extremophile

It’s another ‘-phile’ word this week, but there’s nothing to worry about, honest. An extremophile is an organism that thrives in extreme environments previously thought to be uninhabitable, for example under massive pressure or really bastard cold. These organisms not only tolerate these conditions – for many, they need them to survive. Extremophiles have been found 6.7 km below the Earth’s surface, more than 10km deep in the ocean at pressures of up to 110 MPa (which is a lot, apparently), in acid, in frozen seawater at -20°C and in underwater hydrothermal vents at temperatures of 122°C. The name is made from the Latin extremus meaning, um, ‘extreme’, and the Greek philiā which means ‘love’.

A tardigrade*. Doesn’t he look like he’s about to start singing ‘Always look on the bright side of life’?

Extremophiles are also normally polyextremophiles (‘poly’ meaning ‘many’), which means they can live in more than one shit place – for example, the deep ocean is generally very cold and also under high pressure. So that’s a double whammy. And most extremophiles are microorganisms, but not all – the tardigrade (which I thought was a made-up thing in Star Trek) is one example. Also known as a water bear or moss piglet (awwww), a tardigrade is a microscopic eight-legged animal that thrives in environments that would kill most other forms of life – on mountaintops including the Himalayas, at the bottom of the sea, in mud volcanoes (which are literally what they sound like) and even in solid ice. They can go up to 30 years without food or water, and have been on earth for about 600 million years, which means they pre-date the dinosaurs by a mere 400 million years.

Not long ago, some nice scientists chucked a load of tardigrades out into outer space to see what would happen. Not only did lots of them survive, but some of them even went on to have babies. And in August 2019, scientists reported that some tardigrades might be living on the moon after an Israeli lunar lander carrying thousands of them crash landed (although it’s since been reported that they probably didn’t survive the impact, booooo). Both of these things sound like the start of really good sci-fi horror films.

The name ‘water bear’ comes from the way tardigrades walk, which apparently resembles the way bears get around. The largest ones can get to a (still pretty tiny) 1.5mm, which means you can see them using a bog-standard microscope if you have such a thing.

Extremophiles like the tardigrade are proof that life can exist in many different forms, and that oxygen and water aren’t pre-requisites. In the words of well-known mathematician and chaos theory specialist Dr Ian Malcolm (AKA Jeff Goldblum in Jurassic Park): ‘Life, uh, finds a way.’

*Wikipedia says I have to credit that tardigrade photo with this horrible bit of text: photo by Bob Goldstein and Vicky Madden, UNC Chapel Hill – http://tardigrades.bio.unc.edu/pictures/ >https://www.flickr.com/photos/waterbears/sets/72157607218607395/ >https://www.flickr.com/photos/waterbears/2851666759/in/album-72157607218607395 (note permission below), CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=4747599).

gerrymandering

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

The OG gerrymander

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

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

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

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

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

shambles

I can’t imagine there are many of us who haven’t uttered the words ‘it’s a [expletive] shambles’ about something or other. So I’m sure you know that it means a state of disorder or confusion, AKA SNAFU. But, did you know that despite having been around since the end of the 16th century, it was only in the 1920s that ‘shambles’ came to mean this? Before that it had a much darker meaning… DUM DUM DUUUUUUM

Photo by Madie Hamilton on Unsplash

Okay, so the first meaning of shamble (singular) was a stool or a ‘money-changer’s table’ (this isn’t the dum dum dum, don’t worry), from the Latin for footstool, ‘scamellum’. After a time it took on the extra meaning of a ‘table for the exhibition of meat for sale’, with ‘shambles’ (plural) becoming a term for a ‘meat market’ (the kind that sells meat, not the Colchester Hippodrome on a Friday night in the 90s). It wasn’t long before ‘shambles’ became an alternative word for a slaughterhouse and, finally, was used figuratively to describe a scene of blood, like a battlefield or place of execution. DUM DUM DUUUUUUM (there it is).

Here’s ‘shambles’ in action in this way in Shakespeare’s Othello:

‘Desdemona: I hope my noble lord esteems me honest.

Othello: O, ay; as summer flies are in the shambles, That quicken even with blowing.’

Photo by Hayden Pollard on Unsplash

(I think this means he doth not esteem her honest.)

Jane Eyre’s Mr Rochester (swoon) also uses it in this context:

‘If the man who had but one little ewe lamb that was dear to him as a daughter […] had by some mistake slaughtered it at the shambles, he would not have rued his bloody blunder more than I now rue mine. Will you ever forgive me?"

