enervate

I love the wonderful English language. But sometimes it’s stupid. This is one of those times.

Much like lots of us think ‘inflammable’ means something won’t catch fire (it means it totally will catch fire*), ‘enervate’ isn’t a synonym (AKA a word that means the same) for ‘energise’. It actually means completely the opposite – as a verb (a doing word), to enervate is to sap something or someone’s strength, to weaken or exhaust them.

You can also use ‘enervate’ as an adjective, AKA a describing word. So you can be enervated by someone or something. Hopefully not this post.

‘Enervate’ comes from a Latin word, ‘enervare’. The ‘e’ at the start means ‘out of’, and ‘nervus’ means ‘sinew’ or ‘nerve’. Together, the term originally meant ‘to remove the sinews’. Why? Well, in ancient Roman and Classical contexts, sinews (or tendons) were seen as essential to physical strength and vitality. So cutting or removing them was a way to render someone literally powerless. Over time, this vivid and somewhat minging image of losing strength evolved into the metaphorical sense of being drained of energy or vitality. And that’s where we get ‘enervate’ from.

You might also have heard of the word ‘innervate’, which comes from the same Latin root. If you innervate someone or something, it means you supply it or them with nerves. Chaotic parking situations do this to me.

* Yes, the prefix in- almost always means ‘not’ in English. But not in this case – ‘inflammable’ comes from the word ‘enflame’. And that’s why inflammable means flammable, not not flammable.

crotchety

If you’re crotchety, you’re a bit cross and fed-up. Not full on angry, but definitely somewhere in the middle of the pissed-off scale.

‘Crotchety’ comes from an Old French word, ‘crochet’, which dates back to around the 12th century, and meant ‘a little hook’. That in turn comes from the Latin word ‘cruciculus’, which is a diminutive (i.e. a word that conveys a smaller or lesser version of something) of ‘crux’, meaning ‘cross’. (I don’t know why the smaller version is much longer and more complicated than the short version, sorry.)

My whole life, I’ve had an irrational fear of getting a fish-hook caught in my cheek.

Around the 16th century, we stuck a ‘t’ in ‘crochet’ to create ‘crotchet’ in English, which still meant ‘small hook’. And that’s where we get ‘crotchety’ from – probably due to the idea that crotchety people’s minds get ‘hooked’ on small, trivial annoyances. This association didn’t become common until the early 19th century (maybe people were just super-chilled before then) which is when we get the first recorded use of ‘crotchety’ in print. According to the OED, the earliest known use was in 1847, in some writing by Benjamin Disraeli, UK PM and novelist.

The musical crotchet (i.e. a quarter note in British English) also shares the same linguistic root – this is due to the hook-like symbols used in early musical notation. And of course, the name of the craft of ‘crochet’ comes from the same place as it involves a little hook (one which I cannot master, despite trying really hard. The last time I tried, I ended up throwing it across the room, where it landed in the dog’s water bowl.).

I got extremely crotchety with ChatGPT while writing this article, as it contradicted itself four times while I was trying to get the facts straight on this etymology. So the moral of this crotchety story is, don’t rely on ChatGPT to write factually accurate articles – hire me to do that instead.

(It did then help me with a particularly complicated knitting pattern though, so we’re friends again now. Not a crochet pattern though, sadly, because I CAN’T DO THAT.)

filipendulous

If something is filipendulous, it means it’s hanging by a thread or a filament. It’s most often used to describe things that appear suspended by delicate or slender attachments, and look like they could drop at any moment. Like a spider suspended by a single thread. Or my sanity.

Like many of our words (especially the complicated ones), filipendulous comes from Latin. It’s a combination of the Latin word ‘filum’ meaning ‘thread’, and ‘pendere’ which means ‘to hang’.

