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.

doryphore

You probably know a doryphore. I think we all do, sadly. It’s someone who enjoys pointing out when you make a small or trivial mistake. Despite sounding quite old-fashioned, ‘doryphore’ is a relatively new word in this context – it was coined by one Sir Harold Nicolson, a British politician, diplomat, historian, biographer, diarist, novelist, lecturer, journalist, broadcaster and gardener (and over-achiever). Now I confess I didn’t think I’d heard of him, but a bit of not-very-in-depth research revealed he was married to the writer Vita Sackville-West, who I definitely have heard of (screw you, patriarchy). They had what’s euphemistically known as a ‘complicated marriage’ – they were both bisexual and had several affairs with people of both sexes. Which their son then wrote a book about. Hmmm.

A Colorado potato beetle, ‘the most destructive potato pest in Europe’ apparently. It also likes tomatoes.

Anyway, I digress – let’s get back to the much more interesting subject of etymology. Nicolson introduced the world to the word ‘doryphore’ in the Spectator magazine in August 1952, describing it as a:

‘…questing prig, who derives intense satisfaction from pointing out the errors of others.’

He took the word from the French name of the Colorado potato beetle, which itself comes from the Greek word ‘doruphoros’ meaning ‘spear carrier’ (presumably because of the spear-like stripes on its back). So why did he pick on this particular beetle? Well, it’s a massive pest and eats, you’ve guessed it, potatoes. There’s a clue in the name. There’s also another clue in the name as to where it comes from, which is, well, Mexico. It’s extremely difficult to control because of its ability to quickly develop resistance to insecticides (much like the Borg in Star Trek).

‘Doryphore’ has also been used in France as slang for the occupying German soldiers in World War Two, and as a derogatory term for tourists.

cobweb

Obviously you know what a cobweb is (AKA things I constantly have on my car’s wing mirrors – how do the spiders stay in there?) But have you ever wondered where the ‘cob’ bit came from? Somewhat disappointingly, ‘cob’ is just an olde-worlde (Middle-English if you want actual facts) word for ‘spider’. It comes from the Old English word for spider which was atorcoppe – ‘ator’ meaning ‘poison’ and ‘coppe’ meaning ‘head’ – apparently those Old English types thought spiders were poisonous which, as far as I can work out, they never have been in the UK.

From ‘atorcoppe’ we got ‘coppeweb’ and then ‘cobweb’. While we’ve stopped calling spiders themselves ‘cobs’ (although J.R.R. Tolkien used it and ‘attorcoppe’ in The Hobbit in 1937), we’ve kept it when talking about their homes – although it might be something that dies out soon as the more pedestrian ‘spider’s web’ becomes more common.

Oh, and an old (from the 1670s) Norfolk term for a misty morning was a ‘cobweb-morning’. Nice, right?

Okay, spider facts. The biggest species of spider in the world is the Goliath birdeater. Despite its name, it very rarely preys on birds (thank god), preferring insects, worms and amphibians. It’s part of the tarantula family and can have a legspan up to 30 cm, a body length of up to 13 cm and weigh up to 175g. Yikes. The good news is that unless you’re in northern South America, you’re unlikely to come across a Goliath birdeater in your day-to-day doings. If you are there, you might also find one on a menu – they’re edible spiders and apparently taste like ‘shrimp’. Think I’ll pass, thanks.

(If you’re feeling brave, do a Google image search for ‘largest spider crab’. If the results don’t give you a little shiver then you’re a better person than me.)

cupidity

Photo by Christopher Beloch on Unsplash.

The ‘cupid’ bit of this has probably given you a clue as to the meaning. And while it does relate to the chubby Roman god of sexy times, it’s a bit darker than that. If you’re suffering from cupidity then you have a very strong desire for something, usually wealth or possessions. The word’s been around in English since the 15th century, and comes from the Latin ‘cupere’ which means ‘to desire’.

