG. And in this post I’m going to tell you why. (She’s not a client anymore. Not because of that. Honest.)

Before we get into that, let’s talk about what ‘myriad’ means (although I’m sure you know that already, clever reader). As an adjective – as in ‘he has myriad issues’ – it means ‘innumerable’ i.e. too many to be numbered AKA a buttload. As a noun – as in ‘he has a myriad of issues’ – it means either a buttload again or, specifically 10,000. Why 10,000? Well, in ancient Greek, the word for 10,000 was μυριάς, which was pronounced ‘myrias’. Over time this word evolved and was used more broadly to talk about the concept of a vast or countless number. We then started using it figuratively to describe an indefinitely large quantity or multitude. It was adopted into English as ‘myriad’ in the mid-1500s.

A myriad of bottles

So why was that client so insistent that it was only an adjective? Well, apparently lots of folks were taught this at school. But much like ‘you can’t start a sentence with “and” or “but”’, and ‘you can’t end a sentence with a conjunction’, this is another ‘rule’ that has absolutely no basis in fact. When ‘myriad’ appeared in the English language in the mid-1500s it was as a noun, not an adjective. And it went on to appear as such in works by writers including Milton, Thoreau and Twain – and they did alright with the words. ‘Myriad’ as an adjective didn’t actually appear until 200 years later. So stick that in your pipe and smoke it, client.

Petty, moi?

cretin

Before we get into this, it goes without saying that ‘cretin’ is a horrible word used to describe someone who’s a few sandwiches short of a picnic (which also isn’t a very nice phrase, sorry). So I’m definitely not encouraging you to say it to anyone. But it does have an interesting backstory, which is why it’s the word of the week. Which for this week, I’m renaming the problematic word of the week.

So, what’s that interesting backstory? Well, ‘cretin’ comes from ‘cretinism’, is a form of severe congenital hypothyroidism which means babies with the condition have a deficiency of thyroid hormones when they’re in the womb (thyroid hormones are crucial for proper physical and mental development), often caused by a lack of iodine – in fact, these days the condition is known as congenital iodine deficiency syndrome. Cretinism typically stunts these people’s physical and intellectual growth, as well giving them various other health issues. (That’s not the interesting bit, that’s just depressing.)

Cretinism was particularly prevalent in the French Alps due to several factors, one of which was a lack of iodine-rich foods – and that’s where the name came from. Its origins lie in the French word ‘chrétien’, which actually means ‘Christian’. They called it this as a reminder that, despite their mental and physical issues, people suffering from this condition were still humans, and should be treated with dignity and respect. Aw.

I should probably just end this here, but in reality, that’s only a theory as to the etymology of ‘cretin’. The other, not so kind, ones are:

• it describes these people’s ‘Christ-like’ inability to sin because they can’t recognise the difference between right and wrong

• it’s from ‘creta’, Latin for chalk, because people with the condition were pale

• it’s from ‘cretira’, the Romansh word for ‘creature’ (Romansh is a language spoken in the Swiss Canton of the Grisons (Graubünden))

• it’s from ‘cretine’ which is French for ‘alluvium’ (soil deposited by flowing water). This is a reference the condition's suspected origin in crappy soil.

Whatever the answer, don’t say ‘cretin’, kids. And if someone calls you one, please send them to this post.

barbarian

You know what a barbarian is – someone who pillages villages (and other places that don’t rhyme). The word has an origin that you might not know though. It comes from ancient Greece where the term ‘barboros’ was used to refer to any non-Greek-speaking bunch of people, or anyone those high-falutin’ Greeks thought inferior. ‘Barboros’ is literally based on the sound ‘bar-bar’ which is the Greeks taking the piss out of other languages by imitating what sounded like gibberish to them. I imagine it was probably accompanied by a ‘blah-blah-blah’ hand gesture as well.

Over time, the term ‘barbarian’ evolved to cover not only linguistic differences, but also cultural, social and perceived intellectual disparities between the Greeks and everyone else. It wasn’t long before the Romans picked up on the term, using it to describe non-Romans, particularly those outside the Roman Empire.

My favourite historical barbarians are the Vandals, a Germanic tribe who played a big part in the fall of the Western Roman Empire. Believed to have originated from the area around modern-day Poland and Ukraine, in the early 5th century AD they established a powerful kingdom in North Africa. They also formed alliances with other groups, including the Alans, an Iranian nomadic tribe with the best name ever.

In 455AD, under the rule of King Genseric, the Vandals invaded Rome. There’s a story that they ended up in the imperial wine cellars. Instead of looting them as they were supposed to do, they decided to have themselves a little tipple. As anyone who’s gone to the pub after work for ‘just one drink’ has experienced, this ended up in a raucous party that including parading around the city streets wearing posh Roman clothes, and even crowning one of their own as the ‘Vandal King of Rome’. We’ve all been there.

Although the Vandals sacking of Rome wasn’t as devastating as earlier barbarian invasions (like the one by the Visigoths in 410AD), it did show the rest of the world that the Empire was in trouble. Combined with their conquest of North Africa (an important source of grain and revenue for the Romans), the Vandals were the beginning of the end for the Romans.

Despite this, the Vandal kingdom in North Africa didn’t last an awful lot longer. It fell in 534AD when the Byzantine Emperor Justinian I got the better of our tribe in the Vandalic War. Their most enduring legacy is probably (as I imagine you’ve guessed) the word ‘vandalism’, which is based on their reputation for looting and generally making a big old mess.

gaslight

When you gaslight someone (which hopefully you never do), you manipulate them psychologically. And not in a good way. Gaslighting is generally recognised as a dripfeeding of doubts that make someone question their memory, perception or sanity, and undermine their confidence. It’s often applied to men manipulating women, but it’s also used in lots of different contexts including work and politics.