You’re most likely to come across the word filipendulous in botany, where it’s used to describe plants with structures on fine stalks or threads. There’s actually a genus of plants called Filipendula containing 12 species of perennial herbaceous plants. That includes meadowsweet and dropwort, and the excellently named queen-of-the-forest (Filipendula occidentalis) and queen-of-the-prairie (Filipendula rubra), both of which are native to North America.

Filipendula species are food plants for the larvae of some Lepidoptera (AKA butterflies and moths) species, including the emperor moth, one of the biggest in the world. The largest emperor moth has a wingspan of between 15 and 20cm (6 to 8 inches). Yeesh. (I’ve literally just finished reading ‘The Travelling Bag’ by Susan Hill which makes this fact particularly freaky. If you know, you know.) These moths live in Europe, but haven’t made it across the Channel to us (YET). Having said that, our largest moth is the privet hawk moth, which can get up to a not-too-shabby 12cm (4.7in) wingspan.

You wouldn’t want either of those flapping round your bedroom light, would you?

prestigious

If something or someone’s prestigious, they’re generally highly respected and renowned. But ‘prestigious’ is one of those words which has completely reinvented itself over the years. When it first appeared in English in the 16th century, it referred to someone or something that was deceptive or fraudulent, or that involved trickery. It wasn’t until the 19th century that ‘prestigious’ tricked us all and morphed into the positive meaning it has today.

Before we get into the ‘why’ of that, let’s take a look at the etymology. Like lots of other words of the week, prestigious has its roots in Latin. It comes from the word ‘praestigiosus’, which meant ‘full of tricks’ or ‘deceitful’. That’s derived from ‘praestigiae’, meaning ‘delusions’ or ‘illusions’, and was often used to refer to conjuring tricks or sleight of hand. (You might also have heard the word ‘prestidigitation’, which also comes from ‘praestigiae’, and refers specifically to the skill of performing magic tricks or illusions, often using quick hand movements). The root word ‘prae-’ means ‘before’ or ‘in front of,’ while ‘stringere’ means ‘to bind’ or ‘to tighten’, suggesting something that deceives or confounds the senses.

So how did ‘prestigious’ fool us all into turning it into something positive? It’s probably down to the fact that we’re all impressed by someone who has the power to dazzle and deceive. And over time, we started using ‘prestigious’ to describe someone or something that does that as having earned our admiration and respect. By the mid-19th century, the association with trickery had pretty much completely disappeared, and we were only using it in the positive sense we do today.

Harrison Ford’s reaction to this is PRICELESS.

vaccine

‘Vaccine’s history begins in 1796 with Edward Jenner, a country doctor in Gloucestershire. Smallpox was a leading cause of death at the time, with a mortality rate of about 20% to 30%. Survivors were often left with severe scarring and sometimes blindness too. Jenner noticed a pattern among the local milkmaids. Lots of them caught cowpox, a mild disease that caused sores similar to smallpox but was far less dangerous. But they rarely caught the much deadlier smallpox. He decided to investigate why.

On 14 May 1796, Jenner took material from a cowpox sore on the hand of a local milkmaid (called Sarah Nelmes). He then made small incisions on the arm of an eight-year-old boy called James Phipps (whose parents must have been very trusting), and inserted the cowpox stuff. The boy developed a mild fever but recovered quickly.

A few weeks later, Jenner exposed James to smallpox to see if the cowpox had protected him (seriously, that poor child). Thankfully for everyone concerned, he didn’t develop smallpox, proving the theory that cowpox had made the boy immune to it.

Jenner performing his first vaccination on poor old James Phipps

The concept of deliberately introducing a bit of a disease (not the technical term) to bring about immunity wasn’t new. Called ‘variolation’, people had been doing it with smallpox for centuries (it was used in China as early as the 10th century). But it didn’t always work, and sometimes led to severe cases of the disease. Jenner’s innovation was much safer because it used cowpox, which was less dangerous than smallpox. That’s why it got a new name – ‘vaccine’ – which comes from the Latin word ‘vacca’, meaning ‘cow’ (we got there eventually).

