lampoon

If you lampoon someone or something, you take the piss out of them in a satirical way, often exposing their flaws or hypocrisy. As well as being a verb, lampoon can also be a noun – so you could publish a lampoon of someone, for example (even though that sounds weird).

Rabelais – Il était très drôle

‘Lampoon’ first appeared in print in English in 1645. Both the noun and the verb come from a French word, ‘lampons’, a form of the verb ‘lamper’, which means ‘to drink to the bottom’. So what does downing a pint (or downing un demi-litre as we’re in France) have to do with taking the mick out of someone? Well, apparently the word ‘Lampons!’, meaning ‘Let us guzzle!’ was a frequent refrain in 17th-century French satirical poems. For example, it appears in ‘Le Vin’ (which translates as ‘Wine’ – I knew all that Duolingo French would pay off eventually), a poem by François Rabelais, a 16th-century French writer known for being a bit rude. Rabelais also used it in ‘Gargantua et Pantagruel’, a series of satirical novels, as a drinking song:

‘Buvez toujours, ne cessez,
Lampons! Lampons!
C'est à ce coup que nous paierons!’

(‘Drink on, never stop,
Let us guzzle! Let us guzzle!
This time, we’ll pay!’)

Thanks to his literary legacy, Rabelais got his own adjective –‘Rabelaisian’. It means ‘marked by gross robust humour, extravagance of caricature or bold naturalism’. Not bad for a former monk, right?

scavenger

A scavenger is a creature that survives by picking through leftovers, scraps, rubbish and dead things. Think vultures circling roadkill, foxes raiding bins or that friend who says they’re on a diet then eats all your chips.

You wouldn’t want to mess with that, would you?

‘Scavenger’ didn’t always conjure up images of vultures and bin-diggers though. In fact, its origins are less animal-ly and more administrative. It comes from ‘scavager’, which is from an Anglo-French word, ‘scawageour’, which means ‘collector of scavage’. WTF is scavage, I hear you say. Well, in ye olde medieval times, ‘scavage’ was a tax (grrr) levied by towns and cities on goods sold by non-residents. This was actually a fairly well-intentioned tax, as it was supposed to give resident merchants a competitive advantage.

You might think that scavenger came to mean one who roots through crap as a way to insult the taxman (or woman). But it actually happened because the officers in charge of collecting this tax were later made responsible for keeping streets clean (I’m not entirely sure how these two skills became interchangeable, but I suspect it was to do with budget cuts).

Over time, ‘scavenger’ stopped referring to people altogether (apart from the chip guy I mentioned above) and settled on animals that lived off refuse, carrion and other unappetising delights.

Fun scavenger facts:

• vultures have stomach acid that’s so strong it can digest anthrax, botulism and cholera. I don’t want to know how they found this out. They also have a diet that’s 90% bone. Yum

• hyenas are often mistaken for scavengers, but they actually hunt most of their food – spotted hyenas (the most well-known type) catch up to 80% of their food themselves and have a hunting success rate that rivals lions. They are, however, very opportunistic and won’t turn down an easy meal if they happen to find one on the floor. Same as me, to be fair

• my parents once saw a seagull steal a piece of cake with a whole fork in it – a metal one too.

It’s worth saying that scavengers play a vital role in our ecosystem by getting rid of all the dead crap on the ground. So without them, the world would be a much messier place.

psychrophilic

You’ve probably noticed that stuff is really expensive these days. And one of the most expensive things is staying warm (as I type this I’m wearing two jumpers, a scarf and gloves, and I have an extra-long hot water bottle wrapped round me – still cold though). Thanks to soaring energy prices, we’ve all had to become psychrophilic.

As you’ve probably guessed, psychrophilic is a scientific term for organisms that love living in cold environments – think glaciers, deep-sea trenches and the like. They’re usually bacteria, fungi, microbes and other tiny little critters like that.

‘Psychrophilic’ first turned up as a scientific term in the early 20th century. It’s a combination of two Greek words – ‘psychros’ meaning ‘cold’ and ‘philos’ meaning ‘loving’. Sometimes etymology really isn’t rocket science.

The opposite of psychrophilic is, of course, thermophilic. These heat-loving organisms thrive in temperatures above 45°C. Psychrophilic and thermophilic organisms are often also extremophiles, another former word of the week.

