gaslight

When you gaslight someone (which hopefully you never do), you manipulate them psychologically. And not in a good way. Gaslighting is generally recognised as a dripfeeding of doubts that make someone question their memory, perception or sanity, and undermine their confidence. It’s often applied to men manipulating women, but it’s also used in lots of different contexts including work and politics.

The term ‘gaslighting’ feels fairly modern which it sort of is, depending on your definition of ‘modern’. It comes from a 1938 thriller play called, unsurprisingly, ‘Gas Light’ (it’s known as ‘Angel Street’ in the United States) by British playwright Patrick Hamilton. Set in the 1880s in a fog-bound London, ‘Gas Light’ tells the story of Jack and Bella Manningham. It begins in late afternoon, a time described by Hamilton as ‘before the feeble dawn of gaslight and tea’. Bella is clearly anxious, made worse by her mean husband flirting with the servants in front of her, as well as disappearing from the house for long periods of time and refusing to say where he’s going. After a while it becomes clear that Jack is trying to convince Bella she’s going nuts. One of the many small things he does to convince her she’s losing it is by denying that the gaslights that illuminate their home are dimming and flickering (even though they clearly are). In 1961, 23 years after the play was written, a psychiatrist and author called Dr Theodore Sarbin verbed that noun (more on that later) and coined ‘gaslighting’ as a description of a form of psychological manipulation in which someone undermines another person’s perception of reality.

If you don’t want to know what happens in the rest of the play, stop reading now as spoilers follow…

As well as the gaslights dimming, Bella also hears footsteps from the supposedly empty apartment above theirs – another thing Jack convinces her is in her head. Bella then meets Rough, an unfortunately named police detective. He’s investigating the murder of a wealthy woman called Alice Barlow who lived in the now-empty apartment above them. The murderer was never found, and neither were Alice’s jewels. It turns out that Jack has been going to her flat each night to search for the missing jewels – so it’s his footsteps Bella has been hearing. As well as that, when he lights that apartment’s gas lights it causes them to dim in the rest of the building, which is what Bella has also seen. Rough convinces Bella to help him expose Jack as the murderer. Bella offers to help Jack escape. Damn. But then, at the last minute, she reminds him she’s insane, which means she’s not accountable for her actions. The play ends with Jack being led away by the police. Yay!

‘Gas Light’ was made into a few films, the most famous of which is probably the 1944 Hollywood MGM version starring Ingrid Bergman (renamed ‘The Murder in Thornton Square’ in the UK – it also starred prolific serial killer Angela Lansbury* in her film debut). There’s also a great British version from 1940. We’re lucky to have that version at all – when MGM bought the remake rights they put a clause in the contract insisting that all prints of it be destroyed, including the negative, so it couldn’t compete with their version. Fortunately they failed, which is great for us as Time Out described it as:

‘Nothing like as lavish as the later MGM version ... But in its own small-scale way a superior film by far. Lurking menace hangs in the air like a fog, the atmosphere is electric, and [lead actress] Wynyard suffers exquisitely as she struggles to keep dementia at bay.’

You can watch the fully restored version of this film for free on YouTube.

Changing a noun like ‘gaslight’ to a verb (i.e. by adding ‘ing’) is called, rather unimaginatively, ‘verbing’ or ‘verbification’. Lots of people get cross about verbification, as it means we end up with horrible things like ‘to podium’ in sport (YUCK YUCK YUCK). But verbification has been going on forever, and is in fact where we get lots of verbs we use all the time now, including ‘access’ (as in ‘access a file’), ‘chair’ (as in ‘chair a meeting’), ‘host’ (as in ‘host a party’) and loads of others – like ‘email’, ‘strike’, ‘salt’, ‘switch’, ‘sleep’, ‘ship’, ‘train’, ‘stop’, ‘drink’, ‘cup’, ‘lure’, ‘mutter’, ‘dress’, ‘divorce’, ‘fool’ and ‘merge’, to name just a few stolen from Wikipedia.