Jenner’s method spread across Europe and eventually the world, laying the groundwork for modern immunology and the development of vaccines for many other diseases, including covid. In 1802, he got a grant from the British government to continue his research, which would eventually lead to the global eradication of smallpox by the World Health Organization in 1980. Well done, Edward.

If you’re wondering what happened to James, he died of smallpox a few years later. KIDDING. There’s not actually much known about his later life, although he did get a free house from Jenner. Which seems like the least he could do, frankly. Phipps died in 1853, making him 65. And in a nice twist, that cottage went on to house the Edward Jenner Museum between 1968 and 1982.

(I don’t want to be Debbie Downer, but in the interests of balance I should probably point out that Phipps wasn’t the first child to be experimented on, I mean, vaccinated against smallpox with cowpox. In 1791, a man called Peter Plett picked a pickled pepper, sorry, inoculated three children in Germany, and in 1774 a guy called Benjamin Jesty also did it on three of his family members (!). But Jenner was the first person to publish details of the vaccination, which is why he gets the credit.)

coiffeur

My lovely hairdresser asked me if I could so a hairdressing-related word for her. So this one’s for you, Alexia.

A coiffeur is a fancy word for a professional hairdresser, particularly one who specialises in styling hair. It’s a French word that specifically refers to a male hairdresser (obviously). The female version, ‘coiffeuse’, appeared later, although that distinction has pretty much gone these days and we use ‘coiffeur’ for everyone. (Just once I’d love it if we started using the female version of something for everyone, but I don’t think that’s ever going to happen.)

Coiffeur’s roots (pardon the pun) go back to the French verb ‘coiffer’, which meant ‘to cover or dress the hair’. This verb comes from the Old French word ‘coife’ which referred to a headdress or cap worn in the Middle Ages (that comes from the Late Latin – AKA, Latin used roughly between the 3rd and 6th centuries – ‘cofia’, meaning a helmet or a head covering). A coife was a close-fitting hat that covered the top, sides and back of the head, and was often made from linen or another soft fabric. It was tied under the chin, keeping it secure. But definitely not very cool, judging by that description.

Over time, the meaning of ‘coiffer’ evolved and by the 17th century, it had come to describe the act of styling or arranging hair. And that’s where we got ‘coiffeur’ from.

During the reign of Louis XIV (the Sun King) in France, coiffeurs were highly regarded as artists, and were often employed by the aristocracy to craft elaborate wigs and hairstyles. A coiffeur’s work wasn’t just about cutting hair – it was about creating a statement. One of the most famous was Claude de Rambouillet, known professionally as ‘Monsieur Champagne’ (best name ever), who was known for creating elaborate baroque hairstyles at the French court, incorporating ribbons, jewels and feathers.

Bonus hairdressing word: tonsorial. In Holt in Norfolk, there’s a barbershop called ‘The Tonsorial Artist’. (it has an excellent sign) That comes from comes from the Latin word ‘tonsor’, meaning ‘a clipper’ or ‘a shearer’, and ‘tondere’, meaning ‘to shear’ or ‘to clip’. Head to their website to find out the origin of the barbers’ pole, which, as it turns out, is gross.

font

Ah, fonts. Most of us have our favourites. In fact, I once had a wonderful evening with a guy in a bar in New York after we got chatting because he had my then-favourite font (Trebuchet) tattooed on his leg. But that’s a story for another time. Back to business – do you know where the word ‘font’ comes from? Well, it actually goes all the way back to the Middle Ages and the early days of printing.

‘Font’ comes from the Middle French word, ‘fonte’, which means ‘something that’s been melted’. That in turn comes from the Latin verb ‘fundere’, meaning ‘to melt’ or ‘to cast’. So what’s with all the melting? Well, it refers to the traditional process of creating typefaces, where individual letters were cast in metal. A printer would use these metal letters to create a page of text, which they’d then cover in ink and press on paper. Each typeface needed a full set of these metal pieces, which were collectively referred to as, you’ve guessed it, a font.

