ostracise

To be ostracised is to be exiled or excluded from a group, who all have a chat and decide you can’t hang around with them anymore, the utter bastards. Like a lot of our words it comes from a Greek word, ostraka, which refers to a shard of pottery. But what does that have to do with being exiled by a bunch of people, I hear you ask?

Well, imagine you’re a VIP in Athens in Ancient Greece. But you’re a bit of a renegade. A lone wolf, marching to the beat of your own drum. If all that rebelliousness meant you proved to be a bit too much of a thorn in the side of the powers that be, they’d get together and have a Big Brother-style vote to decide whether to get rid of you or not. But instead of going to ye olde diary room to cast their vote, they’d write your name down on, you’ve guessed it, a bit of pottery (also called a ‘potsherd’). And if you got enough pieces of pottery with your name on then you got exiled from Athens i.e. ostracised, for TEN WHOLE YEARS.

Why did they use broken pottery? Because there was a shit tonne of it hanging around, basically. Paper obviously wasn’t readily available and papyrus had to be imported from Egypt, making it much too expensive to be used for something like this.

These ostraka are from 482 BC, and were found in a well near the Acropolis. The name on them is ‘Themistocles’ who, after he was ostracised, defected to Persia where he was made governor of Magnesia (where ‘milk of’ comes from presumably?).

tenterhooks

This is what a tenterhook looks like: from an 1822 trade catalogue published by H. Barns & Sons, of Birmingham, England

You know what it means – to be on tenterhooks (not ‘tenderhooks’ as I’ve heard lots of people say) is to be nervously excited about something that’s going to happen in the future, like your Amazon delivery or the new series of Ozark. But do you know what a tenterhook actually is? If the answer’s yes, then you’re obviously far too clever to be reading this, and should go away. Thanks.

For those of us who are still here, a tenterhook is a sharp hook that fastens cloth to, you’ve guessed it, a tenter. And a tenter is a frame that people making cloth, usually woollen, stretch it on (like a tent, geddit?), to stop it shrinking while it dries. Obviously this means the cloth is very tense, which is where the phrase comes from. Back in the day (I’m not sure which day, but let’s gloss over that), it would have been common to see fields full of tenters, which is probably why the phrase made its way into the vernacular. It’s interesting (to me, at least) that while tenterhooks themselves have pretty much disappeared, we’ve kept the phrase, despite not knowing what it’s referring to. Oh, and the word ‘tenter’ comes from from a Latin word, tendere, which means ‘to stretch’.

Thanks to my pal Rob Frankson for recommending I investigate this one.

kakistocracy

I heard this one on ‘The Chase’ this week, and even though Bradders didn’t think it was a real word, it definitely is. A kakistocracy is a state or society run by the worst, least qualified or most stupid people.

Government, innit

Unsurprisingly, ‘kakistocracy’ saw a rise in popularity when Trump took office in 2017. It actually isn’t related to ‘kak’ as in poo as you might think (that comes from a South African word for ‘faeces’). It’s from the Greek root kakistos, which means ‘worst’. The ‘-cracy’ ending is also from Greek – it’s from kratos which means ‘power’ or ‘rule’. ‘Kakistocracy’ was first recorded in the 17th century, where it made an appearance in a rant, sorry sermon, by someone called Paul Gosnold in ‘A sermon preached at the publique fast the ninth day of August 1644 at St Marie’s, 1644’. Here it is in action:

‘…transforming our old Hierarchy into a new Presbytery, and this againe into a newer Independency; and our well-temperd Monarchy into a mad kinde of Kakistocracy. Good Lord!’

It was later made famous by Thomas Love Peacock (whose name is so close to being a sentence – I love people whose names are sentences. Like Jeremy Irons) in his 1829 novel ‘The Misfortunes of Elphin’ (nope, me neither). Peacock worked for the East India Company and wrote a poem about working in an office. Even though it has nothing to do with ‘kakistocracy’, I’ve included it here because it still seems pretty relevant today:

‘From ten to eleven, have breakfast for seven;
From eleven to noon, think you've come too soon;
From twelve to one, think what's to be done;
From one to two, find nothing to do;
From two to three, think it will be
A very great bore to stay till four.’

nocebo

Sounds like ‘placebo’, right? Exactly – the nocebo effect is basically placebo’s evil twin. It’s when a patient’s bad expectations about a treatment mean that the treatment has a more negative effect than it otherwise would have. Which is a very long sentence. To give you an example, if someone is given a list of nasty side effects which they then get after taking a placebo, then they’re suffering from the nocebo effect.

