scurrilous

It sounds posh, doesn’t it? But ‘scurrilous’ is actually the linguistic equivalent of getting slapped round the head with a rolled-up newspaper. It means ‘grossly or obscenely abusive’ or ‘slanderous’. So if you’re accused of making scurrilous claims, your pants are almost certainly in need of a visit from the fire brigade.

But how did such a fancy-sounding word end up doing such dirty work? Like lots of refined-but-rude words, ‘scurrilous’ comes to us from Latin. It traces back to ‘scurrilis’, which means ‘buffoon-like’ or ‘coarse’. And that comes from ‘scurra’, meaning ‘jester’ or ‘clown’ AKA someone who made a living making rude jokes (like previous star of the word of the week – and best job title evs – Roland the Farter).

Over time, ‘scurra’s association with low humour, insults and botty burps (sorry) stuck. So it wasn’t long before ‘scurrilous’ came to describe anything vulgar, mocking or abusive – especially in speech or writing.

Us English speakers got hold of ‘scurrilous’ in the 16th century. The earliest known printed use is in 1570 in the ‘Thesaurus Linguæ Romanæ & Britannicæ*’ by Thomas Cooper (theologian, Bishop of Winchester and master of Magdalen College at Oxford University): ‘Scurrilous iesting and vnshamefast rayling.’

Translation: rude jokes and shameless ranting – or in modern terms, social media.

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*The full title of this is, deep breath, ‘Thesaurus Linguæ Romanæ & Britannicæ: tam Accurate Congestus, vt Nihil Penè in Eo Desyderari Possit, Quod Vel Latinè Complectatur Amplissimus Stephani Thesaurus, Vel Anglicè, Toties Aucta EliotæBibliotheca’. Phew. You can also read it online, if you have a spare six months or so, and a magnifying glass.

cacophony

A cacophony is a big old noise, and an unpleasant one at that. Looking and sounding as chaotic as what it describes, ‘cacophony’ comes from the Greek kakophōnía. That’s a mash-up of kakos meaning ‘bad’, and phōnē which means ‘voice’ or ‘sound’. So it literally means ‘bad sound’. No sugar-coating here.

In classical rhetoric (the ancient art of persuasion through language), ‘cacophony’ referred specifically to harsh or clashing combinations of sounds in speech or writing – phrases that were awkward to say, unpleasant to hear or stylistically jarring. So if a sentence was hard to say out loud or just didn’t flow well, it might be criticised as ‘cacophonous’.

‘Cacophony’ first turned up in English in the mid-1600s, when people were busy developing new types of machinery and opera. So you can see why a word for noisy noises might be useful. Its first appearance in print was in Thomas Blout’s Glossographia, one of the earliest dictionaries (published in 1656 with the subtitle ‘A Dictionary Interpreting All Such Hard Words… As Are Now Used in Our Refined English Tongue’ which I love). There it was used to describe ‘an ill, harsh, or unpleasing sound’.

Despite its unpleasant meaning, ‘cacophony’ has a classy family tree, sharing a root with ‘symphony’ – that’s the same phōnē, but this time combined with sym-, meaning together. Its antonym (a fancy way of saying ‘opposite’) is the lesser-known ‘euphony’, which literally means ‘good sound’.

aspersion

Aspersions are critical or mean remarks about someone. They’re almost always ‘cast’, and usually a bit sneaky. But do you actually know what an aspersion is? Nope, me neither.

‘Aspersion’ actually has surprisingly saintly roots. It comes from the Latin ‘aspergere’, which means ‘to sprinkle’ or ‘to scatter’ (see also, ‘disperse’ and ‘intersperse’). In ye olde church services, priests would sprinkle holy water over the congregation – a ritual called, you’ve guessed it, an aspersion.

An AI-generated picture of people casting aspersions on each other

In print, one of the earliest known uses of ‘aspersion’ (in that blessing sense) appears in John Foxe’s 1570 translation of Actes and Monuments, a work of Protestant history and martyrology (sounds like a banger). The exact phrase is ‘the aspersion of the blood of Jesus Christ’. I’m pretty sure this isn’t literal (I hope so, at least – the dry cleaning bills would be a bitch).