Bonus word of the week – leading. I’m referring to the one pronounced ‘ledding’, which these days refers to the distance between lines of text. It’s called that because traditionally printers would insert strips of lead between lines of type to increase the spacing. Interesting, right?

(Oh, and if you’ve ever wondered how some of the fonts we use every day got their names, have a read of this blog post. It also explains the difference between ‘font’ and ‘typeface’, if you care about such things.)

spondulicks

‘Spondulicks’ (also spelled ‘spondoolicks’ or ‘spondulix’) is a slang term for money, which I’m almost certain Delboy Trotter used more than once. It first emerged in the United States in the mid-19th century, where it quickly gained popularity, even appearing in a New York Times article in 1857. Its exact origins are unknown, but there are a couple of theories about its etymology.

The first one, and the most widely accepted, is that it comes from the Greek word ‘spondylos’, meaning vertebra or a type of shell. What do shells have to do with money? Well, they were often used as currency in ancient times, and even as late as the early 20th century in some regions. (I read this in a fab book called ‘Spirals in Time: The Secret and Curious Afterlife of Seashells’ by marine biologist Helen Scales – nice bit of nominative determinism there.)

Cowrie shells were among the most widely used shells for currency across various cultures and regions, including West and Central Africa, India, Sri Lanka, China, Thailand and The Maldives. There’s even a cowrie shell called cypraea moneta or money cowrie. Why cowries? They’re hard and durable which makes them good for lots of handling, and they also come in relatively uniform sizes and shapes, so they’re easy to count and use as a standardised form of money. They’re also really pretty.

The second theory for ‘spondulicks’ is that it comes from the Latin word ‘spondere’, which means ‘to promise’ or ‘pledge’. This one’s less popular though.

When I asked ChatGPT for a list of slang words for money it gave me the usual suspects including ‘bucks’, ‘cash’, ‘dough’, ‘quid’ and ‘moolah’, but also some others I’ve never heard of. These included ‘cheddar’, ‘cabbage’, ‘simoleons’ and ‘bones’. Who knew?

Makes me laugh every single time.

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.

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.

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.

mundivagant

This is a lovely old word which has now sadly all but disappeared. It’s an adjective (AKA a describing word) which means ‘wandering through the world’. It has Latin roots and comes from ‘mundus’ meaning ‘world’, and ‘vagant’ meaning, you’ve guessed it, ‘wandering’ or ‘roaming’.

While you’re being mundivagant, you can also be a solivagant (this one’s a noun – and former word of the week – not an adjective, so it needs an indefinite article i.e. the ‘a’ before it). That means you like to wander on your own – ‘soli’ being Latin for ‘alone’ or ‘solitary’. And if you only want to do it at night, then you’re ‘noctivagant’ (this one’s an adjective again), ‘nox’ being ‘night’ in Latin. Although being a noctivagant solivagant might make you look a bit creepy…

Diogenes no-longer-of-Sinope-because-he-was-a-big-old-fraud (dunno who the dog was)

The ‘vagant’ bit of these words is also where we get the less-romantic word, ‘vagrant’. Nowadays ‘vagrant’ has quite negative connotations and we usually use it to describe people who’ve ended up on the streets. But it wasn’t always that way. Diogenes of Sinope was an ancient Greek philosopher who lived in the 4th century BCE, and was often referred to as a ‘vagrant philosopher’. He lived in a jar (yes, you did read that right – it was a very big jar, obviously) and survived by begging for food. He used this simple lifestyle and behaviour to criticise the social values and institutions of what he saw as a corrupt, confused society.