YES, EDWARD, YES. Sorry. Where was I? Oh yes. The Shambles, the picturesque street of timber-framed buildings in York, is so called because there used to be lots of butchers’ shops there – 31 in 1885 apparently. Its full name was ‘The Great Flesh Shambles’. I can see why they rebranded.

I found a couple of different sources for ‘shambling’ as in wonky walking/zombies. Both stem from the stool/table-meaning I mentioned before all the dum dum dumming above. One source says that because people regularly hacked up chunks of meat on these tables, wobbly legs – or ‘shamble legs’ – were a hazard of the job. A second source says that it was to do with the bowlegged position you have to assume to sit on a stool, or shamble.

(I haven’t been able to find out why ‘shambles’ got sanitised in the early 20th century and came to have the hot-mess meaning it does today. Sorry.)

valentine

It’s that time of year again, when couples can be smug and single people can be depressed. To take my mind off my own spinsterhood, I thought I’d investigate exactly who the Valentine of St Valentine’s Day (note the apostrophe, card companies) is. And it turns out… no one’s entirely sure. Apparently there were a few Christian martyrs named Valentine who could have given their name to it, none of whom were particularly interesting (soz guys).

So, Christian martyrs were a bit of a dead end (both literally and figuratively). But while I was researching them I did stumble across Lupercalia, which is much more interesting. It was a Roman fertility festival which Valentine’s Day may or may not have its origins in (Wikipedia says it’s probably rubbish, but the Encyclopaedia Britannica is a bit more open to it). Lupercalia was held from 13th to 15th February, and was overseen by a group of priests called the Luperci, the name of which likely comes from ‘lupus’ – Latin for wolf. This is because Lupercalia was probably (the internet is a bit vague on this) connected to Romulus and Remus, the legendary founders of Rome who were suckled by a she-wolf (ewwww) after being abandoned on the banks of the river Tiber. They named the wolf Lupercal, and historians think that Lupercalia took place to honour her, and also to suck up to the Roman fertility god, Lupercus.

Lupercalia involved a bit more than flowers, chocolates and cards. It started with the priests sacrificing some goats and a dog, wiping the blood on themselves then laughing (yep). This was followed by the obligatory feast, after which the Luperci cut ‘thongs’ (which I assume are strips of leather rather than uncomfortable knickers) from the skins of the goats. They then took all their clothes off, and ran about whipping any women who got too close with the thongs. If you got hit with one, then lucky you, you’d immediately be super fertile.

Some scholars say there was also a jar of women’s names, which men would pick from. They’d then spend the festival with the woman whose name they’d pulled from the jar. Apparently lots of them went on to get married as well. Sounds better than Match.com to be honest.

In the late 5th century, the-then Pope, Gelasius I (who sounds like a super villain), decided that Lupercalia had to go (too much nakedness and BDSM I guess), and declared 14th February a day to celebrate some non-specific marytrs called Valentine. The new feast day didn’t have any of the lovey-dovey shenanigans that we have to put up with today though. These didn’t come about until the 14th century, when bloody Chaucer wrote a poem about it.

So how about it? Next year, forgo the sappy cards and garage forecourt flowers, and try hitting your other half with a piece of leather instead while running round the streets naked. They’ll LOVE it.

geminate

I’ve been doing some geminating this morning, with my socks, which I hate (the geminating, not the socks. I’m fine with socks in general).

Not to be confused with germinating, ‘geminate’ as a verb means to put something into pairs. Although it’s usually used in this way by linguists to describe sounds that are doubled, you can also use it to be fancy-dancy when you’re doing laundry (and who doesn’t need to add a bit of fancy-dancy when they’re sorting out washing?).

Geminate is also an adjective (AKA a describing word). So when you’ve finished sorting those goddamn socks, you can says that they’re geminate (sadly I still can’t say this about mine as many of them are still lounging in the laundry basket).

It’s not just about socks of course – you can use ‘geminate’ for anything that comes in a pair, like headlights, eyes or the twins from The Shining (other twins are available).

So, where does the word come from? Well, if you were born between 21 May and 20 June then you’re probably well ahead of me – like the star sign gemini, it comes from the Latin word ‘geminatus’ which itself comes from ‘geminus’, meaning ‘twin’.