*This is a joke about ‘Murder She Wrote’. Angela Lansbury was not, at least as far as I know, a serial killer, prolific or otherwise.

barmecide

Despite sounding quite murderous (‘Oh my god, he’s a barmecidal maniac!’), ‘barmecide’ actually has a slightly more mundane meaning. It’s an adjective (AKA a describing word*) for something that has the illusion of abundance but is ultimately disappointing. Here’s an example: ‘The company’s extravagant promises turned out to be barmecidal, leaving the investors with nothing.’ Apparently a ‘barmecidal feast’ is a well-known phrase, although not one that I’ve ever come across.

So why have I chosen ‘barmecide’ and its sad investors? Well, because it has quite an interesting backstory. ‘Barmecide’ is an eponym (AKA a word named after a person) and comes from ‘The Thousand and One Nights’ (also known as ‘The Arabian Nights’ Entertainment’ or ‘Arabian Nights’, which is what everyone actually calls it). The tale that introduces the term is ‘The Barber’s Tale of his Sixth Brother’ in which a prince called, you’ve guessed it, Barmecide, invites a beggar to a big old feast. Because Barmecide is an arsehole, the feast is an illusion and the beggar is given empty plates and glasses that only appear to have food and drink in them. And that’s where we get our word from. Thankfully our beggar is a wily chap and pretends to get drunk on the imaginary wine before punching the prick of a prince. Hooray.

*If you don’t know your adjectives from your elbow, head to my Instagram page for a video on parts of speech. More fun than it sounds, honest.

rebarbative

‘Rebarbative’ is an adjective (AKA a describing word) you can use for someone (or something) that’s repellent, irritating or unattractive. And as they probably won’t know what it means, they won’t realise you’re insulting them. Winner winner chicken dinner.

‘rebarbative’ is a word of two halves, It comes from the Latin word ‘rebarbare’, which is made up of ‘re-’ meaning ‘against’, and ‘barba’ which means ‘beard’ or ‘hair’. Why is it hairy? Well, rebarbative was originally used to refer to something that was so horrible it caused your hair to stand on end. Like spiders. Or Donald Trump.

The record for the world’s longest beard is currently held by one Hans Langseth, even though Hans is no longer with us. He was a Norwegian-American who lived in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, and his beard was a whopping 17.5 feet (approximately 5.33 meters) long. I realised when I googled Hans that I’d already written about him for former word of the week pognophile, so head to that post if you’d like to know more about him.

Growing your beard super long can be a hazardous business. In 1567, another man called Hans died when he tripped over his own beard. Hans Steininger, or Staininger depending on which page of the internet you look at, was the burgomaster (i.e. head honcho, or mayor) of Branau, a town then in Bavaria but now in Austria. He usually kept his beard, which was 4.5 feet (1.4 metres) long at the time, rolled up and tied with a leather strap to keep it out of the way. But on that fateful day in 1567, he was responding to an emergency (possibly a fire) and forgot to roll it up and out of the way. When rushing down some stairs he fell over it and broke his neck. Poor old Hans.

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.

sarcophagus

Tis the season for ghosties and ghoulies and long-leggedy beasties, with Halloween (or Hallowe’en if we’re being grammatically correct) just around the corner. So the word of the week is also jumping on the spooky bandwagon with ‘sarcophagus’.

A sarcophagus is a type of stone container or coffin, usually made of limestone, marble or something similar. They were particularly popular in ancient Egypt as people believed that bodies should be preserved, and sarcophagi were good protection for those mummified remains.

The word itself actually has Greek origins. It comes from ‘sarx’ (σάρξ) meaning ‘flesh’, and ‘phagein’ meaning ‘to eat’ or ‘to consume’. So sarcophagus actually translates as ‘flesh eating’. Yum. Why? Well, the term was originally used to refer to a particular type of limestone that was believed to decompose or consume the flesh of the deceased more quickly. And unlike the Egyptians, many religions saw this as a good thing as it would speed up the journey to the afterlife.

The word ‘sarcophagus’ was adopted into Latin as ‘sarcophagus’ (which was very unimaginative). From there it passed into various European languages, including our own, keeping its meaning as a stone coffin or tomb, but losing the whole flesh-eating bit.

One of the most famous sarcophagi in history belonged to Tutankhamun, or King Tut, whose mummy was discovered in 1922 by British archaeologist Howard Carter in the Egyptian Valley of the Kings. Tut was actually entombed in a series of ornate sarcophagi, with the innermost one being made of solid mother-flipping gold.