The word ‘placebo’ means ‘I shall please’, from the Latin ‘placeō’ (‘I please’). So ‘nocebo’ means ‘I shall harm’ from, you’ve guessed it, noceō: ‘I harm’. It was coined in 1961 by a doctor called Walter Kennedy who I can’t find anything else to say about at all, sorry.

The word ‘placebo’ has been around for much longer than its dark counterpart – there’s a theory that it comes from a medieval practice where mourners were paid to chant for the dead during evening prayers. Because this was seen as a bit of sucky-uppy to him upstairs, these hired mourners were called ‘placebos’.

autological

I’m sticking with grammar words this week. Assuming you’re still here, an autological word is a word, usually an adjective (i.e. a describing word like ‘beautiful’ or ‘transparent’) that expresses a property it also possesses. Got it? Nope? Let’s look at an example – ‘word’ is autological. Because the word ‘word’ is also a word.

Assuming that didn’t make your head explode, here are some slightly less ridiculous examples:

• ‘longer’, because it’s a longer word than ‘long’

• ‘elongated’, because it’s an elongated version of ‘long’

• pentasyllabic (which has nothing to do with ‘long’), because it means having five syllables, and it has five syllables.

BOOM.

You can find lots more examples of autological words here to impress your friends with (unless your friends are cool).

Let’s not forget the etymology (god forbid!). In this case ‘auto’ as a prefix means ‘self’ (like ‘automobile’ i.e. something that moves by itself, or autopilot i.e. flying itself). And ‘logical’ means ‘true’ (kind of).

Autological words are also called homological words, ‘homos’ being the Greek word for ‘same’. The opposite of an autological word is a heterological one, which, you can probably guess, is where the meaning of the word doesn’t apply to itself. Like ‘long’ which is actually a short word, and ‘monosyllabic’ which most definitely isn’t made up of one syllable.

loophole

A loophole is one of those legally ambiguous things that celebrities (I’m looking at you Take That/Jimmy Carr) exploit to avoid paying tax. The word itself has an interesting backstory, and actually doesn’t have anything to do with loops. OOOH.

Allow me to take you back to the 16th century. There’s peasants and mud everywhere. It’s probably raining. You’re looking up at a medieval stone castle, which has slits in it for people to shoot arrows out of, with little risk of being hit by their attackers (unless they’re Kevin Costner). And these were known as… wait for it… loopholes. But they’re not called this because they (sort of) look like loops. The name comes from the Dutch word lûpen, which means ‘to watch’. So it’s literally a hole to watch out of (I probably didn’t need to explain that, did I?).

It’s not entirely clear how the meaning of loophole changed from window you shoot stuff out of to tax dodging. It’s more likely that the modern sense of loophole is related to actual loops, rather than windows (especially as you close a loophole). There’s also a second theory that it comes from another Dutch word loopgat (which isn’t used anymore), which describes a hole which someone or something could escape through.

contronym

This is a bit of a scary grammar term (wait! Come back!). It describes single words that have two contradictory meanings. Here are some examples:

• bolt: to stick something together, or to run the hell away

• dust: to put dust on something, or take it off

• peer: someone who’s super-posh, or someone who’s equal

• sanction: to approve something, or to boycott it

• bound: tied up, or bouncing about

• oversight: to watch over something, or to miss or omit it.

(I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again – ENGLISH IS A VERY STUPID LANGUAGE.)

Janus – his name has ‘anus’ in it, tee hee.

The word itself was coined by one Jack Herring in 1962. I’m afraid I don’t know who Jack Herring is, sorry. Although I do enjoy a fish-based name, which is why I’ve included this bit of info here.