The constellation Gemini is named for the twins Castor and Pollux from Greek mythology. The story goes that their mother, Leda, was seduced by Zeus in the form of a swan (the logistics of this always bother me). She later laid four eggs (because, swan) out of which hatched the aforementioned twins, as well as two others – Helen (later to become ‘of Troy’ and launch a bunch of boats) and Clytemnestra (which I always think sounds like an STD). Because Leda had also had relations with her husband (not a bird) on the same night, it seems that Castor and Clytemnestra were his kids, while Pollux and Helen were Zeus’, which therefore gave them demigod status, and immortality. When Castor was later killed in battle, Pollux was so upset that he begged his dad to let him give up half his immortality to give to his bro. Zeus agreed, and Castor and Pollux were transformed into the Gemini constellation.

Woman impregnated by swan? Sounds like a load of old Pollux to me.

The geminate twins from ‘The Shining’. I used to work with the grown-up version of one of these actresses. Yes, really. Dunno which one though.

inmate

I’ve just started watching Screw on Channel 4, a comedy-drama (although two episodes in there’s definitely more emphasis on drama than comedy) about a category-B men’s prison oop North somewhere. One of the prisoners talked about the word ‘inmate’. and how it hasn’t always applied to prisoners. Which got me thinking…

You might have already guessed where ‘inmate’ comes from (although I didn’t). It dates back to the 1500s and originally meant someone who lived in a house which was rented by someone else (AKA a possibly illegal sub-letter). It’s literally just ‘inn’ (as in pub where people can stay) and ‘mate’ (as in pal) smushed together. Which seems a bit unimaginative, but whatevs.

Over time, ‘inmate’ came to mean anyone who lived with lots of other people in a single house. Then, in the late 1800s, people also started using it to refer to those who’d been locked up against their will in prisons, asylums and hospitals. At around the same time, the words ‘roommate’ and ‘housemate’ appeared in the dictionary. So it wasn’t long before ‘inmate’ lost its original meaning and came to be used only to refer to people who’d been incarcerated at Her Majesty’s pleasure.

nickname

You know what a nickname is, of course – a substitute for someone or something’s proper name. But have you ever wondered who Nick is?

As it’s Christmas, it would be great if the ‘nick’ was St Nick. But, sadly, it turns out there’s no Nick in nickname. It’s a very old word, going all the way back to the early 1300s. And it looked a bit different then, as it was spelled ‘ekename’. This literally means ‘additional name’ from the Old English word ‘eac’, which comes from ‘eacian’ – to increase. So how did it become ‘nickname’? This is down to a process called rebracketing (also resegmentation or metanalysis if you want to get really technical), which is a fancy-dancy way of saying that the ‘n’ of the ‘an’ got moved to the beginning of the noun. So it went from [an][ekename] to [a][nekename], which eventually morphed into ‘nickname’.

This specific type of rebracketing is called ‘false splitting’. Other words that have lost an ‘n’ because of false splitting include:

• a napron ⇾ an apron (the thing you wear when you’re cooking)

• a naddere ⇾ an adder (snake)

• a noumpere ⇾ an umpire (the tennis people).

Another type of rebracketing is when words become split in a way that’s different from how they were built. If you just said ‘huh’, here are some examples which will hopefully help:

• hamburger – hamburgers are called hamburgers because they come from Hamburg i.e. [Hamburg][er]. But because ham is a food, at some point we decided they were made from ham (even though they’re not), and created a new word, ‘burger’. Then we attached that to lots of other foodstuffs (cheeseburger, veggieburger, etc). Ooh, I’m hungry now

• helicopter – this is made up of ‘helico’, from the Greek word ‘helix’ meaning ‘spiral’, and ‘pter’ from ‘pterón’ which means ‘wing’. So it’s actually [helico][pter]. Presumably because ‘pter’ is quite hard to pronouce, we’ve rebracketed it as [heli][copter] and use both of these as parts of other words (helipad and gyrocopter being the only two I can think of at the moment)

• alcoholic – this is actually made up of [alcohol] and [ic], with alcohol being, well, alcohol, and the suffix ‘ic’ meaning ‘relating to’. We’ve rebracketed this as [alco][holic] and added the [holic] bit to anything vaguely addictive (shopaholic, workaholic, etc.).

Well, that was a lot of technical gubbins, wasn’t it? Let’s finish up with some awesome historical nicknames.

Henry the Impotent doing a medieval finger gun

• Viscount Goderich, AKA The Blubberer: Goderich (1782–1859) holds the dubious honour of being the briefest-serving British prime minister ever (who didn’t die in office) at only 144 days. He got his nickname from crying in the House of Commons about people who died in riots against the Corn Laws (which I think makes him sound like quite a nice bloke).