You can also find this use of ‘aspersion’ in Shakespeare’s The Tempest:

‘No sweet aspersion shall the heavens let fall / To make this contract grow.’

So how did we get from a light dousing of holy water to someone suggesting you’re morally bankrupt? Well, by the late 16th century, the OED and other sources record the word shifting meaning. It picked up a figurative use as a ‘bespattering with slander, derogatory criticism’ in the 1590s, losing its literal connection to holy water. By 1749 it was firmly in the negative, as shown in this quote from Henry Fielding’s Tom Jones:

‘… for I defy all the world to cast a just aspersion on my character: nay, the most scandalous tongues have never dared censure my reputation.’

Are aspersions always plural? No, they can be singular – ‘an aspersion was made against me’, for example. But you’ll sound super weird if you say that (and deserve that aspersion).

‘Aspersion’ is a great example of how words evolve – from blessing people with holy water to lightly soiling their reputation. Sprinkle responsibly.

nimrod

You probably know nimrod as a slightly old-fashioned way of calling someone an idiot. A dope or a dimwit. But like lots of our words, it didn’t start out like that.

‘Put your hands in the air like you just don’t care’ (Nimrod by David Scott, 1832)

The OG Nimrod was a biblical figure. In the Book of Genesis, he’s described as ‘a mighty hunter before the Lord’. He was one of Noah’s great-grandsons, a warrior, a king, a symbol of power and skill, and an all-round over-achiever. Oh, except for the fact that he commissioned the Tower of Babel which, if you know your bible, didn’t end well. Despite that, for centuries, the word ‘nimrod’ was used to mean a hunter or someone with great prowess.

Then Looney Tunes got involved. Yup.

In a 1948 cartoon, What Makes Daffy Duck, Daffy calls Elmer Fudd a ‘nimrod’. Not because Elmer was a great hunter – quite the opposite. He was famously incompetent, and Daffy was being hella sarcastic. Bugs Bunny also used the word later, calling Yosemite Sam ‘the little Nimrod’ in Rabbit Every Monday (1951).

But here’s where it gets interesting: the audience didn’t always get the reference. In fact, most people didn’t know the biblical meaning. So while they understood that Daffy and Bugs were mocking Elmer/Yosemite, they took ‘nimrod’ to mean idiot, not hunter. And because Looney Tunes was such a massive part of pop culture at the time, that misinterpretation stuck.

This is a great example of how language evolves in unexpected ways – not because of formal definitions or careful usage, but because a cartoon duck and rabbit made high-brow jokes that nobody got.

shoo-in

A shoo-in (not a ‘shoe-in’ as I thought) is someone or something that’s certain to succeed – the winner before the race has even started. Today, we use it for everything from obvious Oscar contenders to politicians with an easy lead. But did you know that its roots actually lie in early 20th-century American horse racing? And dodgy horse-racing at that?

‘Shoe-in’ first appeared in print around the 1920s – Merriam-Webster’s earliest citation dates it to 1928. The ‘shoo’ bit comes from the verb ‘to shoo’, as in to urge or guide someone or something away, like an annoying fly or other people’s children. But the things being shooed in this case are those horses I mentioned earlier, in races that had been rigged for betting purposes. Jockeys would deliberately hold their horses back and shoo the chosen horse to the front, guaranteeing it would win. So that horse was – you’ve guessed it – the shoo-in. And as long as enough of the jockeys were in on it, it was easy for trainers, owners, bookies, syndicates or whoever to quietly control the result and cash in.

By the 1940s, the term ‘shoe-in’ had broadened its meaning beyond the racetrack and was being used metaphorically in politics, entertainment and business – wherever someone seemed like a guaranteed winner. So while it’s now a harmless way to say ‘that’s a sure thing’, like lots of our words (and politicians), ‘shoe-in’ actually has quite the shady past.

discombobulate

Discombobulate is one of those words that sounds exactly like what it means. If you’re discombobulated then you’re confused, off balance or generally flustered (AKA me, 99 per cent of the time). In my family we call it ‘having a sweaty moment’.