The prefix ‘contra’ means ‘against’ or ‘opposite’, which is why ‘contronym’ is also sometimes spelled ‘contranym’ (I think either is fine TBH). Contronyms are also called auto-antonyms, which is boring, and Janus words, which is a bit more interesting. This is after the Roman two-faced god (he literally had two faces – he wasn’t talking behind the other gods’ backs). Janus was the god of (deep breath) beginnings, gates, transitions, time, duality, doorways, passages, frames and endings. He’s got two faces because one is looking towards the past, and the other towards the future apparently (dunno what happens if he turns round). Presumably it’s the two-faced bit which applies to contronyms.

pareidolia

We’ve probably all experienced pareidolia to some extent. Don’t worry, it isn’t another world-ending pandemic. Pareidolia is the word for when we humans find shapes in abstract patterns or inanimate objects. So when you next see a face in the trunk of a tree or a penis in the clouds (come on, we’ve all done it. No? Just me?) you’ll be able to show off to whoever you’re with that you’re experiencing pareidolia. It also applies to sounds – so if you think you’re hearing a hidden message in a piece of music, you probably aren’t – it’s just that pesky pareidolia.

Etymology-wise, the word itself is unsurprisingly Greek: para means ‘beside, alongside, instead [of]’ and eidōlon means ‘image, form, shape’.

So why do we do it? Evolutionary psychologists reckon that pareidolia helped our ancestors survive. There are two reasons for this. One is that babies who couldn’t recognise faces smiled less, which meant their parents cared about them less (mean). So they evolved to recognise faces to make sure their ma and pa would love them and, ultimately, protect them. The second one is to do with predators – in (very) simple terms, you’re more likely to run away from something that has a face than something that doesn’t. So it makes sense to see a face in anything that’s potentially threatening and just peg it.

Pareidolia used to be considered a sign of madness. And studies do show that people suffering from neuroses are more likely to experience it, as are people who in a negative mood. That might be because when we’re pissed off we’re on higher alert for danger, so more likely to see things that aren’t there. Women are also more likely to experience pareidolia, which is possibly due to the fact that we’re generally better than men. Sorry, better than men at using facial expressions to recognise emotions.

One of the most famous examples of pareidolia is the face on Mars. Located in the Cydonia region of the planet, it was first photographed by the Viking 1 spacecraft on 25 July 1976.

It’s a face on Mars!

Oh no it isn’t.

And in 2004, a ten-year-old cheese sandwich which supposedly has the image of the Virgin Mary burned on it sold for $28,000 on eBay. Where there’s pareidolia there’s brass, apparently…

hazard

We can trace the word hazard all the way back to the 14th century, although not with the meaning it has today i.e. something which you can fall into/over/under and so on. Allow me to take you back to medieval Arabia, where games of chance involving dice were all the rage. The Arabic word for dice was ‘al-zhar’ or ‘az-zhar’, and as these dice games spread across Europe, they became known as al-zhar games. As generally happens with words though, ‘al-zhar’ got a bit messed up on its travels, and by the time it got to Spain it had morphed into ‘azar’. And although it was still being used to describe the game, people also used it when they were talking about the random results of the dice throws.

When ‘azar’ made its way to France, it changed to ‘hasard’, and the Frenchies used it to describe unlucky dice throws. Over time people started using it to talk about anything that was a bit unlucky or risky. And when it made the leap over the Channel to British shores, ‘hasard’ became ‘hazard’. For a while it was just a noun, but at some point in the 16th century it got verbed, as people started hazarding things (maybe only guesses? I’m not sure what else you can ‘hazard’… Okay, I just looked it up and the definition of ‘hazard’ as a verb means to ‘offer or present as a risk’ so maybe you can hazard other things…? But people might think you’re a bit weird).

Let’s finish with a be-mulletted (although, SPOILER ALERT, not by the end) Richard Marx singing ‘Hazard’. This always used to make me sad as a child, and having googled it I realise it comes under the genre of ‘murder ballad’, which probably explains that.

gobbledygook

As regular readers will know (hello Mumsy!), last week I left you with something of a wordy cliffhanger. While researching the background of ‘maverick’, I found out that Samuel Maverick’s grandson, Maury Maverick, coined the word ‘gobbledygook’. So, this week we’re going to look at exactly how that came about. Better than EastEnders, right?