• Ragnar Hairy Pants: This one’s slightly cheeky as Ragnar might not have been a real person, although he does turn up in The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle which is apparently pretty reliable. I think his nickname’s fairly self-explanatory (he had hairy trousers). His son also had an awesome nickname – Ivar the Boneless – although no-one knows for sure where that came from.

• Charles XIV of Sweden, AKA Sergeant Pretty Legs: He was king of Sweden and Norway from 1818 until he died in 1844, and he had good legs. Nuff said.

• Honourable mentions to: Constantine the Dung-Named (Byzantine emperor from 741 to 775); John The Babymaker (born in 1458 and ruled Cleves – where ‘Anne of’ came from presumably, apparently fathering 63, yep, 63 illegitimate children); and Henry the Impotent (King of Castile from 1454 to 1474, who failed to consummate his 13-year marriage to his cousin, although didn’t have trouble doing it with anyone else apparently).

matutolypea

I can guarantee you’ve had matutolypea at some point in your life. Don’t panic – it’s not some horrible internal disease or toe fungus. It’s when you wake up in the morning feeling grumpy and out of sorts. So it’s basically a posh way of saying that you got out of bed the wrong side.

A very old figurine that may or may not be Hakuna Matata, sorry Matuta Mater (from Wikipedia).

Etymology wise, despite its grand appearance, matutolypea is actually pretty straightforward. It’s a word of two halves. The ‘matuto’ bit comes from ‘Matuta Mater’, an ancient Roman goddess of the dawn. She was worshipped on the western and southern edges of the Roman empire and would later matutate (this is a bad play on words, sorry) into the slightly better-known Aurora. The second part of matutolypea comes from the Greek word ‘lype’, which means ‘grief or sorrow’. So it basically translates as ‘morning mourning’, which is pleasing (unless you’ve got it, or live with someone who does).

Even with these impressive classical roots, ‘matutolypea’ seems to be a fairly modern word, first turning up in print in the 1990s. Sadly, you won’t find it in any mainstream dictionaries either (but that’s never stopped me before).

Despite Matuta being largely forgotten when it comes to goddesses, we get lots of other morning-type words from her name, some more well known than others. They include ‘matins’ which are morning church services, ‘matinee’ for an afternoon performance and ‘matutinal’ which means something is happening in the morning (these have come to us via the French word ‘matin’, which I’m sure you’ll remember from school means ‘morning’).

Your challenge for this week is to say something like this to as many people as you can:

‘Don’t talk to me for at least an hour until my matutolypea subsides.’

And feel free to let me know their reaction in the comments.

gird

You’ll no doubt have heard the phrase ‘to gird one’s loins’ which means to prepare yourself for something, usually stressful. It’s always given me a slightly minging image of hairy thighs rubbing together (sorry). But it’s also made me wonder where the word ‘gird’ comes from. And do we gird anything other than loins? Let’s find out…

‘To gird’ something means to encircle or bind it with a flexible band (like a belt – that’s also where we get ‘girdle’ from). Girding of loins goes all the way back to the Bible. The actual quote (from the King James version) is:

Wherefore gird up the loins of your mind, be sober, and hope to the end for the grace that is to be brought unto you at the revelation of Jesus Christ…

So, what does it actually mean? Well, ye olde Biblical fashionistas would have been decked out in long flowing tunics. Yes, these were great in the desert-y heat, but they weren’t all that practical for anything other than standing around. So when they had to do running or crucifying or killing first borns, they’d take all that long flowy fabric and tie it up with their belt like a pair of shorts, AKA ‘gird’ it round their nethers.

Because you can literally find anything on the internet, someone with too much time on his hands has put together a guide on how to gird your loins. So if you ever find yourself wearing a floor-length tunic then needing to run away from someone or something, you’re all sorted. I know, I spoil you.

Turns out you can gird something other than loins, because ‘gird’ also has a secondary meaning, which is to be sneering or mocking. So presumably if someone mucks up their tunic-tying – think the fashion show testicle in The Inbetweeners – you can be girding about the way they’ve girded their loins.

steganography

Steganography is the practice of hiding a secret message inside another message or a physical object that isn’t secret. Think Tim Messenger, Adam Buxton’s character in the film ‘Hot Fuzz’ (one of my all-time favourites) who hides messages in misspelt newspaper headlines about what’s going on in the village of Sandford (‘He’s Judge Judy and executioner!’). Other examples of steganography include invisible ink or playing a record backwards to reveal a hidden message.

Steganography is action – if you look at the first image under white, blue, green and red lights you see different hidden numbers (not that well-hidden, but still).