Because it’s got loads of syllables, ‘discombobulate’ might sound like it has some serious historical and etymological chops. But the truth is, it’s a fairly new kid on the block, and even has a bit of a fun backstory (WHAT).

‘Discombobulate’ first appeared in American English in the mid-1800s. It’s what linguists call a ‘fanciful coinage’ – a word invented for humorous effect, typically with a focus on the sound or a playful association, rather than one that evolved naturally from older roots. It was most likely created as a mock-Latin version of ‘discompose’ or ‘discomfort’. Why? I hear you ask. Well, in the 1800s, Latin was seen as the language of the educated – so pretending to use it badly or exaggeratedly was a way of taking the piss out of seriousness or formality. ‘Discombobulate’ was part of that – it sounds grand, academic and archaic, but was actually completely made up by some smug smart arses.

The Oxford English Dictionary dates the first recorded use of ‘discombobulate’ as 1916. Related forms (including ‘discombobricate’) appeared in slang earlier than this though, especially at universities, as part of this trend for deliberately silly-sounding words.

Little did those smarty-smart arses know that ‘discombobulate’ would become a fully accepted word in both British and American English. So joke’s on you, smuggos.

hench(wo)man

These days a hench(wo)man is a villain’s loyal-to-a-fault sidekick, and the one who does the dirty work. But where does the ‘hench’ bit come from? Well, it actually has a quite noble backstory.

(Just FYI, henchperson sounds weird, which is why I’ve gone for that less sexist bracketed version.)

Hench comes from an Old English word ‘hengest’, which meant a horse – more specifically, a stallion or gelding ridden into battle. In the Middle Ages, a henchman (or henxman – an early spelling) was someone who walked or rode beside a noble or royal, often leading their horse. They were trusted servants, sometimes young noblemen, who acted as attendants in a lord’s household or during travel. The role was both practical and symbolic – yes, they were there to help with the horses, but having a henchman also showed off the lord’s status.

‘Henchman’ first appeared in Middle English in the 14th century. Records from 1360 mention ‘henxmen’ in the service of King Edward III. Over time, as the roles of squires and personal grooms disappeared, ‘henchman’ came to mean any loyal supporter or follower. By the 17th and 18th centuries, it was used more generally for someone who backed up a powerful figure. The more sinister meaning – a thug or blindly loyal enforcer – only became common in the 20th century, helped along by fiction books and films.

Talking of which, the most famous henchmen and women have probably gone up against James Bond. Here are just a few of my favourites along with JB’s perfectly delivered one liner.

• Oddjob in Goldfinger (1964), who’s electrocuted when Bond jams his steel-brimmed hat into electrified metal bars: ‘He blew a fuse.’

• Xenia Onatopp in GoldenEye (1995) is crushed against a tree when Bond shoots down her helicopter harness: ‘She always did enjoy a good squeeze.’

• Necros, The Living Daylights (1987) (my favourite Bond film), who falls to his death after Bond cuts his bootlace during a fight hanging out the back of a plane: ‘He got the boot.’

• Vargas, Thunderball (1965), is shot by Bond with a speargun, and impaled against a palm tree: ‘I think he got the point.’

(Oh, and the slang term ‘hench’ for someone who’s big, strong and muscular probably does come from hench(wo)man, although no one’s completely sure.)

refurbish

If you refurbish something, you renovate, refresh or rejuvenate it to make it look new again, like furniture or phones. Although I could definitely do with some refurbishing…

My personal issues aside, where does the word come from? You undoubtedly already know that the prefix ‘re’ means ‘again’, so added to ‘furbish’ it means ‘to furbish again’. But what’s furbishing? Well, it appeared in Middle English in the 14th century from an Anglo-French word, ‘furbisshen’, a verb which originally meant ‘to polish’. Its lineage stretches even further back than that though, to ‘furben’, an Old High German word which also meant ‘polishing’. There was obviously a lot of stuff that needed a shine back in the day. (Oh, and in case you’re not up on your ancient languages, High German was spoken roughly between 500 AD and 1050, and was the earliest stage of the German language. And Anglo-French words are words that originated from the French language as it was used in medieval England after the Norman Conquest.)