This is all well and good until you find out that Diogenes’ dad, Hicesias, was a banker, and it was likely he followed in his father’s footsteps. At some point, Hicesias and Diogenes were involved in a scandal involving adulterating or debasing currency (that’s when you lower the value of coins by reducing the quantity of gold, silver or nickel in them, but continue to say they’re worth the same amount). Because of that Diogenes was exiled from Sinope, and lost his citizenship and all his possessions. Hmmm, that makes the mundivagant lifestyle a little bit less of a philosophical choice and more of a necessity, doesn’t it, Diogenes…?

anodyne

Someone said this to me on the phone the other day, and I realised I didn’t know what it meant (look, I don’t know ALL the words, guys). If you already know what it means, well done you. If not, we mainly use anodyne as an adjective (AKA a describing word) to refer to something that’s unlikely to offend or cause discomfort. So basically something that’s a bit meh. We also use anodyne as a noun (person, place or thing) for a medicine or substance that relieves pain.

Anodyne has been around in English since the 16th century. We nicked it from the Latin word ‘anodynos’ which is itself derived from the Greek word ‘anōdunos’. Both of these mean ‘painless’ or ‘free from pain’. So that’s where the literal meaning for painkiller comes from. And over time ‘anodyne’ has evolved a more figurative meaning for something that’s very middle of the road and doesn’t cause any upset.

A painkiller that certainly isn’t anodyne is general anaesthetic, which knocks you out for operations or if you’re trying to get BA Baracus on a plane*. But did you know that, even though we’ve been using them for hundreds of years, no one actually knows how general anaesthetics work? Scientists have worked out that they put you to sleep by reducing communication between your brain cells, but that’s pretty much all they know. That’s not at all scary. And my apologies if you have any kind of procedure coming up and didn’t know that.

*Dated reference.

monster

You know what a monster is – a large, frightening, usually imaginary (although there are plenty of real-life monsters, sadly) creature that’s generally trying to hurt or kill someone or something. But have you ever wondered where the word ‘monster’ came from?

‘Monster’ is a pretty old word, first appearing in the English language somewhere between 1000 and 1200 AD, when Willy the Conk invaded England and brought the French language with him (from which we borrowed lots of words, especially legal ones). The particular French word we’re interested in here is ‘monstre’. It comes from the Latin word ‘monstrum’, the past participle of ‘monere’, meaning ‘to warn’. So how did that turn into the gruesome noun we know today? Well, in ancient Rome ‘monstrum’ was used to describe anything strange or grotesque that could be seen as a warning from the gods or a bad omen – like a two-headed calf, for example. Over time the term evolved to cover anything a bit scary and/or weird.

One of the most famous monsters in my neck of the woods is probably Black Shuck, a ghostly black dog said to silently prowl the dark country lanes and coastal footpaths of East Anglia (and one of several black dog myths found all over the UK). Black Shuck is sometimes seen as an omen of death, but is also described as being quite friendly. Its size varies from that of a large dog to a horse. Black Shuck was first described in print by one Reverend ES Taylor in an 1850 edition of a journal called ‘Notes and Queries’ as ‘Shuck the Dog-fiend’. He said:

‘This phantom I have heard many persons in East Norfolk, and even Cambridgeshire, describe as having seen as a black shaggy dog, with fiery eyes and of immense size, and who visits churchyards at midnight.’

According to the OED, the name Shuck comes from the Old English word ‘scucca’, meaning 'devil’ or ‘fiend’.

One of the most famous reports of Black Shuck is of its appearance at the churches of Bungay and Blythburgh in Suffolk. On 4 August 1577, Black Shuck is said to have burst through the doors of the Blythburgh Holy Trinity Church accompanied by a clap of thunder. It ran up the nave, killed a man and boy in the congregation and somehow caused the church steeple to collapse through the roof. It left via the north door leaving scorch marks, which you can still see to this day. It also later appeared in St Mary’s Church in Bungay on the same day, which was recorded in ‘A Straunge and Terrible Wunder’ by Abraham Fleming:

Suffolk’s finest rockers The Darkness wrote a pretty awesome song about Black Shuck (which also mentions Blythburgh) on their 2003 album ‘Permission to Land’, which you can listen to below.