Maury Maverick was born in 1895 in Texas. After various jobs he became a Democratic member of the US House of Representatives from 3 January 1935 to 3 January 1939. After losing out on a third term in office, he wound up working for a company called the Smaller War Plants Corporation (anyone know what a small war plant is?). And it was here that he wrote a note to his staff imploring them to stop using complicated bureaucratic language and jargon in memos, and just get to the point (can I get an amen, copywriter pals?). His exact words were:

Stay off the gobbledygook language. It only fouls people up.

Maverick’s inspiration for the word was the turkey, who, he said is ‘always gobbledy gobbling and strutting with ludicrous pomposity’. (Personally I think he missed a trick by not saying that it ‘fowls people up’, but that might just be me.) 

This is a rare case of a word whose invention we can trace back to the actual day it came into being. So that’s nice. Here’s an article which was published in the Pittsburgh Press about it on 31st March 1944. I’m going to try the last line on some of my clients – I’ll let you know how it goes.

maverick

The original maverick

A maverick is an independent-minded or unorthodox person/sexually ambiguous American pilot who feels the need, the need for speed. But it has a second, less well-known meaning – it’s also the name given to unbranded calves in the world of ranching in the good ole US of A. It’s named after one Samuel Maverick, a Texas lawyer, politician and land baron (awesome job title) who was born in 1803. Maverick was a cattle owner and, unlike his contemporaries, refused to brand his cattle to show they belonged to him, because he thought it was cruel. At least that’s what he said – other, more cynical cattle-type people said he only did it so he could claim any stray non-branded baby cows as his own. Whatever the actual reason, Maverick’s name was soon used to describe any calf found without an owner’s brand, as well as people who refused to conform.

Samuel was married to Mary, meaning his wife’s name was Mary Maverick, which is pleasingly alliterative and sounds like a superhero alter ego. Their grandson was Maury Maverick (love it), a Texas politician who coined the word ‘gobbledygook’. More on that next week. Ooh, an etymological cliffhanger. Doesn’t get much better than that, right? Right…?

Oh, and thanks to my sister for telling me about maverick’s origins on this week’s family Zoom call (we might have run out of things to talk about…).

PS If all that etymological excitement hasn’t worn you out, here’s the Top Gun anthem for you. It features a grand piano alongside a man who looks like a woman with enormo hair playing guitar while wearing a sparkly tracksuit and standing on the wing of a plane (because, 80s). If it doesn’t make you punch the air at least once, then you’re dead inside.

tawdry

The Hay Festival, a literary festival in Wales that I’ve been to a few times (because I is well intellectual) has been doing a virtual version this year, because of you-know-what. I watched one sesh with Greg Jenner, writer and historian extraordinaire, where he briefly mentioned the origins of the word ‘tawdry’. And turns out it has an interesting backstory, which I’m now going to share with you, you lucky people.

St Audrey in her glad rags

If you describe something as ‘tawdry’, you’re saying it’s showy, and cheap or crappy quality. You can also use it to describe something that’s immoral, like a ‘tawdry extramarital affair’. So, where did it come from?

Allow me to transport you back to 7th century England. The daughter of the king of East Anglia is a young princess called Etheldrida, who’s known as Audrey (and who can blame her with a name like Etheldrida? Although spare a thought for her sisters, who were called Wendreda and Seaxburh). After a life which basically consisted of not having sex (she took a vow of virginity, despite having two husbands), Audrey died in the year 679 of a throat tumour. The Venerable Bede recorded this as a just punishment because poor old Audrey liked a lace necklace, and this vanity apparently meant she deserved to die from cancer. Wow. Nice one, Bede.

Despite this, Audrey still managed to get beatified (AKA saintified) as she founded an abbey in Ely (just up the road from where I’m writing this, and today the site of the gothic gorgeousness that is Ely Cathedral). Fast forward to the 16th century and admirers of St Audrey are buying saintly merch in the form of lace necklaces, called St Audrey’s laces. Over time, this gets shortened to ‘taudrey laces’.