Psychrophilic organisms are super helpful to science. Here are a couple of examples:

Antarctic krill in action – actual size, around 6cm

• colwellia psychrerythraea: a bacterium found in the deep sea, particularly in the Arctic and Antarctic. It produces proteins that stay active at really low temperatures, which is handy for things like food preservation

• pseudoalteromonas haloplanktis: this is another type of bacterium which also thrives in the Antarctic. It’s studied for its enzymes, which we use to clean clothes in cold water

• Antarctic krill: this tiny shrimp-like crustacean also lives in the freezing waters around Antarctica. It’s what’s known as a keystone species, which means it plays a critical role in maintaining the structure and balance of its ecosystem. Without this unassuming little creature, the Southern Ocean ecosystem would be completely devastated, as would the wider environment. The best things really do come in small packages. (Oh, and just to end on a positive note, you’ll be pleased to hear that Antarctic krill is one of the few species in the world that isn’t endangered. So the Southern Ocean ecosystem should be okay for now. Apart from all the climate change. Sorry.)

sarcasm

You know what sarcasm is – snarky comments which are either the lowest form of wit or the highest form of intelligence, depending on which side of them you’re on. But do you know where the word itself comes from? Yes? Well, aren’t you clever? (That’s sarcastic, by the way.) If you don’t, then read on…

The word ‘sarcasm’ has its roots in the Greek sarkazein, which means ‘to tear flesh like a dog’ or ‘to bite the lips in rage’. So basically, it’s a verbal savaging. This same root, sark-, meaning ‘flesh’, also turns up in sarcophagus – AKA a stone coffin beloved of mummies (and former word of the week). Why? Because the original sarcophagi were made from limestone that was believed to consume flesh. Yum.

An intelligent response to a sarcastic comment

Sarcasm (the word, not the concept) first appeared in English in 1579, in an annotation to ‘The Shepheardes Calender’, Edmund Spenser’s first major poetic work (his most famous one was ‘The Faerie Queene’, an epic allegorical poem about the Tudor Dynasty and Elizabeth I that you might have struggled through at school). The annotation reads ‘Tom piper, an ironicall Sarcasmus, spoken in derision of these rude wits’. (‘Ironicall Sarcasmus’ would be a great name for a band.) ‘Sarcastic’ took a bit longer to appear in print, not turning up until 1695 in a work by Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey. Nope, me neither.

(Edmund Spenser’s first wife was called Machabyas Childe. This isn’t relevant – I just think it’s a fantastic name.)

Sarcasm can be hard to show in writing, so loads of people have tried to come up with a punctuation mark to denote it. This includes the percontation point (which I’ve previously written about here), and the excellently named SarcMark™.

marcescence

Have you ever noticed a leaf clinging stubbornly to a tree, when all its other leaf friends have long fallen off? There’s a word for that. Marcescence is where something, usually plant matter like leaves or flowers, withers but doesn’t fall off. I can relate.

Oaks and beeches are classic examples of trees with marcescent leaves, which often stay in place for the whole of winter. It’s most common in juvenile plants too. Stroppy teenagers, eh?

Marcescence has its roots (HAHAHAHA) in Latin. Marcēscere means ‘to wither’ or ‘begin to decay’. This comes from marcēre, meaning ‘to be weak or withered’.

Marcescence first made its way into English in the mid-18th century when the study of botany was flourishing (I can’t help myself, sorry), and scientists were coming up with lots of neologisms to describe the natural world. That’s just a fancy way of saying that they were inventing lots of new words.

So how does marcescence happen? Let’s do some science for a sec. In most deciduous trees, a process called ‘abscission’ causes leaves to fall off in autumn. A specialised layer of cells forms at the base of the leaf stem to make this happen. But in marcescent trees, this process doesn’t fully complete, leaving them partially attached. Why? Well, it seems that no one’s entirely sure. There are a few theories though…

1. It’s for protection: the hanger-on leaves might protect new buds from weather or things trying to eat them. Marcescence is more common in younger trees and on lower branches, which adds credence to this defence theory.

2. They provide food for the soil: fallen leaves are great for promoting new growth as they rot. The theory here is that by falling off later, marcescent leaves will carry on providing this goodness to their tree long after their pals have gone to the big forest in the sky

3. To send water to the base of the tree: these leaves could act as a sort of snow fence, slowing down the white stuff and sending moisture to the bottom of the tree where it’s needed most.

There you go. Now you can casually say something like ‘there are so many marcescent leaves around this season’ on your next wintry walk and look well clevs. You’re welcome.