Etymology time (my favourite time). ‘Steganography’ comes from the Greek word steganographia. That’s made up of steganós, meaning ‘covered or concealed’, and ‘-graphia’ meaning ‘writing’. The first recorded use of the term was in 1499 by one Johannes Trithemius (amazing name) who wrote a book called ‘Steganographia’. It was a treatise on cryptography and steganography disguised as a book on magic.

The advantage of steganography over cryptography – i.e. converting text into something unintelligible so only someone who has the key or cipher can convert it back – is that the secret message doesn’t attract attention because it’s hidden in something else. So while cryptography is just about protecting the contents of a secret message, steganography hides the fact that there’s a message at all.

The earliest recorded use of steganography was in 440 BC in Greece, which Herodotus (writer, philosopher and all-round clever dude) mentions in his book ‘Histories’ (an account of the Greco-Persian Wars). A ruler by the name of Histiaeus sent a message to a minion about an upcoming revolt by shaving the head of a servant, tattoing the message on to his scalp, then sending him to deliver it once his hair had regrown. Obviously there are a lot of issues here, not least that hair growth takes a long time. Oh, and you need a new servant for every message.

Today steganography has moved on a bit. The word is commonly used to descibe the ways hackers infect people’s computers i.e. by hiding nasty bits of code in common-or-garden documents like PDFs. Then when you open the doc it installs a horrible bit of malware or ransomware on your PC. Bastards.

Warning: contains a lot of blood and some swearing (just a ‘wanker’).

inimical

If something is inimical, it means it’s hostile or unfriendly. Here it is in a sentence: today I pulled a burr out of my dog’s tail, and he fixed me with an inimical stare. It’s not to be confused with inimitable, which is much more positive – it means that something is not able to be imitated or is uniquely extraordinary.

‘Inimical’s etymology is a bit Wayne’s World (#datedreference) – the ‘imicus’ bit comes from ‘amicus’ which means ‘friend’ in Latin. That’s also where we get ‘amicable’ from. So that’s nice. But the ‘in’ suffix means ‘not’.

AKA friendly. NOT.

Even though I’ve used inimical above to describe my dog, we actually don’t generally use it to describe people (wait, what do you mean my dog isn’t a person? Get away with you). It’s used to talk about forces, concepts or situations that are harmful or hostile. Like climate change, the Taliban, Texas law courts… pretty much everything that’s happening in the world right now.

That got dark quickly, sorry. Here’s some Bohemian Rhapsody to cheer you up.

‘Don’t touch my tail.’

majuscule

You already know what a majuscule is, even if you don’t know the name of it. In fact, I’ve used three majuscules in this post already. Go back and have a look, and see if you can find them (that’s four now).

OK, I’ll stop being a smart-arse now. A majuscule is just an upper-case (or large) letter, or script in which every letter is the same size. It was first used in 1722, and comes from the Latin word ‘majusculus’ which simply means ‘rather large’. So not ‘really large’ – just ‘rather’.

You can also use majuscule as an adjective to describe things that are rather large (stop it) e.g. ‘that’s a majuscular carrot’ or ‘I’ve made a majuscular mistake’. No one will know what you mean though (except me).

You’ve probably guessed that the opposite of ‘majuscule’ is ‘miniscule’. Originally ‘miniscule’ was only used to describe lower-case letters in printing. But while it’s since evolved to describe anything that’s ickle, poor old majuscule got left behind. Shame.

Majuscule scripts are actually harder for us humans to read. That’s because we use the up-and-downness (yes, that is the technical term) of upper and lower-case letters to help us recognise words. So when people capitalise things (like headings) because they want to make them look more IMPORTANT, they’re actually making them harder to read (and they look like they’re shouting). So only use majuscule letters where they belong – at the start of sentences, and for proper nouns.

avatar

Vishnu – also blue, like the na’vi.

Now, if you’re a young person, you might have only come across the word ‘avatar’ in the context of James Cameron’s big blue na’vi, or the icon you use to represent you on social media, internet forums, and so on. In fact, ‘avatar’ is much older than that. Like, super old. It first appeared in English in the late 18th century (1784 to be precise) and comes from a Sanskrit word meaning ‘descent’. It was generally used to describe a deity coming to earth – specifically Vishnu, one of the top bods in the Hindu religion. Vishnu is the protector of the universe and whenever the world is threatened, he comes to visit in the form of one of ten different avatars to sort it all out.