Tut facts:

• he was only around 18 or 19 years old when he died, so didn’t actually get to do much pharaoh-ing

• no one really knows what killed him – theories include complications after a leg injury or a genetic disorder

• a few people died after the discovery of Tut’s tomb giving rise to the legend of the ‘Curse of the Pharaohs’ (and lots of terrible horror films). One of those was Lord Carnarvon, a financial backer of Carter’s expedition who died from an infected mozzie bite shortly after the tomb was opened. His half brother also died not long afterwards (of blood poisoning) as did his secretary, and two other members of the expedition. Howard Carter didn’t shuffle off for another 17 years or so though, so it wasn’t a very good curse.

lemma

A lemma is a term or phrase that’s being defined or explained. Huh? Here it is in action – when you look up a word in a dictionary or, more likely these days, type a word into a dictionary search bar, the word you’re typing is called a lemma.

Lemma has its origins in ancient Greek. It’s derived from the Greek word ‘λῆμμα’ which means ‘something taken’, ‘an assumption’ or ‘a proposition’. It’s the noun (person, place or thing) form of the verb (doing word) ‘λαμβάνω’, or ‘lambanō’, which means ‘to take’.

The plural of lemma is either ‘lemmas’ or, if you’re feeling a bit arcane, ‘lemmata’. And it’s also where we get the word ‘dilemma’ from – which is ‘lemma’ in the sense of a proposition, with ‘di’ meaning ‘two’ at the start – two propositions.

All of this emma-based etymology caused me to ask ChatGPT what my name means. He told me it comes from the Germanic word ‘ermen’ or ‘irmin’, which means ‘whole’ or ‘universal’. He went on to say that Emma is ‘a classic name that carries a sense of timelessness and elegance’. Fingers crossed he wasn’t just buttering me up before he steals my job and brings about Judgement Day.

If you’re not a fan of ‘lemma’, another word for a term being defined is a ‘definiendum’. It’s fun to say, and will deffo make you sound like a smarty pants. You’re welcome.

dashboard

These days we use the word dashboard for a couple of things – cars, and techy things with lots of displays and buttons, which I’m reliably informed by the internet are called graphical user interfaces (GUIs). So you might think it’s quite a modern word. In fact dashboards pre-date cars by a good 40 years*, first appearing in print in 1842. Hold on to your hats – let’s find out what put the ‘dash’ into ‘dashboard’.

The word ‘dashboard’ originally referred to a protective board or barrier at the front of a horse-drawn carriage. It was there to stop passengers being covered in crap thrown up by horses' hooves as they, you guessed it, dashed.

When cars turned up in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, the design used lots of elements from horse-drawn carriages (except for the horses, obviously), which included the dashboard. Initially it had the same function i.e. as a crap barrier, but as cars got more and more complicated (and got windows), the dashboard evolved to include various instruments and controls like the speedo, fuel gauge and so on (you know what a dashboard looks like). And we then started using the term to refer to that whole instrument panel.

In the mid-20th century, as computers and digital displays became the norm, the term expanded to include those GUIs I mentioned earlier, that display information and controls in one place. Cool, right?

*The first ‘proper’ automobile is widely attributed to Karl Benz (he of Mercedes-Benz fame), a German engineer and inventor. He developed and built the Benz Patent-Motorwagen in 1885, getting a patent for it a year later. It’s considered the world's first true automobile because it was designed to be powered by an internal combustion engine. Obviously there were lots of other experiments and prototypes that came before it though.

recalcitrant

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Also, I still think Hans was pretty clever.

*I love you really, Gus.

Clever Hans with Willhelm

bletting

Some fruits, particularly sloes and medlars (more on those later), can be a bit sour to eat, even when they’re ripe (due to high levels of tannins). And that’s where our word of the week comes in – to make them more edible, we blet them. This basically means letting them go past fully ripe to the point where they’re just starting to break down, but aren’t quite rotting yet. Yum.