(Oh, and I saw this lovely word in the excellent Tone Knob newsletter, written by my equally excellent ex-colleague Nick Parker. If you’re even a bit interested in writing and tone of voice, it’s well worth signing up. You can do that here.)

nog

Yes, I’m talking about eggnog here. I’ve never tried eggnog, because why would I? I don’t want to drink egg, thank you very much. Even if it does have booze in it.

Yuck

My taste aside, what even is a nog? The truth is that no one’s completely sure, which doesn’t make for a very good blog post. But luckily lots of intrepid etymologists have taken a guess, with most tracing it back to the 17th century, when ‘nog’ referred to a strong ale brewed in East Anglia (where I sit as we speak). It might also come from ‘noggin’, a Middle English word for a small wooden cup or mug. Which would mean that ‘nog’ essentially means ‘booze in a little cup’. I don’t know which nutter decided to stick some egg in it though.

You might be wondering if nog and noggin – slang for head, first recorded in the 17th century – are related. And the answer is… maybe. No one really knows where ‘noggin’ for head comes from. But it’s possible that it’s just a metaphor likening heads to containers full of ideas (or, if you’re me, song lyrics from the 80s). The earliest recorded use of ‘noggin’ for head seems to be from the 1769 farce ‘The Stratford Jubilee’. A character called Captain Blarney says ‘Keep off your fore foots; or, devil burn me, but I'll crack your noggin for you.’ A quote worth chucking in to any arguments over the Christmas dinner table, methinks.

When I was researching this, I learned about the Eggnog Riot of 1826 – yup. Also known as the Grog Mutiny (great name for a band), it took place at the United States Military Academy at West Point (the school that Robert Sean Leonard’s dad tries to force him to go to in Dead Poets Society [which should have an apostrophe but doesn’t] – with DEVASTATING consequences that I’m still not over). On 24–25 December, armed with homemade eggnog spiked with whiskey, some cadets threw a party that quickly descended into a full-blown brawl. Windows were smashed, furniture was thrown about and weapons were drawn. The aftermath was a disciplinary nightmare for West Point, with 19 cadets facing punishment and several having to be expelled. Another reason to stay away from eggy alcohol.

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This is the last word of the week for 2024. Don’t worry though – I’ll be back in 2025 with lots more etymological oddities. Until then, a very merry Christmas to you and yours.

gynoid

We’re heading into the realms of science fiction (with a bit of science fact) for this one. A gynoid is a humanoid robot designed to look like a woman – think Maria in Fritz Lang’s Metropolis (1927), one of the earliest depictions of a female android, and Ava from the film Ex Machina (2014).

The term ‘gynoid’ was first introduced by sci-fi guru Isaac Asimov in a 1979 editorial as a theoretical female equivalent to the word ‘android’, which is usually gender-neutral or male by default (OBVIOUSLY). It comes from the Greek word gynē meaning ‘woman’ and the suffix -oid, which means ‘resembling’ or ‘like’.

In fiction, gynoids are often used to explore societal themes, including gender roles and artificial intelligence. And by ‘explore … gender roles and artificial intelligence’, I mean men exploring having sex with them – I can’t think of a single fictional gynoid who doesn’t have a man trying to insert himself into her charging port.

Real-life examples of gynoids who hopefully aren’t suffering the same fate (yet, anyway) include:

Actroid in action

EveR, looking scarily real

• Actroid, life-like gynoids developed by Osaka University and manufactured by Kokoro Company. They can mimic human functions including blinking, speaking and breathing, and the latest models can recognise, process and respond to speech

• EveR (‘Eve’ plus ‘r’ for robot), a series of female androids developed by a team of South Korean scientists. This gynoid can recognise 400 Korean and English words, and respond to questions both verbally and with facial expressions. She’ll also get annoyed with you if you poke her (unlike a lot of real women who just put up with that shit)

• Vyommitra (from the Sanskrit words Vyōma meaning ‘space’ and Mitra meaning ‘friend’), a gynoid made for space travel (although not far, as she doesn’t have any legs). She was designed and developed by the Indian Space Research Organisation to work on board the Gaganyaan, a crewed orbital spacecraft expected to launch in 2026.

Just to even up the scores a little, here’s Jude Law as Gigolo Joe, a ‘male pleasure Mecha’. You’re welcome.

koan

A koan is a concept from Zen Buddhism. It refers to a paradoxical question, statement or story that’s designed to provoke deep contemplation and insight. I came across it when my mum put it down in a game of Words With Friends – I’m sure she knew that this is what it means, and wasn’t just putting down letters randomly trying to find a word (sorry, Mumsy).