100 years later, the Puritans are everywhere, and Audrey’s statement necklaces are now seen as old-fashioned and cheap. So it’s not long before the word ‘tawdry’ comes to mean the same. This meaning was cemented by Shakespeare in ‘A Winter’s Tale’ – the character Mopsa, who’s a bit of a country bumpkin, has the line: ‘Come, you promised me a tawdry-lace and a pair of sweet gloves’, which shows how unsophisticated she is.

I can’t help feeling a bit sorry for Aud. The woman hung on to her virginity through two marriages, then founded an abbey, and this is what she’s remembered for? Shame.

hooligan

A couple of days ago I walked into my bedroom to find Gus, my one-year-old cavapoo, standing on my bed (which he’s not supposed to get on), having emptied the washing basket all over the bedroom. After failing to tell him off (because he’s literally the cutest dog in the world ever, even when he’s got my one nice bra in his mouth), I half-heartedly called him a ‘hooligan’. Which got me thinking… where does the word ‘hooligan’ come from?

I’ve found three origin stories for ‘hooligan’ all of which might be apocryphal (i.e. bollocks). The first is that it comes from the Irish surname Houlihan, which was used as a byword for hell-raising Irishmen in musichall songs on the late 1900s. The second is that it’s named for Patrick Houlihan, one of the aforementioned hell-raising Irishmen (sorry Ireland). He was a small-time crook who died in prison in London (Southwark to be precise) after killing a policeman in a brawl.

The third theory, which is my favourite so probably not true (and doesn’t involve any Irish people), is that during the Jacobite rising of 1745 in Scotland (when Charles Edward Stuart attempted to regain the British throne for his father James Francis Edward Stuart – but I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that), a British officer was being eaten alive by midges (i.e. those bitey insects which ruin picnics and other outdoor activities, including several bike rides I did as a child where I accidentally rode through a cloud of them with my mouth open #neverforget). He misheard the Scots-Gaelic word for midge which is ‘meanbh-chuileagi’ as ‘midge hooligan’ and accidentally invented a new word which still survives today.

idiot

Alongside ‘moron’*, ‘idiot’ is one of my favourite non-sweary insults. But where does it come from? Turns out it’s derived from an Ancient Greek word, idiōtēs, which means ‘private person’. That doesn’t mean that idiōtēs didn’t want to go out (remember going out?), but that they didn’t have much to do with public affairs and the government. ‘Idiom’ (i.e. a word or phrase which is unique to a group of people or a place) also comes from the same root, as does ‘idiosyncrasy’ (a quirky thing that’s unique to one person), which makes sense when you think about the whole ‘private’ meaning.

Back to idiōtēs. As I said, an idiōtēs was basically just a normal – anyone who wasn’t a soldier, scribe, judge, politician, etc. But, people who weren’t idiōtēs saw them as the opposite of ‘citizens’. And because of this, ye olde Greeks soon started using the term to refer to people who they thought weren’t clever enough to talk about politics and public affairs. From this, it wasn’t long until ‘idiot’ began to take on the meaning we know today.

So, idiot. More than just a stupid person.

* While writing this post I discovered that ‘moron’ has some slightly shady origins. It, alongside ‘imbecile’, ‘cretin’ and ‘retard’, were once scientific terms used in psychology and psychiatry for people with mild intellectual disabilities. And they were also favourite terms of the American eugenics movement when pushing for enforced sterilisation. So that’s nice. With the exception of ‘retard’ (which most people now agree is pretty offensive), these have now slipped into the vernacular. But does that mean they’re okay to use? I DON’T KNOW.

curfew

This is another one I’ve shamelessly stolen from the Wittertainment podcast (which is technically about films, but lucky for me also features a lot of etymology, generally courtsey of Sir Simon of Mayo). You know what a curfew is – that thing your parents gave you which meant you had to be home by a certain time (you know, back when we were allowed to go outside and do stuff). ‘Curfew’ comes from an Anglo-French word, coverfeu, which itself comes from an Old French word cuevrefeu. This literally means ‘cover fire’ (as in to cover a fire in a fireplace to put it out, not the stuff that soldiers do when they’re advancing on a battlefield).