Over time, ‘furbish’ developed an extended sense of ‘renovate’ just in time for English speakers to coin ‘refurbish’ in the 17th century with the same meaning. Its first appearance in print was in 1611, in Randall Cotgrave’s A Dictionarie of the French and English Tongues. Cotgrave was an English lexicographer (AKA ye olde Susie Dent), and his bilingual dictionary was seen as groundbreaking at the time – that’s because as well as basic translations and explanations of French words in English, it also included idiomatic expressions, phrases, technical terms and even recipes. Cotgrave’s work contributed to the development of bilingual dictionaries and language-learning resources, and influenced how dictionaries were compiled for centuries. Think of it as the 17th-century version of Duolingo, but without the passive-aggressive owl.

Back to ‘refurbish’. It’s an example of an unpaired word, i.e. one that looks like it should have an opposite, but doesn’t anymore. This usually happens because the antonym (a fancy way of saying ‘opposite word’) has fallen out of fashion. Or it might be that it never existed in the first place, for example if we nicked the unpaired word from another language. Other examples of unpaired words include disgruntled, unruly and impervious. If you’d like to know more about whether you can actually be gruntled, ruly or pervious, head to the blog. Spoiler alert – you totally can.

gambol

This is inspired by the gorgeous lambs I saw running about this morning while I was walking my dog, Gus. (I also saw two dead ones which kind of ruined my day. Sorry. Anyhoo, moving on…) To gambol is to skip, frolic or jump about playfully, just like those lambs (the alive ones, obviously). It’s light, carefree and unbothered.

‘Gambol’ has been bouncing around the English language since the 1500s. It comes from the Middle French word ‘gambade’, which means ‘a leaping or springing action’. That, in turn, comes from ‘gamba’ which is Italian for ‘leg’. ‘Gamba’ also gave us ‘gambit’ and ‘gamble’ – I’m not going to tell you more about that now though, as I’m going to use both of these as future words of the week. Mean, I know.

One of ‘gambol’s first appearances in print in English was in Arthur Golding’s 1567 English translation of Ovid’s ‘Metamorphoses’: ‘Full oft he gamboled up and downe.’ So it’s describing a character literally leaping or frolicking around – very much in line with the way we still (occasionally) use the word today. Gambolling – not just for lambs.

Golding’s ‘Metamorphoses’ translation was a big deal in Elizabethan England because it made classical mythology widely accessible in English for the first time. He translated the entire work from Latin into English verse – and in a style that was rhythmic, vivid and packed with dramatic imagery. It was one of the most popular books of the time, and lots of writers drew on it (by which I think we mean plagiarised it) for stories, imagery and language. Shakespeare ‘borrowed’ some scenes and references from ‘Metamorphoses’ for plays including ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’, ‘Titus Andronicus’ and ‘The Tempest’. Luckily for Will, there weren’t any copyright laws then. (To be fair, he did transform those stories into something new, often with better pacing, deeper characters or sharper language. So that’s alright then.)

Golding translated the entire ‘Metamorphoses’ in just over a year – between 1564 and 1567. He mentions in his preface that he worked on it during his ‘leisure time’ while staying at the country estate of his nephew, Edward de Vere (the 17th Earl of Oxford – and one of the people some claim wrote Shakespeare’s plays, though that’s a whole other rabbit hole). Considering the translation runs to over 15 books of Latin poetry – around 12,000 lines – doing that in just over a year, by hand, in rhyming couplets is pretty bloody impressive. Thanks goodness he didn’t have Netflix.

descry

To descry something is to spot it – to catch sight of something faint, distant or difficult to see. You might descry land on the horizon, for example, or a face in the crowd. It’s easy to confuse ‘descry’ with ‘decry’ (although I doubt either of them are coming up that regularly in your daily life), which is understandable – they look and sound similar, but mean very different things. If you decry something then you condemn it, usually loudly and with lots of disapproval.

‘Descry’ and ‘describe’ come from the same Latin root – dēscrībere, meaning ‘to write down’ or ‘to represent’. That Latin word gave rise to an Old French verb, ‘descrier’, which meant ‘to proclaim’ or ‘cry out’ (often in the sense of calling something out that you’ve just seen). That’s where we borrowed it from.