Cupid facts: The Roman god of love started out in classical myth as a slender youth, but for reasons best known to themselves (maybe because when you’re in a new relationship you always get a bit fat?) painters during the Hellenistic period (323 BC to 31 BC – but I’m sure you already know that, clever reader) made him increasingly chubbier until he became the lard-arse with a bow and arrow we see today. He’s the son of Venus (goddess of love – yay!) and Mars (god of war – boo!). According to the usual in-depth research I did (which just means I read the Wikipedia page on Cupid), Isidore of Seville (a Spanish scholar and cleric born in the year 560), Cupid is depicted with wings because lovers are ‘flighty and likely to change their minds’, he’s a young boy because love is ‘irrational’, and he has a bow, arrows and a torch (I assume not the battery-powered kind) because love ‘wounds and inflames the heart’. Sounds to me like Isidore hadn’t been having much luck with the ladies (or the gents – no heteronormativity here) when he wrote that.

borborygmus

Photo by Ava Sol on Unsplash.

Now unless you’re a medical professional, or a big old know-it-all, then chances are you haven’t come across this word before. But I can almost certainly guarantee that it’s happened to you before. Because borborygmus is the technical term for when your stomach rumbles.

Etymologically speaking, the term ‘borborygmus’ has been around a long time – since 1724 to be very specific. It comes from the Greek word borboryzein which means, unsurprisingly, ‘to rumble’. The nice thing about it is that people think that it’s probably onomatopoeic. Go on, say it out loud. Sounds a bit like a stomach gurgle, right?

Borborygmus isn’t entirely confined to medical circles. It sometimes turns up as an adjective – borborygmic – generally used to describe noisy plumbing. Vladimir Nabokov (yes, he of pervy ‘Lolita’ fame) used it in his lesser-known (to me at least) novel ‘Ada’ (which, it turns out, is also pervy, this time in an incest-y way):

“All the toilets and waterpipes in the house had been suddenly seized with borborygmic convulsions.”

Borborygmus facts: The sound your stomach makes when it rumbles actually comes from your small intestine – the noise is produced by muscle contractions (or peristalsis), as food moves through it.

astrobleme

Photo by Jimmy Conover on Unsplash.

An astrobleme is the name given to a site that’s been hit by a meteorite. Or, to put it in more science-y terms, an ‘impact structure’. This isn’t to be confused with an ‘impact crater’ which is, well, just the hole-y bit – the impact structure includes all the deformed bedrock and sediment that’s underneath the hole (assuming I’ve understood Wikipedia correctly of course).

I like the word ‘astrobleme’ because it’s super literal. Its etymology translates as ‘star wound’ – ‘astron’ is Greek for star, and ‘bleme’ (also Greek) means ‘throw of a missile; wound caused by a missile’. It was coined by an American geologist called Robert S Dietz (1914–1995). His most notable feat was identifying the Sudbury Basin (Sudbury in Ontario, Canada, not the one in Suffolk which is just up the road from where I type this) as an ancient astrobleme – the second (or third, depending on which website you look at) biggest in the world.

But what’s the biggest, I hear you cry? Well, that honour belongs to the Vredefort crater in South Africa. It’s just over 300km (186.4 miles in old money) across. That means that the meteor that hit it was over 15km (9.3 miles) in diameter. Don’t panic though – it happened a VERY long time ago in the Paleoproterozoic Era which was between 2,500 and 1,600 million years ago.

The Vrefort crater has competition for the top spot from the Wilkes Land crater, which is underneath the ice caps in Antarctica and is as yet unverified. If it is an astrobleme then it’s a massive 480 km (300 miles) across. That means that the meteorite that caused it was at least 55km (34.5 miles) in diameter, which is four or five times wider than the Chicxulub impactor (good name for a band) AKA the one that killed all the dinosaurs, and also three-quarters of all the plant and animal species on Earth. Fuck.

adamant

Ridicule is nothing to be scared of…

To be adamant about something is to have an opinion about it which you absolutely refuse to change, despite evidence to the contrary. It’s also, of course, a popstar from the 80s who I once dressed up as for a fancy-dress party (and yes, I did do the Prince Charming dance when I was there, despite being stone-cold sober due to driving, and also only knowing the crossed-arms move and nothing else). But the meaning of adamant as we know it only dates back to around the 1800s. Before that it was used as both a noun and an adjective for something that was really bloody hard – that’s hard like a diamond, not Jason Statham. In fact, ‘adamant’ was used as a synonym (i.e. another word for) a diamond.