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.

torpedo

I’m sure you know what a torpedo is – an underwater weapon with an explosive warhead that propels itself towards a target, often accompanied by Harrison Ford and some dramatic music in the background. But do you know why a torpedo is called a torpedo? Well, it comes from a Latin word, ‘torpere’, which means ‘to be stiff’ (behave) or ‘to be numb’.

I’m now going to take you on a mini tour of Europe. Ready?

In the 16th century, the Italians called an electric ray (the fish kind) a ‘torpedine’. This was based on the numbness bit of ‘torpere’ – because if you got electrocuted by the fish, you went numb. This word then moved to Spain (that fish obviously got about a bit), where it was changed to ‘torpedero’.

Robert Fulton – I would

Next we’re going to France, where the word ‘torpille’ appeared in the mid-19th century for a kind of explosive device used in naval warfare. This was probably because of the electric ray’s ability to immobilize underwater prey with electric shocks. This word was later borrowed into English as ‘torpedo’. An American inventor called Robert Fulton (1765–1815) popularised it as a term to describe explosive charges when he added them to the Nautilus, his submarine.

As well as building the world’s first ‘proper’ submarine, which he designed between 1793 and 1797, Fulton had a series of homosexual and polyamorous relationships during his life, including living with a couple in Paris for six years. He died from pneumonia after diving into an icy Hudson River to rescue a friend who’d fallen in. None of this is relevant to torpedoes, but I’ve included it because he sounds like a TOTAL LEGEND.

recalcitrant

Despite sounding like a medical complaint, recalcitrant is an adjective (AKA a describing word) for someone or something that stubbornly refuses to follow rules or instructions, while also being a dick about it. Think stroppy teenagers, Donald Trump or my dog*.

Recalcitrant’s angry roots are Latin, from ‘recalcitrare’, which is a combo of ‘re-’ (meaning ‘back’ or ‘again’, as in ‘return’, ‘recall’ and ‘recover’) and ‘calcitrare’, which means ‘to kick’. Why kicking? Well, in its original sense, ‘recalcitrare’ was used to describe the behaviour of a stubborn or unruly horse that literally kicked back at someone trying to control or train it. Over time, we’ve extended the term’s meaning to describe people who resist authority, are uncooperative, or are unwilling to be controlled or directed.

I asked my friend ChatGPT if he (it’s definitely a he) had any stories about stroppy horses. And he told me about Clever Hans. Now Clever Hans wasn’t actually stroppy (so I don’t think ChatGPT is going to be taking over the world just yet, seeing as he can’t even get that right), but it is quite an interesting story, so I thought I’d include it here anyway.

Clever Hans was a horse born in 1895ish who became famous for doing sums and other clever things. He would answer questions by tapping his hoof, and became a sensation in Germany in shows run by his owner, Willhelm von Osten. Hans could add, subtract, multiply, divide, work with fractions, tell time, keep track of the calendar, differentiate between musical tones, and read, spell, and understand German, which makes him much cleverer than yours truly.

Sadly, it turns out although Hans was a very clever horse, he was perhaps not quite as clever as everyone thought. A psychologist called Oskar Pfungst carried out a series of experiments to understand how Hans was answering questions correctly. And he discovered that the horse was actually responding to subtle (and unconscious) cues from his trainer and human audience. For example, when he was asked a question, he would start tapping his hoof. When he reached the right number of taps, the audience would involuntarily exhibit subtle body language changes like tensing up or relaxing. Hans would stop tapping when he detected these cues, giving the appearance of getting the question right.

One of the ways Pfungst realised he was doing this was that he only got the answer right when the person asking the question knew the answer themselves. This is now called the ‘Clever Hans effect’, and has changed the way scientists all over the world investigate animal intelligence.