‘Descry’ has been around for a long time, having first appeared in print in 1330, in the Middle English romance Reinbrun. Nope, me neither – it sounds pretty awesome though. Apparently Reinbrun is abducted by some merchants as a child and shipped off to Africa, where he’s presented to King Argus. During his captivity, he gets all buff and turns into a kickass knight. He goes on to rescue Amis, a friend of his father’s, from an enchanted castle controlled by a fairy knight. Sounds good, right? Oh, and just FYI, medieval ‘romances’ don’t actually involve much in the way of snogging – they’re more about heroic adventures, quests, battles and chivalric deeds, often with a bit of the supernatural thrown in. Sadly they’re also in Middle English which means they’re unpossible to comprehenden.

magenta

Magenta is that colour that sits somewhere between red and purple. It’s also one of the four inks in your printer (showing my age there) that the colour cartridge uses. But where does the word ‘magenta’ come from? Well, it turns out it has quite the bloody backstory.

Magenta is a town in Lombardy in northern Italy. It’s also the site of the Battle of Magenta. This was a key moment in the Second Italian War of Independence which took place in 1859, when the French and Sardinians fought the Austrians. Not sure where the Italians were*. Around the same time, lots of chemists were in fierce competition to develop new synthetic dyes. In 1859, the same year as the battle, French chemist François-Emmanuel Verguin created a vibrant reddish-purple dye from coal tar derivatives. Originally called ‘fuchsine’ (after the fuchsia flower), it was soon rebranded as ‘magenta’, probably because the colour was reminiscent of the bloodshed at the battle.

Before synthetic dyes like magenta, rich red and purple hues were difficult and expensive to produce. They were often made from crushed insects (like cochineal) or rare plants. The invention of magenta dye changed this, making vivid colours more accessible for clothing, art and industry. PHEW.

Magenta isn’t a real colour in the way that red or blue are. That’s because it doesn’t have its own wavelength of light. Instead, our brains create magenta when we see both red and blue light at the same time, basically filling in the gap in the spectrum where green would normally be. Weird, right? This reminds of the mindblowing (or noseblowing) fact that our brains filter our noses out of our vision, as otherwise they’d get in our way.

* I did some Wikipedia searching and here’s a quick history lesson – Italy wasn’t unified at the time, and lots of Italian states didn’t take part in this war. The one that did, Piedmont-Sardinia, knew it couldn’t win on its own, so it teamed up with France (the cost was that they had to hand over Nice and Savoy to Napoleon III). And because much of northern Italy was under Austrian rule, it was essentially a war between Austria and France (there were lots of Italian nationalist volunteers in it too though). The battle of Magenta was a decisive victory for the Franco-Sardinian alliance.

This is the linear visible spectrum – look, no magenta!

macaroni

Now, you might think you know what I’m talking about here – pasta, right? Wrong. Penguins? No, not them either. Allow me to take you back to the 18th century. If you were a macaroni, then you were likely the most flamboyant and extravagantly dressed man in the room (which was no small feat in an era of powdered wigs and embroidered everything).

A macaroni was the 18th-century equivalent of a fashion influencer – but with more lace, bigger wigs and a worrying obsession with teeny-tiny hats. The term referred to young men who’d been on the Grand Tour, a kind of aristocratic gap year where wealthy Brits swanned around Europe pretending to appreciate Renaissance art. Italy was a popular destination for these men and many developed a taste for maccaroni (okay, so it is pasta-related) which was little known in Britain at the time. When they returned to London draped in silk, covered in frills and with wigs so tall they made walking through doorways a logistical nightmare, they were said to belong to the Macaroni Club – not an actual club, but a subculture of worldliness, superior style, sophistication and enlightenment. They would even refer to anything that was fashionable or à la mode as ‘very maccaroni’.

It wasn’t all fun and games and tiddly hats though. Macaronis came to be seen in stereotyped negative terms in Britain, and as symbols of inappropriate effeminacy and bourgeois excess – satirical prints of the time show them mincing around in ludicrous outfits, clutching canes and sporting expressions of supreme self-satisfaction. And with the aristos over the Channel in France losing their heads, this type of extravagant dressing began to fall out of favour at the end of the 18th century when a more restrained aesthetic took over. Don’t worry though – although the French Revolution definitely put a dampener on the most OTT aristocratic styles, dandyism (led by figures like Beau Brummell) emerged soon after. And while it was a little more understated, it still embraced a meticulous approach to fashion. No small hats though, sadly.

