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.

aegis

I was watching an American medical drama called ‘New Amsterdam’ the other day (I love me an American medical drama – ‘Grey’s Anatomy’ is my absolute fave). During a courtroom scene with a patient with some mental-health struggles, a judge said ‘I’m not willing to to release you into your own aegis’. My first thought was of course, ‘why not use a word that everyone can understand, silly legal person?’. And my second was, ‘I wonder where “aegis” comes from?’ Well, it turns out it has quite an interesting backstory.

In the context of the silly legal person, ‘aegis’ simply means ‘protection, sponsorship or support of a person, group or organisation’. Its other, much more fun, definition is ‘a shield or breastplate associated with Zeus and Athena’. And that’s where our etymology comes from.

In Greek mythology, aegises also included cloaks, and were often described as powerful and protective. Some of them featured the head of the Gorgon, she of the bad snake-hair day. The word itself comes from a noun, ‘aigis’, which means ‘goatskin’. This is probably just because cloaks were often made of goatskin, but it might (it probably isn’t TBH, but I wanted to tell this story) be something to do with the mythical goat Amalthea. Rhea, Zeus’ Ma, hid him in a cave to protect him from his father Cronus, who was a bit of a nutter known for eating his own children (someone call social services). Amalthea nursed (yep, fed) and cared for the infant Zeus in the cave. Hence, goats = protection.

Aegis made its way into English in the 18th century in the sense of those protective shields or cloaks. It later evolved into the idea of protection, sponsorship or support, and a silly legal term.

To say thanks for looking after him in that cave, Zeus later transformed one of Amalthea’s horns into the Cornucopia, or Horn of Plenty, which could provide an endless supply of food and drink. I’m not sure how this worked logistically – surely it would need to be detached from Amalthea’s head to provide all that chow? That doesn’t seem like much of a thank you.

Zeus – DTF

Zeus was also a bit of a dirty old (and young) man. One of his favourite things to do was to transform himself into something else to have sex with both mortals and immortals. This included transforming into a swan, a bull and a shower of gold. I’m definitely not going to try to work out the logistics of that…

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.

tragedy

You know what a tragedy is – a sad or traumatic event. It’s also a genre of literature, art or performance that deals with serious and sad themes, and probably everyone dies at the end.

The word ‘tragedy’ has a bit of a tragic backstory as well. Brace yourselves…

(It’s not that bad really. I’m just building the tension.)

Don’t mention Greek plays

‘Tragedy’ comes from the Greek word ‘tragōidia’, which is a combination of ‘tragos’, meaning ‘goat’, and ‘ōidē’, meaning ‘song’ or ‘ode’. This is linked to ancient Greece (although you probably could have guessed that), where tragic plays were an important part of cultural and religious festivals. These plays often dealt with serious and weighty themes, and were accompanied by a chorus of people who sang and danced (seriously and weightily, presumably).

So that gives us the song/ode bit – but what about the goat? Well, those ancient Greekies often sacrificed a goat or two during these performances to honour the god Dionysus, who was associated with theatre (also, wine and fertility). I hope they waited till the interval so they didn’t put the actors off.

That was all a bit depressing, wasn’t it? Sorry about that. Here’s some Steps to cheer you up. Good luck not doing the dance.

psychomanteum

I’ve been listening to a podcast on BBC Sounds called ‘The Witch Farm’ about Heol Fanog in Wales, a real-life haunted house (I highly recommend it – the podcast, not the house – and the previous one called ‘The Battersea Poltergeist’; unless you scare easy, in which case maybe don’t listen to either of them). In a recent episode, the presenter, Danny Robins (whose response to anything scary is always ‘Bloody hell’) set up a psychomanteum. This involved him watching several scary films while depriving himself of sleep for 36 hours. He then sat and gazed into a mirror, then nearly shit his pants when he saw a shadowy figure in it. The point of this was to prove how easy it is to trick the human brain into thinking it’s seen a ghost.

The word psychomanteum was invented by a guy called Raymond Moody. After a near-death experience he built one in Alabama, called the Dr John Dee Theater of the Mind (named after Queen Elizabeth I’s astronomer and famous occultist). Here he carries out (he’s still going) experiments where he gets people to summon visions of ghosts by staring into a mirror in a dimly lit room.

Despite the newness of the word, psychomanteums and mirror divination (called catoptromancy, fact-fans) have actually been around for yonks. A psychomanteum (although it’s not called that) is mentioned in Homer’s Odyssey (written in the 8th century BCE) when Odysseus gazes into a pit filled with the blood of sacrificed sheep and eventually sees his dead mum presumably berating him for killing a bunch of innocent barnyard animals. And in the 1950s, a psychomanteum was excavated at Ephyra in the western Greek province of Epiros. It was a subterranean complex containing fragments of a giant bronze cauldron which was probably gazed in by ancient Greeks looking to contact long-dead relatives. Spooky, right?

idiot

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

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

So, idiot. More than just a stupid person.

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

sycophant

Photo by Deidre Schlabs on Unsplash.

You know what a sycophant is – someone who sucks up to someone else to get an advantage. Also known as a toady, creep, lickspittle and so on. But it hasn’t always meant that. Previously, a sychophant was someone who accused someone else of being a fig-smuggler. Nope, this isn’t another name for Speedos – it dates all the way back to classical Athens (which was a long time ago y’all).

So, way back in the sixth century (I said it was a long time ago), Athens law didn’t let anyone export food (apart from olives, because that would just be mean) outside its borders. Apparently this was torture for some fig-loving souls, who broke the law by smuggling the fruit* out. Unlike food transportation, blackmail wasn’t against the law (that’s some effed-up legal system right there). So if someone busted you leaving town with your pockets full of figs, they’d threaten to tell the fuzz about it. These blackmailers were called sykophantes, which translates as ‘revealer of figs’.

(At this point I should probably say that Wikipedia reckons this is a load of old cobblers, as there’s no concrete proof for the whole thing. But ‘sykophantes’ does mean ‘revealer of figs’, and Plutarch (Greek scholar and all round clever dude) said it was true, so let’s just go with it. Because the other explanations are nowhere near as interesting.)

I’ve just realised I’ve never had a fig.

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*Interesting fact alert: A fig isn’t technically a fruit – it’s an ‘inverted flower’. And they only exist because of the fig wasp. (Warning: this is gross, sorry. Brace yourself.)

Female wasps clamber inside figs to lay their eggs. It’s a one-way trip – getting in rips their wings off (I told you it was gross). Once the eggs are laid, the wasp dies. The baby wasps grow up inside the fig then mate (wait, aren’t they all related? Ewww). Then the boys die (they’re born without any wings, so their only job is to get their rocks off with their sisters), and the females fly out of the fig, all covered in pollen, off to find a male fig of their own to do the whole thing again. But, PLOT TWIST: figs have genders, and only the male ones have the special egg area (not what it’s called) the wasps need to lay in. So as long as Mrs Wasp sets up shop in a male fig, everything’s fine (apart from the whole wing-ripping, dying part). But if she ends up in a female fig, she’s a bit screwed. So, she just dies, with no babies. But the good news is, she does pollinate the fig with the pollen she bought with her. Which means more figs, I think (I’m not a scientist, okay?).

Us humans only eat female figs (I’m not sure how you tell the difference – maybe they get paid less than their male counterparts), which contain an enzyme that digests the bits of dead wasp. But because of the absolute horror show mentioned above, a lot of vegans don’t eat them at all. And I don’t think I’ll be trying one any time soon.