There seems to be quite an art to bletting – let it go too long and obviously the fruit’s too minging to eat. Don’t do it enough and it’ll be too bitter to enjoy. Having said that, it’s a fairly hands-off process, and mainly involves storing fruit at room temperature then looking at it every now and again. There seems to be some poking involved as well.

Etymology-wise, we can trace ‘blet’ back to the Old English word ‘blætt’ or ‘blǣtt’, that was used to describe anything a bit squishy or soft.

Four medlars, in all their bummy glory (photo © Andrew Dunn, 1 October 2005).

One fruit that’s inedible before bletting is the medlar, which you possibly haven’t heard of. Medlars were actually very popular here in Blighty a few hundred years ago. They go back even further than that as well – the medlar tree comes from Persia, and ye olde Greeks and Romans grew them too. They possibly fell out of favour because a perfectly bletted medlar is brown and squishy to the point that you might think it’s going to collapse in your hand. Doesn’t sound terribly appetising, does it?

Medlars also aren’t the most attractive of fruits – in fact, in France they’re called ‘cul de chien’ which translates as ‘dog’s arse’. Shakespeare called them ‘open-arse’ in Romeo and Juliet (which paints a lovely picture), and DH Lawrence referred to them as ‘autumnal excrementa’ (‘autumn shit’) in his poem ‘Medlars and Sorb-Apples’. That ode starts with these delightful lines:

‘I love you, rotten,

Delicious rottenness.’

Despite all this bad press, the much-maligned medlar is making a bit of a comeback. Medlar jelly is apparently lovely with a bit of cheese, and you can buy it online. Go on, treat yourself to some autumnal poop. You know you want to.

salary

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

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

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

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

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

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

filibuster

In case you’re not an expert on political systems (which I definitely am not), a filibuster is a parliamentary tactic, often used in the United States’ Senate. It involves a member of the legislature speaking for a long time, or engaging in other tactics like raising lots of points of order, to try to delay a vote on a bill. This works because in the United States’ Senate there’s no time limit on individual speeches. So a senator can potentially speak for hours or even days to stop a vote.

There are a few ways to end a filibuster, including a three-fifths majority vote (usually 60 out of 100 senators in the US Senate) to invoke ‘cloture’ (another new-to-me word). This is a formal process that limits further debate and schedules a time for a vote on the bill.

So, why is this type of long speech called a ‘filibuster’? Well, it comes from a Spanish word ‘filibustero’, which originally referred to pirates or buccaneers doing naughty things in the West Indies and Central America during the 19th century. ‘Filibustero’ probably has its origins in the Dutch word ‘vrijbuiter’, which means ‘freebooter’ or ‘pirate’. It wasn’t long before this term that previously described pirates became a word for a parliamentary obstruction tactic.

Strom Thurmond – allegedly racist AND sexist (I cut the top of his head off on purpose)

The longest filibuster on record came from the awesomely named Senator Sturm Thurmond, who sounds like a Star Wars character. Despite his excellent moniker, Thurmond was a vehement opponent of the Civil Rights Act 1957, and supported racial segregation (apparently he also had a reputation for fondling women in elevators – he sounds like a massive dick). His filibuster to stop Black Americans getting the vote started at 8.54pm on 28 August and lasted until 9.12pm THE FOLLOWING DAY – that’s a massive 24 hours and 18 minutes. Thankfully it didn’t work, and the bill passed two hours after his filibuster ended. It was signed into law by President Eisenhower within two weeks. Up yours, Sturm.

mascot

When you hear the word ‘mascot’, you probably think of someone dressed in an oversized costume running about at a sports event posing for pictures and hugging people. But in fact, the word ‘mascot’ has quite a sinister history, rooted in black magic and witches. OOOH.

Okay, I might have overegged the pudding ever so slightly. The word ‘mascot’ dates back to the 19th century, and comes from the French word ‘mascotte’, which was used to describe a lucky charm, talisman or magical object. This in turn came from ‘masco’, a Provençal (a dialect of southern France) term for a sorceress or witch. That probably comes from the Old Provençal word ‘masca’, meaning ‘mask’ or ‘spectre’. In the late 19th century, we started using the term to refer to a person, animal or object that brought luck or represents a group, like a sports team.