The most famous reference to macaronis is probably in the nursery rhyme Yankee Doodle, where the American hero ‘stuck a feather in his cap and called it macaroni’. Written by a Brit, the joke was that the Yankees were so naïve that they believed a feather in the hat was enough to turn them into a sophisticated European macaroni.

But what about the penguin, I hear you ask? Well, the macaroni penguin sports a very fetching yellow crest. They were named by English sailors who came across them in the Falkland Islands in the early 19th century, and thought they bore a spooky resemblance to our macaroni fashionistas.

chimera

A chimera (pronounced ky-MEER-uh or kih-MEER-uh, depending on who you ask) is something made up of different parts. The original Chimera (with a big C) was a fire-breathing creature n Greek mythology with the head of a lion, the head of a goat on its back and a serpent for a tail. The name comes from ‘khimaira’ (Χίμαιρα) which means ‘she-goat’.

There’s also a mountain in southern Turkey named after the chimera. Mount Chimaera (or Yanartaş) is a rocky hillside where natural gas seeps from cracks in the earth, creating flickering fires that burn night and day. With lions, goats and snakes roaming the surrounding hills, it’s easy to see how it came to be named after a hybrid beast that spat flames.

Chimeras aren’t just mythological. Don’t worry though, you’re not going to run into a fire-breathing goat mix on your next package holiday. We’re talking science here – specifically, genetics. A chimera is an organism made up of cells from two different sources, something that can happen naturally or in a lab. Humans and animals can be chimeras when two fertilised eggs fuse into a single embryo, which means they end up with two sets of DNA. This can go completely unnoticed or reveal itself in surprising ways, like different coloured eyes or patches of skin with different pigmentation.

One famous example of a human chimera is an American woman called Karen Keegan. In 2002, she needed a kidney transplant and used genetic testing to find a donor in her family. But the tests showed that genetically she couldn’t be the mother of her sons. The mystery was solved when doctors discovered that Keegan was a chimera – the DNA in her blood cells was different to that in the other tissues in her body. That’s because when her mother was pregnant with her, two separate eggs had been fertilised, creating two separate balls of cells each with its own DNA. At some point, these two groups of cells fused into one, and Karen was born with cells from both balls randomly distributed throughout her body. I’m pleased they figured that out – it could have led to some super awkward questions otherwise.

Chimeras are also a godsend for crime writers – I’ve definitely seen them used in more than one drama when DNA evidence at a crime scene was discredited because the suspected perp was actually a chimera.

This is Venus the Two-Faced Cat, an American tortoiseshell cat whose face is half black and half red tabby. Opinions differ as to whether she’s a true chimera or her markings are simply a matter of luck and heterochromia (two different coloured eyes). Whatever the real answer, she looks awesome. (And you can of course follow her on Instagram.)

Bunburying

Because I is well high-brow, last night I went to see the filmed version of the National Theatre’s ‘The Importance of Being Earnest’ (the handbag one) by Oscar Wilde. It was very funny, and also brought this word to my attention. If you’ve ever made up a friend as an excuse to dodge plans or just because you needed to disappear for a bit of peace and quiet, then congratulations – you’ve been Bunburying.

In the play, Algernon Moncrieff (Ncuti Gatwa in the National Theatre show) invents an ill friend called Bunbury. Poor old Bunbury’s terrible health means he needs constant attention – usually whenever Algy fancies a weekend in the country or wants to get out of a dull engagement. Genius, right? Here’s a quote when he introduces the concept to his friend Jack:

‘You have invented a very useful younger brother called Ernest, in order that you may be able to come up to town as often as you like. I have invented an invaluable permanent invalid called Bunbury, in order that I may be able to go down into the country whenever I choose.’