(Ummm, are you there, Vishnu? I think we could definitely do with a little bit of help at the moment…)

‘Avatar’ later came to mean any incarnation in human form, and after that any concept or philosophy embodied in a different form (not necessarily human). We can thank the game Second Life for the popularity of the modern-day meaning as an icon representing someone online. Its creator, Philip Rosedale, defines a gaming avatar as ‘the representation of your chosen embodied appearance to other people in a virtual world’. It’d been used in a gaming sense for a while before that though – one Chip Morningstar (What. A. Name.) first used it in a game called Habitat (nothing to do with the furniture store), a forerunner of today’s MMORPGs (massively multiplayer online role-playing games in case you’re not a gamer – probably the most famous of which is World of Warcraft). Even though Chip gets the credit for coining the term ‘avatar’ for people’s online personas, it wasn’t the first time it was used in gaming. That honour belongs to a 1979 game called, you’ve guessed it, Avatar.

Oh, and there’s also a vegan Swedish death metal band called Avatar.

pleonasm

As a copywriter, this is something I have to deal with Every. Single. Day. No, it’s not a nasty disease – a pleonasm is a redundant word or phrase. So it’s basically when people use more words than they need to. Here are some examples:

• future prospects (because prospects are always in the future)

• a true fact (facts are, by definition, true)

• free gift (because you never pay for a gift).

One of my pet hates is ‘in order to’ – you can just say ‘to’. Always. Go on, try it.

The word ‘pleonasm’ has been around for four centuries, and it comes from the Greek pleonazein, which means ‘to be excessive’ (from pleiōn or pleōn, meaning ‘more’).

Pleonasms are similar to tautologies, which is when you repeat the same thing in a slightly different way. Like ‘In my opinion, I think’ and ‘please RSVP’. In fact, it’s so similar that I’m not entirely sure what the difference is… From what I can work out by reading things on the internet, all tautologies are pleonasms but not all pleonasms are tautologies. But then my head exploded so I stopped looking.

Here are some other words for being overly wordy, almost all of which sound like they could also be medical conditions and/or STIs: garrulous, verbose, logorrhea, prolix and periphrasis.

cocktail

Summer is finally here (at least for the next day or so). And what better way to celebrate than with an ice-cold glass of something colourful and cold, maybe with an umbrella in it? But have you ever wondered why pina coladas, mojitos, bellinis et al are called cocktails? Well, the answer is… no one really knows.

Thankfully there are a few theories (which is good, cos otherwise this would be a really short post).

1. The horse theory

Back in the 17th century, the word ‘cock tail’ was used to describe a horse with a docked (i.e. cut short) tail. From there, ‘cock-tailed’ came to be used to describe non-thoroughbred racehorses. The theory goes that it was then applied to drinks made up of lots of mixed ingredients.

2. The eggcup theory

In late 18th century New Orleans, an apothecary (which seems to be synonymous with ‘barman’ in this context) by the name of Antoine Amédée Peychaud used to serve brandy in eggcups alongside bitters (I’ve learnt that ‘bitters’ refers to ‘alcohol infused with plant matter’ which sounds pretty gross to be honest. I also read it described as ‘spirits infused with fruit, spices, leaves, bark, roots and herbs – collectively known as botanicals’ which sounds all organic and artisanal, and also yum. Just goes to show the power of words… Also, you can still buy Peychaud’s bitters today). The theory is that ‘cocktail’ is a mispronounciation of the word ‘coquetier’ i.e. the French for eggcup.

3. The dregs theory

Ye olde tavern owners used to combine the dregs from the end of barrels and sell them off at a discount. These were called ‘cock tailings’, ‘tailings’ being another word for dregs, and ‘cock’ (no sniggering at the back) another name for the spigot or tap of a barrel.

So what’s the real story?

Well, according to spirits historian David Wondrich (I so wish this was my job), who’s done extensive research into this, the closest one to the truth is number 1 – the horse theory. But it’s actually a much more shady tale (or tail). Let’s head back to the 18th century again. Imagine you were in the market for a new horse. Apparently one of the things you would look for was a cocked (or raised up) tail. To fake this, unscrupulous horse dealers would shove a mixture of ginger and/or pepper up horses’ arses, the utter bastards. Ginger and pepper were also common ingredients used to liven up alcoholic drinks – hence, cocktail.

It certainly gives a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘bottoms up’…

illeist

If you’re an illeist, it means you’re speaking about yourself in the third person, instead of the first. So if I said ‘Emma has a wet bum, because she just spilled a full cup of coffee in her lap’ (true story folks), then I’d be using illeism. And also sounding like a bit of an idiot.

