flatulist

Not to be confused with ‘flautist’ (that could be embarrassing), a flatulist is a professional farter. (Look, I wanted to take a break from railing against the patriarchy, okay? It’s very tiring.)

Professional farting has a surprisingly rich history, going all the way back to medieval times, and possibly even earlier. ‘The City of God’, a book of Christian philosophy written in Latin by Saint Augustine of Hippo in the early 5th century AD, mentions some performers who had ‘such command of their bowels, that they can break wind continuously at will, so as to produce the effect of singing’. I’m not sure what that has to do with Christian philosophy, but never mind.

Possibly the most famous flatulist was Roland the Farter, who lived here in England in the 12th century. He was a jester for King Henry II, and each year performed ‘Unum saltum et siffletum et unum bumbulum’, or ‘one jump, one whistle and one fart’ for the king’s court at Christmas. For services to farting, Roland was given Hemingstone Manor in Suffolk (which is just up the road from where I am now) and 30 acres (12 hectares) of land.

Le Pétomane, just about to let one go

Another famous flatulist was Le Pétomane (real name Joseph Pujol) who was born in 1857. He was known for his remarkable control of his abdominal muscles, which meant he could fart at will. Apparently he wasn’t passing intestinal gas like us unprofessional farters do though – he was actually ‘inhaling’ air into his rectum and then controlling its release with his anal sphincter muscles (apparently he could even suck water up there and then blow it back out). Some of the highlights of his stage act including making sound effects of cannon fire and thunderstorms with his bum, as well as playing ‘O Sole Mio’ and ‘La Marseillaise’ on an ocarina through a rubber tube in his anus. He could also blow out a candle from several yards away. His audience included Edward VII, King Leopold II of Belgium and Sigmund Freud.

Flatulists haven’t really managed to make the leap to modern-day entertainment, with one notable exception. If you’re a fan of ‘Britain’s Got Talent’, you might remember Mr Methane, who claims to be the only performing farter in the world. Mr M (real name Paul Oldfield) gave up a career as a train driver in Sheffield to become a flatulist, and went on to appear as a guest on ‘The Howard Stern Show’ in the States, even performing a series of fart acts on Broadway.

Crime might not pay, kids, but it seems farting definitely does.

Mr Methane in action on BGT – watch it if you dare (I couldn't get to the end).

rebarbative

‘Rebarbative’ is an adjective (AKA a describing word) you can use for someone (or something) that’s repellent, irritating or unattractive. And as they probably won’t know what it means, they won’t realise you’re insulting them. Winner winner chicken dinner.

‘rebarbative’ is a word of two halves, It comes from the Latin word ‘rebarbare’, which is made up of ‘re-’ meaning ‘against’, and ‘barba’ which means ‘beard’ or ‘hair’. Why is it hairy? Well, rebarbative was originally used to refer to something that was so horrible it caused your hair to stand on end. Like spiders. Or Donald Trump.

The record for the world’s longest beard is currently held by one Hans Langseth, even though Hans is no longer with us. He was a Norwegian-American who lived in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, and his beard was a whopping 17.5 feet (approximately 5.33 meters) long. I realised when I googled Hans that I’d already written about him for former word of the week pognophile, so head to that post if you’d like to know more about him.

Growing your beard super long can be a hazardous business. In 1567, another man called Hans died when he tripped over his own beard. Hans Steininger, or Staininger depending on which page of the internet you look at, was the burgomaster (i.e. head honcho, or mayor) of Branau, a town then in Bavaria but now in Austria. He usually kept his beard, which was 4.5 feet (1.4 metres) long at the time, rolled up and tied with a leather strap to keep it out of the way. But on that fateful day in 1567, he was responding to an emergency (possibly a fire) and forgot to roll it up and out of the way. When rushing down some stairs he fell over it and broke his neck. Poor old Hans.

pia

My mum put this down in Words With Friends the other day, which prompted me to look it up as I’d only ever seen it as a woman’s name before and obviously proper nouns are NOT ALLOWED. Well, it turns out we all have a pia – it’s an anatomical term, the full version of which is ‘pia mater’. And it has quite an interesting backstory. (Disclaimer: I’m no biologist, so apologies if you are and I’ve got any of this wrong.)

The pia mater plays a vital role in keeping our central nervous systems healthy and functioning properly. It’s one of three meninges (sets of membranes that provide a protective covering) that surround and protect our brains and spinal cords. The other two are the dura mater and the arachnoid mater. The pia mater is the innermost layer that directly covers the surface of the brain and spinal cord. It’s a thin, transparent membrane that sticks closely to our brains’ contours, following the folds and grooves. It also surrounds the spinal cord.

The pia mater’s primary function is to support, protect and nourish the underlying neural tissues by carrying blood vessels that supply nutrients and oxygen to the brain and spinal cord. If you fall down a lot like I do, then you should be grateful to your pia mater, as it protects that brain and spinal cord from impacts.

We are of course here for the words, so why is it called a pia mater? If you did any Latin in school then you might be ahead of me here – it translates to ‘tender’ or ‘gentle’ ‘mother’ (the word ‘pia’ is the feminine form of the Latin adjective ‘pius’). The name ‘pia mater’ was introduced during the Renaissance period (14th to 17th centuries) when anatomical knowledge was expanding, and Latin was the universal language of science and academia, and has stuck around ever since. It was probably called that because of the way it encloses the surface of the brain and spinal cord, cradling them like a mother. Nice, right?

Oh, and you’ve probably guessed that ‘arachnoid mater’ translates as ‘spider-like mother’, because of its web-like appearance. And ‘dura mater’ means ‘tough mother’ due to this outermost meninge’s durable and robust nature. It’s one tough mother f*cker.