Wilde, of course, uses the idea of Bunburying to skewer the hypocrisy of Victorian society. But for the rest of us, it could be the perfect way to stay home and watch Netflix in our PJs instead of having to go out and actually talk to people. Also, if you do decide to Bunbury someone, don’t feel guilty – you’re simply carrying on a proud literary tradition.

Why Bunbury? No one really knows, but there are of course some theories, many of which lean into the idea that Wilde used it imply a secretive double life due to his homosexuality. (In case you’re not as high brow as me, many linguistic aspects of ‘The Importance of Being Earnest’ have been interpreted as allusions to gay culture and stereotypes.) For example, one put forward by none other than occultist and self-proclaimed prophet Aleister Crowley – who knew Wilde – was that Bunbury was a portmanteau word (i.e. two words smushed together), coined after Wilde took a train to Banbury, met a man there, then arranged a second liaison at Sunbury. Or it might just be named after the village in Cheshire.

The opening night of ‘The Importance of Being Earnest’ marked the peak of Wilde's popularity. But it was followed shortly afterwards by his downfall – he was convicted and imprisoned for ‘homosexual acts’ only a few months later. Due to this, the play closed after only 86 performances, and would be the last comic or dramatic work Wilde would produce. Despite that, it’s now regarded as one of the greatest comedies in the English language, and has been performed continuously since its debut.

lampoon

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

Rabelais – Il était très drôle

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

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

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

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

scavenger

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

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

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

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

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

Fun scavenger facts:

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

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

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

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

benignant

EF Benson, who looks like he was pretty benignant

If you’re thinking that ‘benignant’ sounds like it’s just stepped off the set of a Victorian drama wearing a waistcoat and holding a pocket watch, then you’d be right. I read it in a ghost story by one EF Benson, who was born in 1867. You might have already guessed that it’s the opposite of ‘malignant’ – it means kind, gentle or benevolent.

Benignant comes from the Latin word ‘benignus’, which is a mash-up (or compound) of ‘bene’ meaning ‘well’ or ‘good’, and ‘gignere’ meaning ‘to beget’ or ‘to produce’. So it’s basically about creating goodness, generating kindness or radiating a beneficent glow. Which makes a change in today’s shitty world, doesn’t it?

Interestingly (to me, at least), ‘benignus’ didn’t just mean ‘nice’ in Latin. It also carried a sense of generosity and nobility, so it was often applied to rulers, gods or generally all-round nice guys. It arrived in English via Old French in the early 17th century, alongside its more popular sibling, ‘benign’.

So why did ‘benign’ stick around while ‘benignant’ got assigned to obscure Victorian ghost stories? Well, ‘benignant’ generally leaned towards describing people, actions or attitudes, while ‘benign’ became the go-to for describing things that aren’t out to kill you (think moles and weather). Not to be cynical, but maybe there just aren’t enough nice people around to make ‘benignant’ more popular…?

Margaret – all that Egyptology sadly didn’t raise a smile

I referred to EF Benson as an obscure writer above, which is a little unfair. Well a lot unfair, actually – he was a prolific English author whose literary output included over 90 works, ranging from sharp social comedies to chilling ghost stories (the one I read was called ‘The Room in the Tower and Other Stories’). Benson was born into a pretty well-to-do family (his dad was the fricking Archbishop of Canterbury), and studied archaeology at Cambridge before turning to writing. He was a keen sportsman and also gay (a combination which sadly still isn’t accepted today), and his books are famed for their dry wit and camp humour. He was also the mayor of Rye in Sussex, which inspired the fictional town of Tilling in his most famous novels. His siblings were pretty cool too – Robert Hugh was another prolific author and Arthur Christopher wrote the words to ‘Land of Hope and Glory’. Let’s take a moment to appreciate his sister, Margaret (who apparently only got one name, unlike her brothers #patriarchy) though. She was one of the first women to be admitted to Oxford University and went on to become a keen amateur Egyptologist, excavating lots of super-cool stuff, and later writing about it. In fact, her writing and lectures are credited with making Egyptology much more accessible to the general public.

psychrophilic

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

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

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

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

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

Antarctic krill in action – actual size, around 6cm

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

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

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

sarcasm

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

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

An intelligent response to a sarcastic comment

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

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

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

marcescence

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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