Sports team mascots are often chosen based on symbolism, characteristics or qualities that are supposed to bring positive energy or success. But sometimes they’re just downright scary. Take Kingsley, who represents Partick Thistle, a professional football club from Glasgow, and looks like a squashed sun with the cold dead eyes of a killer. He was designed by Turner Prize-nominated artist David Shrigley and was unveiled in 2015 to coincide with Thistle’s new sponsorship from investment firm Kingsford Capital Management. Reactions to Kingsley varied from ‘Lisa Simpson on meth’ to ‘the haggard face of the Teletubbies’ sun baby’. Kingsley also has the dubious honour of being the only mascot ever to earn a review from the Guardian’s art critic Jonathan Jones, who compared him to the monsters painted and sculpted by the surrealist Joan Miró. It obviously hit home as well, with Kingsley’s web page on the Partick Thistle site reading as follows:

‘There were a lot of mean things said about me when I first appeared, but I’m not too concerned because I know it’s what’s on the inside that counts. I’m a nice guy really – just a bit misunderstood … I might look a bit angry but I’m really very approachable and I love Partick Thistle. So don’t be scared to come and say hello if you see me out and about.’

Well, he would say that, wouldn’t he?

WT actual F

pia

My mum put this down in Words With Friends the other day, which prompted me to look it up as I’d only ever seen it as a woman’s name before and obviously proper nouns are NOT ALLOWED. Well, it turns out we all have a pia – it’s an anatomical term, the full version of which is ‘pia mater’. And it has quite an interesting backstory. (Disclaimer: I’m no biologist, so apologies if you are and I’ve got any of this wrong.)

The pia mater plays a vital role in keeping our central nervous systems healthy and functioning properly. It’s one of three meninges (sets of membranes that provide a protective covering) that surround and protect our brains and spinal cords. The other two are the dura mater and the arachnoid mater. The pia mater is the innermost layer that directly covers the surface of the brain and spinal cord. It’s a thin, transparent membrane that sticks closely to our brains’ contours, following the folds and grooves. It also surrounds the spinal cord.

The pia mater’s primary function is to support, protect and nourish the underlying neural tissues by carrying blood vessels that supply nutrients and oxygen to the brain and spinal cord. If you fall down a lot like I do, then you should be grateful to your pia mater, as it protects that brain and spinal cord from impacts.

We are of course here for the words, so why is it called a pia mater? If you did any Latin in school then you might be ahead of me here – it translates to ‘tender’ or ‘gentle’ ‘mother’ (the word ‘pia’ is the feminine form of the Latin adjective ‘pius’). The name ‘pia mater’ was introduced during the Renaissance period (14th to 17th centuries) when anatomical knowledge was expanding, and Latin was the universal language of science and academia, and has stuck around ever since. It was probably called that because of the way it encloses the surface of the brain and spinal cord, cradling them like a mother. Nice, right?

Oh, and you’ve probably guessed that ‘arachnoid mater’ translates as ‘spider-like mother’, because of its web-like appearance. And ‘dura mater’ means ‘tough mother’ due to this outermost meninge’s durable and robust nature. It’s one tough mother f*cker.

skinflint

Before I get into this one, I should probably warn you that the origins of this word might be apocryphal (AKA, bollocks). But since I’ve never let the truth get in the way of a good story before, let’s crack on…

A skinflint is a person who’s mean with their money. Think that friend who leaves before their round in the pub, or that person who never brings booze to the party (I’m not sure why all my examples are alcohol related, sorry). Turns out humans have been being cheap for a long time, and ‘skinflint’ goes all the way back to 1699. The possibly rubbish story goes that in those days, soldiers used flints to produce the spark they needed to fire their rifles. And apparently there were some commanders so tight that they gave their soldiers shavings they’d scraped or ‘skinned’ from a flint because they didn’t want to spend extra money giving them a whole flint each. And for that they earned the nickname of, you’ve guessed it, ‘Skinflint’.

Ebenezer Scrooge is probably the most famous fictional skinflint. But there are lots of real-life tight-arses that you might not have come across before.

• John Elwes (1714–1789) was a British MP and is often considered the inspiration for the character of Scrooge. He went to bed at sundown so he didn’t have to use candles, and dressed in rags instead of buying new clothes – including a beggar’s cast-off wig he found in a hedge, which he wore for two weeks.