Etymology-wise this one’s pretty straightforward, with ‘ille’ being Latin for ‘that man’ or ‘he’, plus the suffix ‘-ist’ which we add to things to show that someone’s doing them (if that makes sense) – like ‘pianist’ or ‘capitalist’. The term was coined by Samuel Taylor Coleridge (he of The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, which I genuinely love, and also the opium-induced, unfinished Kubla Khan) in 1809.

One of the most famous historical illeists is Julius Caesar, who used it in Commentarii de Bello Gallico, his non-fictional account of the Gallic Wars. This was to make it sound like it was impartial, when obviously it wasn’t at all. And it might also be better filed in the ‘Fiction’ section at Waterstones, as several of Caesar's claims seem to have been outright lies. For example, he said that the Romans fought Gallic forces of up to 430,000, which was an impossible army size for the time, and also that not one Roman died during this battle. I call bullshit…

Other more modern illeists, both fictional and non-fictional, include:

• Gollum from Lord of the Rings – although he does it because he doesn’t have anyone else to talk to, which is sad

• Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson who used illeism in his wrestling catchphrases – ‘Do you smell what The Rock is cooking?’ (um, no thanks)

• Hercule Poirot, who almost always talked about himself and his little grey cells in the third person

• Dobby the house elf in the Harry Potter series (god rest his soul) – ‘Dobby has no master. Dobby is a free elf!’

While you might think talking about yourself in the third person makes you sound like a dick, in fact psychologists suggest that there are real benefits to doing just that – but only in your head, not out loud. The idea is that it can help you change your perspective to get past biases and improve decision-making. Emma will definitely be trying this from now on (once her bum dries off).

(With thanks to the No Such Thing As A Fish podcast, which is where I heard this word.)

deadline

To quote Douglas Adams:

‘I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by.’

As a freelance writer, deadlines are a thing that I know a lot about and I also spend a lot of time worrying about. But what I didn’t know is that the word itself has a surprisingly bloody history…

‘Deadline’ as we know it today, i.e. a date or time by which you have to do something, has only been around since the 20th century. But the word itself is much older, and dates back to the 1860s. At this time it referred to a line drawn in or around a prison. If a prisoner went over the line, they’d be shot. Hence, ‘deadline’.

The word was made famous by a Confederate prison for prisoners of war called Andersonville in Georgia in America. Andersonville was known for having comfy cushions in each cell, fresh fruit for breakfast and massages for well-behaved inmates. Only kidding, obviously – it was notorious for its terrible conditions and, you’ve guessed it, use of deadlines. This is from a report on conditions in the prison from one Confederate Captain Walter Bowie (he knows Major Tom’s a junkie):

‘On the inside of the stockade and twenty feet from it there is a dead-line established, over which no prisoner is allowed to go, day or night, under penalty of being shot.’

Just to show you how awful Andersonville was, it was only open for just over a year, yet nearly 13,000 of the 45,000 prisoners of war died from lovely things like scurvy, diarrhoea and dysentery. This was probably due to the fact that it was overcrowded by four times its capacity. After the war ended in 1865, Captain Henry Wirtz, the camp’s commandant, was hanged for war crimes.

(By John L. Ransom – this image is available from the United States Library of Congress’ prints and photographs division under the digital ID pga.02585.)

So how did the meaning change to the less-shooty version we have today? Well, no one knows for sure, but it may well have been influenced by its use to describe a guideline on the bed of a printing press, after which the text wouldn’t print properly. Whatever the route, by the early 1900s people started using the word ‘deadline’ to describe any line that shouldn’t be crossed, and from there it wasn’t long before it became a synonym (i.e. another word for) a time limit.

(With thanks to my dad for telling me about the origins of this word.)

A mug my parents bought me. Just for any potential clients reading this – I’ve actually never missed a deadline. HONEST.

avant-garde

This is ‘Fountain’ (1917) by Marcel Duchamp. Yup, it’s a urinal. With a signature on it.

If you’re avant-garde you’re usually an artist, intellectual or writer who experiments with work or ideas that challenges cultural norms (so it’s those pieces you see in galleries that make you say ‘I could knock that up at home’, which then go on to win the Turner Prize). But you knew all that already, right? The reason I’ve chosen it as the word of the week is because I found out its origins on this week’s Wittertainment podcast (which, considering it’s supposed to be about films, actually contains a surprising amount of etymology – see, for example, curfew, sabotage and egregious). And I had no idea how literal it is.

So, ‘avant-garde’ is French (naturellement), and translates literally as ‘advance guard’ (AKA ‘vanguard’). It was originally used by the French military to refer to a small group of soldiers that reconnoi… reconoi… reccono… scouted ahead of the main force. In the 19th century it became associated with left-wing French radicals campaigning for political reform. And from there it was then linked with the idea of art as a force for social change, eventually losing the association with left-wing social causes to become the term we know today.