A koan’s purpose is to transcend ordinary logic and encourage Buddhist practitioners to experience enlightenment, or ‘satori’. Koans challenge the analytical mind, requiring people to move beyond rational thought to grasp their deeper truth. They’re often used in meditation or as a teaching tool during a Zen student’s training under a master.

Koans aren’t meant to be solved logically as they don’t have straightforward answers. Instead, they encourage people to challenge their usual ways of thinking, look inward and confront their preconceptions. The process of working with a koan often involves talking to a teacher about one’s understanding of it, who’ll then give you more guidance or challenge your perspective.

If you’re feeling more confused than enlightened by all this, here’s a famous koan:

‘What is the sound of one hand clapping?’

This is designed to challenge conventional ideas of perception and duality, apparently. I’m clearly not destined to become a Buddhist as I just find this logistically confusing.

Etymology-wise, the word ‘koan’ originates from a Japanese term, 公案 (kōan), which itself comes from a Chinese term, 公案 (gōng’àn), meaning ‘public case’ or ‘official document’. I’m not sure anyone ever reached enlightenment through admin, so how did that association happen? Well, historically the term referred to legal precedents used by magistrates in ancient China. The Buddhists then adopted the term gōng’àn to signify an authoritative example or teaching from a Zen master – like a case study that illustrates profound spiritual principles.

I was going to end this blog by saying that there’s obviously something in this koan-malarkey, as Buddhism is the only major religion that’s never started a war. But, sadly, a bit of research shows that that’s not strictly true. Buddhism does however emphasise non-violence, compassion and mindfulness, all of which are things this world could do with a lot more of. So let’s just leave it there.

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?

winnow

If you’re one of the many (including me) people who’ve read the adult fairy-tale series (and by ‘adult fairy-tale’ I mean dirty, dirty soft porn) ‘A Court of Thorns and Roses’ by Sarah J Maas, you’ll be very familiar with the verb ‘to winnow’. It’s not filthy, sorry. In the books, winnowing is the ability to transport yourself to a different location using magic. Only some of the Fae in the series can do it, as it takes lots of concentration and strength.

Winnow is a real word, although it doesn’t have anything to do with teleportation. If one of us non-Fae folk winnows, it’s much more mundane, I’m afraid – it means we’re separating grain from chaff using a current of air. That’s a fancy way of saying that you chuck it in the air and let the wind do the hard work, blowing away the lighter chaff while the heavier grain falls back down.

Figuratively, ‘winnow’ can also mean to separate the valuable or desirable part of something from the crap bit, or to sift through and choose stuff that’s useful or valuable. So it’s basically a much quicker way of saying ‘separate the wheat from the chaff’.

‘Winnow’ has its origins in Old English and Old High German. The Old English verb ‘windwian’ meant ‘to fan’ or ‘to blow’. That’s related to the Old High German word ‘winnan’, which means the same. And that word has roots in Proto-Germanic and ultimately derives from the Proto-Indo-European root *wē- or *weh- which means ‘to blow, to move air’. So it’s actually a pretty good verb for a fictional process that involves moving yourself through the air really fast.

PS I realise I sounded a bit snobby when I referred to ACOTAR as ‘dirty, dirty soft porn’. I didn’t mean to – I actually really enjoyed all of them, and leant them to both my mum and my sister (is that weird?). I’m not alone either. The series has sold over 13 million copies, is a New York Times bestseller and has been optioned for a TV series adaptation. (They are super filthy though – especially ‘A Court of Silver Flames’. So if you decide to read them, don’t say I didn’t warn you.)

Apparently this is a ‘book trailer’. I didn’t know this is a thing, but I’m here for it.

gamut

You’ve probably heard the phrase ‘run the gamut’, which sounds like something torturous in The Hunger Games. Don’t worry though, a thing that runs the gamut is actually just something that covers every possible point in a range. So if you’re feeling all the feelings, you can be described as having ‘run the gamut of emotions’.

But WTF is a gamut?

Guido of Arezzo laying down some phat beats

Allow me to take you back to the 11th century to meet a monk called Guido of Arezzo. Guido’s favourite thing to do was to organise sounds (obviously – well, I guess he didn’t have Netflix). He also spent a lot of time teaching Gregorian chant to young monks, and as part of this he developed a way to teach his singers to remember the musical scale more easily. He named the very lowest note in his scale ‘gamma-ut’. This was from ‘gamma’, the Greek letter used for that low note, and ‘ut’, the first syllable of an ancient hymn Guido loved. Over time, ‘gamma-ut’ was shortened to, you’ve guessed it, ‘gamut’, and people began using it to refer to the entire musical range of notes.