• Daniel K. Ludwig (1897–1992), an American shipping businessman, almost fired one of his tanker captains for using a paper clip on a two-page report.

• Because I’m a feminist, I found one lady skinflint. Hetty Green (1834–1916), was an American businesswoman and financier known as ‘the queen/witch of Wall Street’ (depending on which journalist you read). She would apparently instruct her laundress (so she wasn’t tight enough to do her own washing) to only wash the dirty bits of her dresses and leave the rest to save on soap. There’s also a fairly vicious story that she refused to pay for a doctor to look at her son’s injured leg, which led to it being amputated. There’s loads of evidence which shows this isn’t true, and that she actually spent a lot of money getting him fixed up. But sadly the story was widely reported at the time, perhaps because the male-dominated financial industry just couldn’t cope with a woman who was better at investing than they were.

• Ingvar Kamprad (1926–2018) was the Swedish billionaire founder of IKEA. It seems he was as cheap as his furniture as he flew economy class, encouraged IKEA employees to use both sides of a page when writing or printing (I mean, that’s just good for the environment), recycled tea bags, and kept the salt and pepper packets from restaurants he went to (well, those meatballs could do with a bit of seasoning).

It’s worth pointing out that one thing all these tight-wads have in common is that they were very rich. So maybe there’s something to be said for not paying for your round…

maven

A maven is someone who’s exceptionally experienced or knowledgeable about something – basically it’s a fancy-dancy way of calling someone an expert. So you could say ‘Emma is an etymology expert’ (oh, thanks).

’Maven’ comes from the Yiddish (a West Germanic language spoken by Jews) word ‘meyvn’ which means ‘one who understands’. It’s related to the Hebrew verb ‘bin’, which means ‘to understand’.

‘Maven’ was made popular by a guy called William Safire who, to be frank, sounds like my perfect man (if it wasn’t for the fact that he’s dead). He wrote a feature in The New York Times called ‘The Maven’s Word of the Day’ where he explored ‘new words, vogue phrases and the intriguing roots of everyday discourse – with occasionally crotchety observations on everything from proper usage to impropaganda’. The column aimed to entertain and educate readers about the English language and its quirks (it’s like looking in a mirror – even if he may have had one or two more readers than me). It ran for more than 30 years under Safire, and he wrote an impressive 1,300 instalments.

Safire receiving the Presidential Medal of Freedom in 2006 (White House photo by Shealah Craighead)

Much like me, William didn’t have any real credentials for his wordy expertise, saying after being hired to write his column, ‘So what if I hadn’t finished college [he dropped out after two years ar Syracuse University], or even studied Latin? In the language dodge, I figured, a cat could look at a king.’ That’s one of the reasons he chose the word ‘maven’ as his title, as he said it contained ‘a note of self-mockery’. Also much like me, he was happy to play fast and loose with language if it suited, saying ‘I welcome new words, or old words used in new ways provided the result is more precision, added color or greater expressiveness’. Despite that, he was a staunch defender of correct English, and was instrumental in getting Safeway stores to change their express-lane signs from ‘Ten items or less’ to ‘Ten items or fewer’. SWOON.

Safire didn’t just wax lyrical about words. He was also a speechwriter for Richard Nixon where he coined several memorable phrases, including describing critics of the administration as ‘nattering nabobs of negativism’ in a speech for Vice-President Spiro Agnew. He won the Pulitzer Prize for commentary in 1978, and was described by President George W Bush as ‘a voice of independence and principle’, adding ‘American journalism is better for the contributions of William Safire’.

