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.

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)

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.

mausoleum

It’s another slightly morbid word this week, once again in honour of Hallowe’en. I expect you know what a mausoleum is – a big old tomb or burial structure, often containing lots of members of the same family (dead ones only, obvs). But did you know it’s actually an eponym, or a word named after a person*?

‘Mausoleum’ is named for Mausolus, a ruler in ancient Caria (a region in southwestern Anatolia, now Turkey) during the 4th century BCE. Mausolus died in 353 BCE, and his remains were put in an enormo tomb that he’d commissioned, and that became known as his mausoleum. You may well have heard of it – the Mausoleum at Halicarnassus AKA one of the Seven Wonders of the World. Over time, the word ‘mausoleum’ caught on and we started using it to refer to any grand or imposing tomb or burial chamber.

A slightly underwhelming model of the Mausoleum at Halicarnassus

Mausolus’s widow and sister (yuck), Artemisia II, oversaw the construction of this mausoleum, and it was designed by two Greek architects named Satyros and Pythius. It included bits from lots of different architectural styles including Greek, Egyptian and Lycian (nope, me neither). The mausoleum had a rectangular base with a series of ascending terraces. The top level included a stepped pyramid or ziggurat (excellent word), topped with a massive chariot statue showing Mausolus and Artemisia in all their incesty glory.

The mausoleum also featured various statues and friezes showing scenes from Greek mythology and Carian history created by famous Greek sculptors of the time. Its base measured 36 by 63 meters (118 by 210 feet), and the total height, including the incest statue, was around 45 meters (148 feet).

Mausolus’s mausoleum stood for 16 (16!) centuries, overlooking what’s now Bodrum in Turkey. But then a load of earthquakes sent that nasty chariot statue crashing to the ground. And by 1404 AD, only the base was left. Medieval cowboy builders also nicked bits of it to build other things (notably to fortify Bodrum Castle against invaders), and at some point graverobbers tunnelled their way in and stole all the treasure, as well as the bodies of Mausolus and Artemisia. Today only the foundations and some scattered remnants remain on the original site.

Just in case you’re going to a pub quiz any time soon, here are some facts and figures about the other Wonders of the World:

The Great Pyramid of Giza: The only one that’s still standing, you’ll find this tomb for Pharaoh Khufu (also known as Cheops) in Egypt. Initially standing at 146.6 metres (481 feet), the Great Pyramid was the world’s tallest human-made structure for over 3,800 years. I say initially because it was originally covered in a white limestone casing which was completely smooth – what we see now is the underlying core structure. What happened to the limestone? Well, it was those cowboy builders again – in the 1300s, workers broke off the limestone to use for construction in nearby Cairo. That brought the pyramid’s height down to the current 138.5 metres (454.4 ft).

The Hanging Gardens of Babylon: Nobody’s quite sure if these actually existed or not. If they did, they were in the ancient city of Babylon (no shit) in Iraq. They were nothing to do with hanging people, thankfully, but so called because plants and trees appeared to hang from multiple terraces.

Looking good, Zeus

The Statue of Zeus at Olympia: A giant statue – about 12.4m (41 feet) tall – in Greece, made of gold and ivory on a wooden framework. No one knows exactly what happened to it, but in 391 AD, a Christian Roman emperor called Theodosius I banned pagan cults and the temple it was housed in fell into disuse. It’s possible it was carried off to Constantinople and destroyed in a fire in 475 AD.

The Temple of Artemis at Ephesus: This is another one that was in Turkey. It was a big old temple known for amazing architecture and art, and was destroyed (once by a flood and once by a fire) and rebuilt twice. These days all that’s left on the site of the temple is a single column built from various fragments discovered there. Aw.

The Colossus of Rhodes: big statue, little willy

The Colossus of Rhodes: A mahoosive bronze statue of the sun god Helios that stood at the entrance to the harbour of Rhodes, Greece. It took 12 years to build and was 33 metres (108 feet) high, making it about the same size as the Statue of Liberty. The Colossus stood for 55 years before an earthquake snapped it at the knees. The remains lay on the ground for over 800 years (from 226 BC to 653 AD). No one’s quite sure what happened to it after that, but the metal was likely recycled for coins or tools.