One of the first artworks to be described as avant-garde was The Little Fourteen Year Old Dancer by Edgar Degas. Despite looking pretty inoffensive to us today, she caused an outcry when she was first exhibited in 1881. The public didn’t like how realistic she looked, or that she was a dancer – then considered a profession on a similar level to prostitution. Critics of the time described her as both ‘repulsive’ and ‘a threat to society’. I’d love to know what they would have made of Duchamp’s urinal.

David Bowie doing avant-garde like only David Bowie could

sanguine

This is one of those words that (to misquote The Princess Bride) doesn’t mean what I think it means. If you’re sanguine then you’re confidentally optimistic about something, or eagerly hopeful (I thought it meant you were resigned to something, which is entirely wrong). It also means ‘of or relating to blood’, and you can use it as an adjective to describe something that’s blood red. This second meaning makes sense when you know that the Latin word for blood is ‘sanguis’.

But how did a word that means ‘bloody’ also come to mean ‘optimistic’? Well, during the Middle Ages people believed that the human body contained four different liquids. These were called humours, and they were:

(Photo by National Cancer Institute on Unsplash.)

• phlegm

• black bile (also called ‘melancholy’)

• yellow bile

• blood.

The key to perfect health was to have all these humours balanced. But, everyone had one that dominated. So people who were solid, calm and unemotional were thought to have too much phlegm going on – which is where we get the word ‘phlegmatic’. Too much black or yellow bile meant you were bilious i.e. bad tempered. Blood was the best of the humours to be dominated by – these people were strong, confident and courageous. In short, sanguine.

As medical science advanced and germ theory came to the fore, the idea of humours slowly disappeared. But the words attached to them have stayed with us.

We get a few other bloody words from the same roots as ‘sanguine’ which you may or may not have heard of. These include:

• ‘sanguineous’ meaning ‘bloodthirsty’

• ‘consanguineous’ which means ‘descended from the same ancestor’

• exsanguination, which is what vampires do i.e. drain your blood

• sanguinary which means ‘murderous’ or ‘bloody’

• sanguinolent which is an adjective meaning something is ‘tinged with blood’.

(Thanks to my friend Rob Frankson for giving me the idea for this.)

The four humours in action – which one are you?

(Image from Wikipedia)

eavesdrop

As you’ll no doubt already know, to eavesdrop is to listen in to someone else’s convo without them knowing. But have you ever wondered what it has to do with ‘eaves’ and/or dropping stuff? Well, luckily I’m here to tell you, whether you want me to or not.

So, back in the day, ‘eavesdrop’ didn’t actually have anything to do with listening. It was actually much more literal, and referred to the water that fell from the eaves of a building (i.e. the edges of a roof which overhang the walls). The meaning then changed to refer to the ground where that water fell. In fact, there was an ancient law that meant when you were building your house you had to leave at least two feet between the edge of your eaves and your neighbour’s boundary. This was to make sure that any water dripping from your eaves stayed on your own land, thank you very much. There was even a legal term called ‘right of drip’ which entitled someone’s eaves to drip on their neighbour’s land (which sounds like a euphemism but isn’t). Eventually ‘eavesdrop’ morphed into a word describing people hanging around in that space under the eaves, listening in to conversations they shouldn’t be.

The original word ‘eavesdrop’ comes from an Old English word which goes all the way back to the ninth century. It has the fantastic spelling of ‘yfesdrype’ (and if you know how to pronounce that, will you marry me?).

Eavesdropping is a central plot point in a lot of well-known novels and stories. Here are some examples (SPOILER ALERTS):

A painting of some cardinals eavesdropping in the Vatican, by Henri Adolphe Laissement (that one in purple by the door is definitely telling the others to shut the fuck up).

• the entire plot of What Maisie Knew by Henry James (which I wrote an essay on at university but never actually read) revolves around a child, the eponymous Maisie, overhearing various salacious details of her divorced parents’ love lives (I think – like I said, I never actually finished it)

• Polonius gets stabbed in the arras while eavesdropping on Hamlet in, you’ve guessed it, Hamlet

• the unending misery that is Atonement by Ian McEwan is all kicked off by a child overhearing what she thinks is a rape

• all of Pride and Prejudice, and also Bridget Jones’ Diary, is centred on Lizzy Bennet/Bridget overhearing Colin Firth slagging her off.