As musical theory evolved, so did ‘gamut’. It grew beyond music to mean a full scope or range of anything, which is why we get to run gamuts today in any arena we like.

I confess that I’ve done Guido a bit of a disservice above, as he wasn’t just a singing teacher. In fact, he’s known as the father of modern musical notation. Guido’s most significant contribution was to develop a musical notation system that allowed notes to be written down and read consistently. He also created the basis of the four-line staff, which positioned notes at fixed heights to show their pitch more clearly than earlier systems. This eventually led to the five-line staff we use today.

He didn’t stop there either. Guido also invented the solfège syllables, AKA ‘do-re-mi’. He originally used ‘ut-re-mi-fa-sol-la’ from a Latin hymn for St John the Baptist, and maybe just because he seemed to like an ‘ut’. This helped singers remember pitch relationships more effectively, and revolutionised teaching music by ear.

Guido’s inventions allowed people to share music in written form across Europe. So it’s pretty safe to say that without him, we wouldn’t have most of the music we have today. Or that song from The Sound of Music.

maven

A ‘maven’ is someone who’s an expert or connoisseur in a particular field. They’re not just knowledgeable about it though – they’re also super passionate about their area of expertise. We generally use the term ‘maven’ to describe people whose insights and advice we value due to their understanding and experience. So you could describe me as a grammar and punctuation maven. Except for the ‘highly valued’ bit, as generally people just get annoyed with me when I tell them their apostrophes are in the wrong place.

Anyway, it’s not all about me. The etymology of ‘maven’ traces back to Yiddish, a language spoken by Ashkenazi Jews that blends elements of German, Hebrew and other languages. It comes from ‘meyvn’, which means ‘an expert’. That, in turn, comes from the Hebrew word ‘mevin’, which means ‘one who understands’.

Despite sounding quite old-fashioned, ‘maven’ is actually a fairly late addition into English, not making an appearance until the mid-20th century. That’s thanks to the influence of Yiddish-speaking Jewish immigrants in the United States, especially in New York. It wasn’t long before the term was being used more broadly beyond the Jewish community, especially in marketing and media circles.

‘Maven’ saw a resurgence in the late 20th century, partly thanks to its use in the marketing and tech industries. Author Malcolm Gladwell popularised it further in his 2000 book The Tipping Point, which is sadly nothing to do with the weirdly compelling ITV teatime gameshow. In it (the book, not the gameshow), he described mavens as people who have a wealth of information and seek to pass it on to others. I wish I could say I know this because I’ve read Malcolm Gladwell, but ChatGPT told me. I’m clearly not a Malcolm Gladwell maven.

pariah

I always think this sounds like a fish name. It’s not, of course. A pariah is a social outcast – someone who’s rightly or wrongly rejected or shunned by society or a particular group, often due to their actions, beliefs or circumstances. We use ‘pariah’ in lots of different contexts, from politics to social circles. The kids would probably say it’s when someone gets cancelled.

Etymologically, ‘pariah’ actually has a bit of a dark history. It has its roots in the Tamil language of southern India. It comes from the word ‘paṛaiyar’, which referred to members of a lower caste group who played the ‘parai’, a large drum used at public ceremonies. Over time, the term became associated with those considered low status or outside the main social hierarchy.

‘Pariah’ was eventually adopted by Portuguese colonisers, entering English in the 17th century where it took on a much broader meaning. By the 19th century, it had lost the ‘caste’ connotations, and was commonly used to describe any individual or group that was socially or politically ostracised, regardless of their background.

Lots of figures we celebrate today were considered pariahs when they were alive (which is sad). Some examples:

• Vincent Van Gogh – reviled and ridiculed during his lifetime, and probably only ever sold one painting. Now we know he was suffering from mental illness (probably bipolar, maybe schizophrenia) which makes this doubly sad. His brother’s wife (Jo van Gogh-Bonger) promoted him when he passed as a way to survive, and it’s thanks to her efforts that he’s so appreciated today.

• Edgar Allen Poe – he died alone and miserable, probably with rabies. He did marry his 13-year-old cousin though…

• Alan Turing – despite playing a crucial role in breaking the Enigma code during World War II, helping to shorten the war and save countless lives, and laying the foundations for modern computer science, Turing was persecuted throughout his lifetime just for being gay.