The story is that back in the Middle Ages, houses were mainly made of wood and straw, and other super-flammable things. And, due to the fact that electricity wouldn’t appear for another few hundred years, obviously everyone had candles for light and fires to keep warm. Which was a bit of a recipe for disaster (see The Great Fire of London*). To make sure that no one fell asleep without putting their fire out, Alfred the Great or William the Conqueror (no one’s quite sure who came up with it) put a law in place which meant someone rang a curfew bell at 8pm to remind everyone to do just that, and also blow out any candles, put out their pipes/ciggies, etc. Willie the Conq also used the curfew bell to make sure that everyone was back in their house by 8, to stamp out any pesky English people getting together after dark to talk rebellion.

The curfew law was rePEALed (bad bell joke, sorry) in 1103 by Henry I. But you can still find a few curfew bells round the UK, like this one in Leadhills, Scotland.

*Interesting fact alert: despite the fact that the GFOL, as no one calls it, destroyed around 70,000 of the 80,000 homes in London at the time, only six people are known to have died.

sabotage

You know what ‘sabotage’ is – an awesome song by the Beastie Boys. It also means to deliberately damage or destroy something. And it has an interesting backstory, which I heard on this week’s Wittertainment podcast (currently being broadcast from Mark Kermode’s under-stairs’ cupboard and Simon Mayo’s spare room). So, apparently French labourers in ye olde times used to wear wooden shoes (why?) called ‘sabots’. And when they got pissed off with les crappy working conditions, they’d chuck these wooden shoes into the machinery to break it. So this became known as sabotage. Interesting, right?

Photo by Silvia Trigo on Unsplash.

Well, it would be, except a little bit of internet research reveals that it’s sadly bollocks. Although the word ‘sabotage’ does relate to those painful sounding wooden shoes, no one was hurling them angrily into machinery as a protest. Apparently the French word it comes from, ‘saboter’, actually means ‘to walk noisily’, as you would if you were wearing wooden shoes (probably because you’re saying ‘ouch, why am I wearing shoes made of tree’ every two seconds). This fake news story was made popular by the film Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country. Random, I know.

So what’s the real story? Well, ‘sabotage’ first appeared in writing in an 1897 report by two French anarchists (best job title ever), called Émile Pouget and Paul Delassale. They recommended that French labour unions follow in the footsteps of British trade unionists who’d successfully protested bad working conditions using work slowdowns and inefficiencies (apparently we’ve always been good at going on strike). Us Brits called this Ca’ Canny, a Scottish colloquialism which basically means ‘don’t do too much work’ (my mantra). While looking for a French equivalent, Émile came up with ‘sabotage’, inspired by the phrase ‘Travailler a coups de sabots’, or ‘to work as one wearing wooden shoes’, which had long been used to refer to slow workers. It made its way into English in the early 1900s.

Turns out it’s still a quite interesting story, even if it doesn’t involve any angry French shoe throwing.

(With special thanks to the Grammarphobia blog for the info.)

petrichor

Ooh, this is a lovely word. It describes the scent you smell when rain hits dry soil. It’s one of the few words we have for a specific smell – most, like fresh-cut grass or frying bacon, are just descriptions of what they are.

Photo by Zachary Gilseth on Unsplash.

In the words of Jennifer Aniston, here comes the science… So, certain plants exude an oil during dry weather, which is then absorbed by clay-based soil and rocks. When it rains this is released into the air, alongside another compound called geosmin (a metabolic byproduct of bacteria) which is emitted by wet soil. And together they make the smell petrichor. Hmmm, I’m glad someone came up with a nice word for it, cos it sounds gross.

Origin-wise, even though ‘petrichor’ sounds all Latiney or Ancient Greeky, it’s actually quite a modern word. It was coined in 1964 by two researchers called Isabel Joy Bear and Richard G Thomas in the scientific journal Nature. The reason it looks like ye olde word is because our researchers took its parts from Greek. ‘petra’ means ‘stone’ (you can also find this in words like ‘petrified’ and ‘petrol) and ‘ichor’ is basically a fancy word for fluid (it’s also the stuff that flows in the veins of the gods of Greek mythology apparently).