What a legend.

evanescence

Today’s word of the week is brought to you by ‘I Capture the Castle’, a coming-of-age novel by Dodie Smith (who’s probably most famous for having written ‘The Hundred and One Dalmatians’). I’d never read it before, and if you haven’t either I thoroughly recommend it. It tells the story of Cassandra Mortmain, who lives with her bohemian but impoverished family in a crumbling castle in rural Suffolk in the 1930s. The family is made up of her beautiful but bored sister, Rose, her glamorous stepmother, Topaz (who enjoys dancing naked in the rain every now and again), her little brother Thomas, her eccentric novelist father who’s been suffering from crippling writer's block after publishing one successful book and Stephen, a sort of servant/adopted child who has an almighty crush on Cassandra. Honestly, it’s wonderful. And it’s also where I saw this word used in the following quote:

Perhaps he [Simon, Rose’s fiancé and Cassandra’s crush – yep, there’s a love triangle*] finds beauty saddening—I do myself sometimes. Once when I was quite little I asked Father why this was and he explained that it was due to our knowledge of beauty’s evanescence, which reminds us that we ourselves shall die. Then he said I was probably too young to understand him; but I understood perfectly.

Now if you, like me, were a teenager in the 90s, you’re probably thinking of American goth rockers Evanescence who released bangers like ‘Bring me to life’ and… actually, that’s the only one I can think of. And really, it’s a perfect name for an angsty alternative band. The word ‘evanescence’ is an adjective (a describing word) for something that’s temporary, ephemeral (another good word), or likely to be forgotten over time. Like fleeting moments, fading memories or the passage of time itself…

Sorry, I got a bit carried away there. Let’s come straight back down to earth with some etymology. ‘Evanescence’ comes from the Latin verb ‘evanescere’. That’s a combo of the prefix ‘e-’, meaning ‘out’ or ‘away’ (see also ‘eject’, ‘evict’ and ‘emit’, among others) and the verb ‘vanescere’ which means ‘to vanish or disappear’. That’s formed from ‘vanus’, meaning ‘empty’ or ‘vain’, and the suffix ‘-escere’ which indicates the beginning of a process or state. This suffix also turns up in words like ‘convalesce’ (to start getting better), ‘effervesce’ (to start bubbling or frothing) and ‘adolesce’ (to start being a stroppy teenager). Sorry, I think I sucked all the beauty out of it, didn’t I?

*If you factor in Stephen as well, then maybe it’s a love square? There’s also Neil, Simon’s brother, who I suspect may also be involved, but I haven’t finished it yet so I can’t be sure. Also, that would make it a love pentagon which is ridiculous.

trivia

You know what trivia is – information that’s usually quite interesting and perhaps not that widely known, but probably not that important. Also a thing that you have to have ready when you’re female and you tell a man you’re interested in something, and he immediately asks you to prove it (actual conversations with male friends: ‘I’m a big Star Wars fan.’ ‘Really? How many forms of communication is C-3PO fluent in*?’ And: ‘I love watching tennis.’ ‘Yes? How many French Opens has Nadal won**?’)

The word ‘trivia’ comes from Latin and is the plural form of ‘trivium’ (but don’t ever use the singular version because you’ll sound like a dick), which means ‘place where three roads meet’. In ancient Rome, ‘trivium’ was used to refer to the three subjects of the beginners’ liberal arts course at university, which were: grammar (my fave), rhetoric (the study and practice of persuasive public speaking) and logic (a branch of philosophy focusing on valid and sound reasoning). While these might not seem that trivial to us, the fact that ‘trivium’ was the name for the beginners’ class is probably why it’s since evolved to refer to less important information.

I asked my robot overlord, ChatGPT, to tell me some trivia, and here’s what it said:

• Honey never spoils. Archaeologists have found pots of honey in ancient Egyptian tombs that are over 3,000 years old and still perfectly edible.

• The shortest war in history occurred between Britain and Zanzibar in 1896. It lasted only 38 minutes.

• The world’s oldest known recipe is for beer. It dates back to ancient Sumeria around 1800 BCE.

• The Eiffel Tower in Paris was originally intended to be a temporary structure, built for the 1889 World’s Fair. It was almost dismantled afterward but was saved because of its value as a radio transmission tower.

• The average person spends around six months of their lifetime waiting at red traffic lights.

• The national animal of Scotland is the unicorn.

• The world’s largest flower is the Rafflesia arnoldii, which can grow up to three feet in diameter and weigh up to 24 pounds. It’s also known for its distinctive smell, often likened to that of rotting flesh.

• Astronauts’ height can change in space. Without the force of gravity compressing their spines, they can grow up to 2 inches taller while spending extended periods in space.