If you can get through this without blubbing, then you must be a bit dead inside. Sorry.

ur-text

Like lots of previous words of the week, I heard this on Kermode & Mayo’s Take, in reference to new horror film ‘Substance’ (which sounds awesome). An ur-text is the original or earliest version of a text, the foundation that later versions are based on. The term’s often used in literature, history and religious studies to describe a document that’s thought to be the source of all later editions, translations or interpretations. The concept of an ur-text is important in academic circles, because seeing the original can help us understand how ideas or stories have evolved over time.

Now, etymology. The ‘text’ bit of ‘ur-text’ is (hopefully) obvious. But what about the ‘ur’? Well, it’s a German prefix meaning ‘original’ or ‘primitive’. So ‘ur-text’ literally means ‘original text’. Why is it German? Because German literary theory, especially in the 19th and 20th centuries, has had a significant impact on the study of texts. For example, it’s influenced concepts like authenticity, interpretation and textual analysis, and scholars like Wolfgang Iser and Hans-Georg Gadamer have increased the term’s popularity in literary criticism. It’s also a concise way to refer to a complex idea which might need a longer explanation in English (although I think ‘OG text’ would work just as well, but maybe that’s why I’m not a literary academic).

A good example of an ur-text is Shakespeare’s First Folio (1623), the first collected edition of his works. The First Folio contains 36 plays, divided into three categories: comedies, histories and tragedies. It includes iconic works like Hamlet, Macbeth, Romeo and Juliet, A Midsummer Night’s Dream and Othello. Some plays, like The Tempest and Twelfth Night, were published for the first time in the Folio. Without it, many of Shakespeare’s works might have been lost, and generations of schoolkids would have nothing to moan about.

The First Folio was compiled by two of Shakespeare’s BFFs and fellow actors, John Heminges and Henry Condell. They wanted to preserve his work for future generations as many of the plays hadn’t been formally published, and only existed in scripts or incomplete versions. Well done, John and Hazza.

Around 750 copies of The First Folio were originally printed, and there are about 235 in existence today, most of which are in libraries and museums around the world. One copy of The First Folio sold for $9.98 million at auction in 2020. It was bought by Paul Allen, co-founder of Microsoft, and holds the record for the most expensive literary work sold at auction.

unobtainium

‘Unobtainium’ is a fictional term used to describe a material that’s super rare, expensive or impossible to get hold of. The term dates back to the 1950s, and is believed to have originated in the aerospace engineering community. Engineers used it as a joke to describe materials that had perfect properties but were impossible or impractical to get hold of with current technology – like something that’s lightweight but incredibly strong or resistant to damage. As you can probably guess, it’s derived from the word ‘unobtainable’.

‘Unobtainium’ turns up in science fiction a lot, although I’m not completely convinced that the writers/directors are always in on the joke. The most famous one is probably from CGI snooze-fest Avatar, where unobtainium is a highly valuable mineral mined on the moon Pandora. It also turns up in The Core, a terrible 2003 sci-fi starring Hilary Swank and international treasure Stanley Tucci (both of whom should know better, frankly). In that film it’s a material used to construct a drilling machine that can withstand the extreme conditions in the Earth’s core. Why do they need to build that? Well, because the Earth’s core has stopped rotating, causing chaos on the surface including people with pacemakers suddenly dropping dead, and lightning strikes causing Rome’s Colosseum to explode. Ah, okay then.

The Core has the dubious accolade of having got almost all of its science completely wrong. Here are just a couple of examples:

• if the Earth’s core did stop spinning, we’d have no protection from solar radiation and would all cook to death (which would have been a very short, and probably better, film)

• the movie’s scientists constantly refer to the Earth's ‘electromagnetic field’ when, in reality, the Earth has a magnetic field, which is quite different

• when our hastily assembled team of random heroes reach the centre of the Earth, they communicate with their commander using a radio. This would be completely impossible because the ground would block the signal

• when the drilly-ship thing is drilling through the Earth to the core, it’s going straight down. But the writers seemed to forget about gravity, as the people inside it still manage to walk back and forth between different parts of the ship, when they should in fact be climbing.

This is just the tip of the bad science iceberg – The Core’s science was so inaccurate that it led to the creation of The Science & Entertainment Exchange, a programme that connects entertainment industry workers with scientists and engineers to promote better science in movies and television. Wow.

(With thanks to my friend Abby for suggesting this as a word of the week.)

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.