The Lighthouse of Alexandria: This stood on the island of Pharos, near Alexandria in Egypt. It’s estimated to have been at least 100 metres (330 ft) high. This is another one that got taken out by earthquakes – its submerged remains were discovered in 1916, although they weren’t properly explored until 1994.

*After I’d written this, I realised I’d already done ‘mausoleum’ in this blog post but had entirely forgotten. So apologies for repeating myself. This goes into much more detail though, honest.

gerrymandering

Gerrymandering is the manipulation of boundaries of electoral districts or constituencies to swing an election a particular way. A good example is when the 19th-century Republican Party split the Dakota Territory into two states instead of one. That’s because each state got at least three electoral votes, regardless of the size of its population.

The OG gerrymander

Gerrymandering is named after one Elbridge Gerry, an American founding father, politician and diplomat who was the fifth vice president from 1813 until he died in 1814. He was also the governor of Massachusetts. During his second term, Republican-controlled legislation created district boundaries designed to increase the party’s control of state and national offices. This lead to some oddly shaped legislative areas, including one in Essex County (a political stronghold for the rival party, the Federalists) that a newspaper said looked like a ‘salamander’ (obvs). They named it the ‘Gerry-mander’ after Elbridge who signed the legislation that created it.

It worked as well – the weirdly shaped district elected three Democrat-Republicans that year. Previously the county had had five Federalist senators.

It’s worth pointing out that apparently Elbridge wasn’t happy about this suspect map redrawing, even if he did still sign the legislation that made it happen. According to his biographer he was ‘a nervous, birdlike little person’ with a stammer, and a habit of ‘contracting and expanding the muscles of his eye’ (I can’t even imagine what that actually looked like). This makes him sound like he might have been bullied into it, but he was no stranger to not signing stuff – in fact he refused to put his name to the American Constitution because he thought the Senate it created could become too tyrannical. So perhaps he would have thought twice about signing that district-redrawing bill if he’d known that two-hundred-and-something years later his name would have become synonymous with this type of cloak-and-dagger political jiggery pokery.

(Gerrymander is an example of an ‘eponym’ or a word named after a person. Check out this post for lots more eponyms, including leotard, diesel and bloomers. Sounds like a party…)

(DISCLAIMER: My knowledge of American politics is shockingly bad. So apologies in advance if any of my facts or terminology are wrong.)

roorback

It’s a bit of an obscure – some might say obsolete – one this week (although I’ve never let that stop me before). A roorback is a false story published to damage someone politically, usually a candidate trying to get elected – AKA dirty dirty tricks. (It’s also the ninth studio album by Brazilian heavy metal band Sepultura, but that’s not what we’re interested in here.) Roorbacks are a form of black propaganda, which is propaganda intended to create the impression it was written by those it’s discrediting (as opposed to grey propaganda which doesn’t identify its source, and white propaganda which doesn’t care who knows where it came from). But how did political lies get the name ‘roorback’? 

In 1844, James K Polk, the 11th president of the United States, was trying to get elected. By all accounts it was a pretty nasty campaign, with both major party candidates throwing a lot of metaphorical mud at each other. One of these is known as the Roorback forgery. In late August an article appeared in an abolitionist newspaper quoting part of a book about the fictional travels through the deep south of one Baron von Roorback, a made-up German nobleman. A newspaper in Ithaca, New York printed this without mentioning it was fiction, and also added a sentence saying that the Baron had seen 40 slaves who’d been branded by Polk with his initials before selling them. (Polk was actually a prolific slave owner – he even replaced White House staff with his own enslaved people because it was cheaper – but there’s no evidence that he branded them. So that’s alright then.) The item was withdrawn by the newspaper when the Democrats challenged it, but not before it’d been widely reprinted elsewhere. Ironically Polk actually benefited from the lie – despite his questionable attitude to people ownership – as it reflected badly on his opponents when it was found out.

Because of this, many later political falsehoods were branded (see what I did there) as ‘roorbacks’. In today’s era of fake news and clickbait, maybe there’s still a place in modern English for this one?