If you’re a fan of Doctor Who then you’ve probably come across ‘petrichor’ already – it was used by the TARDIS as part of a password to open a back-up control room in ‘The Doctor’s Wife’, and was also the name of a perfume that Amy Pond modelled in ‘Closing Time’.

Interesting fact alert: our noses are super sensitive to geosmin – we can detect it at concentrations as low as five parts per trillion (which is good…?). Some scientists think this is because it might have been handy for survival for our ancestors to know when rainy weather was on the way.

ennui

Photo by Jen Theodore on Unsplash.

We’re probably all feeling some ennui at the moment. It’s a French word for being a bit bored and listless. Because it’s French, in my head it involves lots of languid fanning of one’s own face while sighing and lolling about on a chaise longue. And turns out that’s not far wrong.

Ennui comes from an Old French word, enui, meaning ‘annoyance’. That comes from the Latin ‘in odio’ which means ‘hatred’. At some point ‘enui’ gained an extra ‘n’, and became popular in the 18th century to describe the boredom felt by French youth, who were disappointed that the French Revolution hadn’t been as revolutionary as they’d hoped. This left them full of existential angst, AKA ennui. The meaning morphed again a century or so later, becoming a word expressing a dissatisfaction with the modern age and industrialisation. Lots of arty-farty types suffered from ennui at this time, poor lambs, and because of this it was seen as a mark of how clever you were – because the bourgeoisie were far too stupid to worry about important things like the futility of human existence.

The German version of ennui is ‘Weltschmerz’, which literally translates as ‘world pain’. The difference between the German and French versions is the whole listlessness thing – the Germans are just sad, without all the lying around. I guess they’re just too efficient for that #nationalstereotypes

shampoo

Obviously you know what shampoo is. But have you ever wondered where the word comes from? Luckily you have me to do that for you. So, let’s start with the most important question – does it have anything to do with poo? No, is the slightly disappointing answer (or is it just me who’s disappointed by that…?).

Photo by Dan Smedley on Unsplash.

Shampoo is an Indian word which goes all the way back to 1762. It comes from the Hindi word chāmpo, which is derived from the Sanskrit root chapati (yes, as in the flatbread), which means to press, knead or soothe. The word came over to us dirty Europeans from India by way of one Sake Dean Mahomed, an Indian traveller, surgeon and entrepreneur, who used it to describe a form of massage. In 1814 he and his Irish wife Jane opened the first commercial ‘shampooing’ vapour masseur bath in Brighton (I don’t know what a ‘vapour masseur bath’ is, but it sounds like the sort of thing that would cost several hundred pounds to use in a health spa). He described shampoo in a local paper as ‘…a cure to many diseases and giving full relief when everything fails; particularly Rheumatic and paralytic, gout, stiff joints, old sprains, lame legs, aches and pains in the joints’. At some point after this ‘shampoo’ was used to refer to a scalp massage and then, in the 19th century to the soap used during that massage.

metonymy

Metonymy is a figure of speech (i.e. a thing we do to make language more fancy or poetic) that replaces the name of something with the name of something else it’s closely associated with, but isn’t a part of. Got it? Nope, me neither. Let’s look at a famous example of metonymy: ‘The pen is mightier than the sword’ (from Edward Bulwer Lytton’s play Richelieu, BTdubz – good to know in case it ever comes up in a pub quiz). The ‘pen’ refers to the written word, and the ‘sword’ is military power – so both ‘pen’ and ‘sword’ are representations of something else that they’re associated with. (Personally I’d rather have a sword than a pen in most situations, for example a zombie apocalypse, but that might just be because I watch too many horror films.)

Some other more modern examples of metonymy are:

• ‘Hollywood’ to refer to all celebs, film directors and producers and so on

• ‘top brass’ for management types

• ‘new blood’ for new people or ideas

• ‘the big house’ for prison.

It’s probably fairly unlikely that you’ll find yourself in a situation where it might be an issue, but try not to confuse metonymy with synedoche (pronounced si-nek-duh-keen – although I’ve never heard anyone say it out loud). Synecdoche is when you talk about a thing using the name of one of its parts. So it’s a bit more literal than metonymy – like calling business people ‘suits’, or your car your ‘wheels’ (although if you do either of those I’m afraid you might be a prick).