Even after he was debunked, von Osten, who refused to believe Pfungst's findings, continued to show Hans around Germany, where he still attracted large and enthusiastic crowds. It’s worth pointing out that Willhelm never charged for any of these shows, either before or after Clever Hans was outed. Nice, right?

Also, I still think Hans was pretty clever.

*I love you really, Gus.

Clever Hans with Willhelm

salary

Ah, salaries. Something we’re all a bit obsessed with as we navigate the cozzie livs*. But did you know that the word itself actually has a fairly surprising etymology?

‘Salary’ comes from the Latin word ‘salarium’, which itself comes from ‘sal’ in Latin, meaning ‘salt’. This is because, back in the ancient Roman day, salt was a really valuable commodity. This wasn’t just about making food taste good either – salt was vital for preserving it in a pre-fridge world. And that was crucial for those Romans centurions off conquering and building roads, installing sanitation, and all the other things mentioned in The Life of Brian.

Because of all this value, salt was actually used as a type of currency. And that meant the word ‘salarium’ was used to describe payments given to soldiers to cover their expenses, including to buy salt (presumably not with salt as currency though – that would be mental). Over time, the meaning of ‘salarium’ expanded to include any regular payment made to someone in exchange for their services, becoming ‘salary’ along the way.

The St Kinga Chapel (by Cezary p, CC BY-SA 3.0)

Salt mines have existed for thousands of years, and one of the most famous ones is the Wieliczka Salt Mine in Poland. It produced salt from the 13th century right up to 1996 (when it was closed due to falling salt prices and flooding). The mine is now a tourist attraction and a UNESCO World Heritage Site, and reaches a depth of 1,073 feet (327 metres) while extending for over 178 miles (287 kilometres). It’s particularly famous for the St Kinga Chapel, which is entirely carved out of salt, including the floor, walls and even the chandeliers. The chapel is about 330 feet (101 meters) below the surface of the Earth, and is named after St Kinga, the patron saint of salt miners. Apparently the acoustics are fantastic, so lots of concerts are held there, as well as an annual music festival – you can even get married there.

*Irritating slang for the cost-of-living crisis.

succinct

Last week’s word of the week was about Very. Long. Speeches. So this week, we’re keeping it short. If you’re succinct, it means you express yourself in a clear and brief way without adding unnecessary details – you’re concise and to the point. Which is ironic for a word that definitely has more ‘c’s in it than any word really needs.

Being succinct is a big part of the way I write for businesses – why use 10 words when you can use five? It saves everyone time. Like skipping ‘in order to’ – just say ‘to’. Seriously, try it.

Anyway, pitch over – back to ‘succinct’. This word comes from the Latin ‘succinctus’, which is the past participle of the verb ‘succingere’. And ‘succingere’ is formed from ‘sub’, which means ‘under’ (as in ‘submarine’, ‘subway’, ‘substandard’, and so on), and ‘cingere’, which means ‘to gird’ or ‘encircle’. The original Latin term actually referred to the act of tightening your belt – literally, not metaphorically.

Not Ananta Ram

Over time, ‘succinct’ evolved to describe something expressed concisely and clearly, just like tightening that belt. This change in meaning happened when the word came over into English in the late 15th century.

Someone who definitely isn’t succinct is Ananta Ram, from Kathmandu in Nepal, who holds the Guinness world record for the longest speech. It came in at a massive 90 hours and 2 minutes. The speech started at 6.15am on 27 August 2018, and finished at 12.17am on 31st August. Ram was silent for almost seven days beforehand to prepare.

Our very own Gyles Brandreth holds the record for the longest ever after-dinner speech at 12-and-a-half hours (which he did for charity – I can’t find it on the Guinness world records’ website though, so I’m not sure if it’s still valid). When he first broke the record he celebrated by doing a handstand, which you can see on his Instagram page. You can also book Gyles Brandreth for an after-dinner speech for the tidy sum of £10,000 to £15,000 – I’d be doing handstands too if I could earn that for a speech.