*It’s six million. Which I did know.

** It’s 14. Which I didn’t know. But I do now, and I’m ready for you, men.

lullaby

You know what a lullaby is – a song you sing to a baby that won’t sleep (hello to my nephew). ‘Lullaby’ comes from the Middle English phrase ‘lullen’, which means ‘to lull’, and ‘by’ which means, well, ‘by’ or ‘near’. So it literally translates as ‘to lull near’. We’ve been using the word ‘lullaby’ in English since at least the 16th century.

So far, so straightforward. But, there’s another, more sinister explanation. Before I get into it, I should preface this by saying this is ‘folk etymology’ which is when we change or reinterpret the origin of a word over time, usually due to a popular or widely held (wrong) belief about its meaning (see ‘penthouse’ for an example). So everything after this point is probably bollocks. But let’s just go with it, because it’s much more interesting.

Lilith and snake pal (not the name of the painting) by John Collier

In this explanation, the word ‘lullaby’ comes from ‘Lilith abi’ which means ‘Lilith, begone’ in Hebrew. In some Jewish mythology, Lilith was the first wife of Adam, before Eve (PLOT TWIST). Unlike Eve, who was made from Adam’s rib, Lilith was created from the same clay as he was, which made them equal. Because of this she got a bit uppity – literally – and refused to lie underneath him when they were getting jiggy with it, or have his children. You go, girl.

Because of all this bloody feminism (I bet she wanted equal pay and dresses with pockets too), Lilith was either banished from the Garden of Eden or left of her own accord (I hope it was the second one). In the wilderness around the garden she became a demon who preyed on newborn infants and seduced men in their sleep (using reverse cowgirl, presumably – no missionary for our Lilith). She’s often shown as having wings, or as a snake.

Lilith appears in various Jewish texts, including the Talmud and the Zohar. And depending on who you talk to she’s either a symbol of female empowerment and resistance against the patriarchy, or a dangerous and evil woman who threatens the very order of creation. I think you can probably guess which side I come down on.

Anyway, back to lullabies. For whatever reason, Lilith has got a reputation for stealing babies. One belief is that this is because she was jealous of the attention Adam and Eve gave their children, while another says she could only have demon babies, so she stole human ones to make up for it. Either way, singing ‘Lilith abi’, or a lullaby, was a way to ward off Lilith and protect your babbie from her evil/feminist clutches.

I told you it was better than the real answer.

grist

You’ve probably heard the phrase ‘to add grist to the mill’, meaning to use something to your advantage e.g. ‘his utter stupidity really added grist to the mill’. But what exactly is grist? And why are you adding it to your mill? Well, it turns out that it’s a pretty literal metaphor – grist is simply grain that’s ground into flour and a mill is, well, you know what a mill is.

A mill, obviously

The earliest known use of the phrase in the metaphorical sense is in a work by an English theologian and reformer called John Foxe, who wrote in 1570: ‘All these are as grist to the mill to the papists.’ You might be able to guess from this that Foxe was a protestant, having converted from Catholicism. If I were a cynic, I might think that some of the reason for this was because he was due to take Catholic holy orders after his academic career ended, which of course meant giving up all action in the trouser department. He went on to have six kids, so it was lucky for them he did convert. Although Wikipedia describes him as ‘so bookish that he ruined his health by his persistent study’, so I’m very impressed he found the time. He also wrote an enormous (1,800 pages no less) history of Christian martyrs and their persecution and suffering, which became a popular and influential work during the Protestant Reformation, so maybe it wasn’t all about the winkie.

Anyway, back to ‘grist’. It comes from the Old English word, ahem, ‘grīst’, which also means ‘ground grain’. Not much of an etymological leap there then. That comes from the Old High German word ‘grist’ (again), the Middle Low German word ‘grêst’ (we’re mixing it up now) and the Old Norse word ‘grysta’ (woop woop), all of which mean, you’ve guessed it, ‘ground grain’. ‘Grist’ is also where we get ‘grind’ from. (Are you still awake?)

We’ve been using the word ‘grist’ in English since at least the 9th century to refer to both the grain brought to a mill for grinding, and the ground flour itself (which seems confusing to me, so lucky I’m not a miller).