The term ‘gaslighting’ feels fairly modern which it sort of is, depending on your definition of ‘modern’. It comes from a 1938 thriller play called, unsurprisingly, ‘Gas Light’ (it’s known as ‘Angel Street’ in the United States) by British playwright Patrick Hamilton. Set in the 1880s in a fog-bound London, ‘Gas Light’ tells the story of Jack and Bella Manningham. It begins in late afternoon, a time described by Hamilton as ‘before the feeble dawn of gaslight and tea’. Bella is clearly anxious, made worse by her mean husband flirting with the servants in front of her, as well as disappearing from the house for long periods of time and refusing to say where he’s going. After a while it becomes clear that Jack is trying to convince Bella she’s going nuts. One of the many small things he does to convince her she’s losing it is by denying that the gaslights that illuminate their home are dimming and flickering (even though they clearly are). In 1961, 23 years after the play was written, a psychiatrist and author called Dr Theodore Sarbin verbed that noun (more on that later) and coined ‘gaslighting’ as a description of a form of psychological manipulation in which someone undermines another person’s perception of reality.

If you don’t want to know what happens in the rest of the play, stop reading now as spoilers follow…

As well as the gaslights dimming, Bella also hears footsteps from the supposedly empty apartment above theirs – another thing Jack convinces her is in her head. Bella then meets Rough, an unfortunately named police detective. He’s investigating the murder of a wealthy woman called Alice Barlow who lived in the now-empty apartment above them. The murderer was never found, and neither were Alice’s jewels. It turns out that Jack has been going to her flat each night to search for the missing jewels – so it’s his footsteps Bella has been hearing. As well as that, when he lights that apartment’s gas lights it causes them to dim in the rest of the building, which is what Bella has also seen. Rough convinces Bella to help him expose Jack as the murderer. Bella offers to help Jack escape. Damn. But then, at the last minute, she reminds him she’s insane, which means she’s not accountable for her actions. The play ends with Jack being led away by the police. Yay!

‘Gas Light’ was made into a few films, the most famous of which is probably the 1944 Hollywood MGM version starring Ingrid Bergman (renamed ‘The Murder in Thornton Square’ in the UK – it also starred prolific serial killer Angela Lansbury* in her film debut). There’s also a great British version from 1940. We’re lucky to have that version at all – when MGM bought the remake rights they put a clause in the contract insisting that all prints of it be destroyed, including the negative, so it couldn’t compete with their version. Fortunately they failed, which is great for us as Time Out described it as:

‘Nothing like as lavish as the later MGM version ... But in its own small-scale way a superior film by far. Lurking menace hangs in the air like a fog, the atmosphere is electric, and [lead actress] Wynyard suffers exquisitely as she struggles to keep dementia at bay.’

You can watch the fully restored version of this film for free on YouTube.

Changing a noun like ‘gaslight’ to a verb (i.e. by adding ‘ing’) is called, rather unimaginatively, ‘verbing’ or ‘verbification’. Lots of people get cross about verbification, as it means we end up with horrible things like ‘to podium’ in sport (YUCK YUCK YUCK). But verbification has been going on forever, and is in fact where we get lots of verbs we use all the time now, including ‘access’ (as in ‘access a file’), ‘chair’ (as in ‘chair a meeting’), ‘host’ (as in ‘host a party’) and loads of others – like ‘email’, ‘strike’, ‘salt’, ‘switch’, ‘sleep’, ‘ship’, ‘train’, ‘stop’, ‘drink’, ‘cup’, ‘lure’, ‘mutter’, ‘dress’, ‘divorce’, ‘fool’ and ‘merge’, to name just a few stolen from Wikipedia.

*This is a joke about ‘Murder She Wrote’. Angela Lansbury was not, at least as far as I know, a serial killer, prolific or otherwise.

barmecide

Despite sounding quite murderous (‘Oh my god, he’s a barmecidal maniac!’), ‘barmecide’ actually has a slightly more mundane meaning. It’s an adjective (AKA a describing word*) for something that has the illusion of abundance but is ultimately disappointing. Here’s an example: ‘The company’s extravagant promises turned out to be barmecidal, leaving the investors with nothing.’ Apparently a ‘barmecidal feast’ is a well-known phrase, although not one that I’ve ever come across.

So why have I chosen ‘barmecide’ and its sad investors? Well, because it has quite an interesting backstory. ‘Barmecide’ is an eponym (AKA a word named after a person) and comes from ‘The Thousand and One Nights’ (also known as ‘The Arabian Nights’ Entertainment’ or ‘Arabian Nights’, which is what everyone actually calls it). The tale that introduces the term is ‘The Barber’s Tale of his Sixth Brother’ in which a prince called, you’ve guessed it, Barmecide, invites a beggar to a big old feast. Because Barmecide is an arsehole, the feast is an illusion and the beggar is given empty plates and glasses that only appear to have food and drink in them. And that’s where we get our word from. Thankfully our beggar is a wily chap and pretends to get drunk on the imaginary wine before punching the prick of a prince. Hooray.

*If you don’t know your adjectives from your elbow, head to my Instagram page for a video on parts of speech. More fun than it sounds, honest.