If you’re a fan of the Marvel comic/film franchise you’ll probably have realised that this meaning is where ‘adamantium’ comes from – the fictional metal alloy that’s grafted onto Wolverine’s skeleton and claws and is virtually indestructible. ‘Adamant’ or ‘adamantine’ as an unbreakable substance also pops up in lots of classical literature – in Greek mythology, Cronus (Zeus’ dad) castrated his father Uranus using an adamantine sickle given to him by his mother Gaia. That must have made family gatherings quite awkward. And here it is in action in a particularly sexist bit of the novel ‘Romola’ by George Eliot (even though SHE WAS A WOMAN):

Trust not in your gold and silver, trust not in your high fortresses; for, though the walls were of iron, and the fortresses of adamant, the Most High shall put terror into your hearts and weakness into your councils, so that you shall be confounded and flee like women.

Oh, and it doesn’t have anything to do with the name Adam – that’s a Hebrew word meaning, basically, ‘man’.

ingurgitate

This is exactly what you’re thinking it is: the antonym (i.e. the opposite) of ‘regurgitate’. So it means to swallow something greedily (which my mum tells my dad off for doing with crisps). You can also use it figuratively – so you can ingurgitate a good book, for example.

You used to be able to just ‘gurgitate’ as well, although that means the same thing and seems to have fallen out of use completely (and isn’t to be confused with ‘gurgitation’, which means ‘a boiling or surging of a liquid’ (from Merriam-Webster)).

Ingurgitate was first seen way back in 1570. And whether you’re in or regurgitating (and I think we can all agree that the former is probably preferable, although might lead to the latter if you do it too fast), the etymology is the same. Both come from the Latin word gurges which means ‘whirlpool’. Although the link might not seem immediately obvious, it’s probably down to the action of whirlpools engulfing things which brought us to ‘gurgitate’.

(Bonus fact: The biggest whirlpool in the world – technically known as a ‘maelstrom’, which is an awesome word – is called the Saltstraumen, and is just off the coast of Norway, near the Arctic Circle. It forms four times a day as tides carry huge amounts of water through a small channel that’s only 490 feet (150 meters) wide. It’s so big that boats have to make sure they travel through this stretch of water when the maelstrom isn’t active.)

stellify

I came across this lovely word in Greg Jenner’s book ‘Dead Famous’ (well worth a read). To stellify something is to turn it into a star or to place it into the heavens. It comes from Greek mythology where this literally (well, literally in classical mythology) happened to people – in fact it was the best thing that could happen to a puny mortal at the end of their life (a couple you might have heard of who were full-on put into the heavens are Orion and Cassiopeia). But it’s also used to describe someone or something becoming famous. This is down to Geoffrey Chaucer – he of nightmare English lessons trying to read ‘The Canterbury Tales’ while waiting for the dirty bits – who wrote a poem called ‘House of Fame’ (or ‘Hous of Fame’ as it is in Middle English. See, it’s not that hard, is it?).

Photo by Guillermo Ferla on Unsplash.

Probably written between 1374 and 1385, the whole poem is over 2,005 lines long across three books (GC didn’t do things by halves). It’s basically about a poet who falls asleep and dreams he’s in a glass temple adorned with images of famous people and their deeds (so kinda like ye olde teenager’s bedroom then). With an eagle as a guide (OBVIOUSLY), he then meditates on the nature of fame for all of those 2,005 lines. I won’t quote it here because it’s in Middle English and therefore really bloody hard to read, but if you want to see it in action, go here.

Etymology wise, ‘stellify’ comes from the Latin work stella which means star. So that’s not very interesting. But it’s still a nice word, right?

doolally

Photo by Mitchell Ng Liang an on Unsplash.

Doolally is a term for someone who’s a bit mad or eccentric, usually temporarily. It’s a shortened version of a British military slang expression, ‘doolally tap’. This basically means ‘camp fever’ (‘tap’ being an Urdu word for fever). The doolally part is a corruption of Deolali, the name of a military camp near Bombay (now Mumbai) in India.

Established in 1861, Deolali had a large barracks and was a chief staging point (i.e. a transit camp for troops or equipment), acting both as a training camp for soldiers who’d just arrived, and a place for British troops whose enlistments had expired to hang out while they waited for transport home. Because ships only sailed between November and March, this could mean some men stayed at Deolali for months waiting for repatriation. This is where we get the ‘losing your mind’ part from. Conditions in the camp were pretty awful – malaria was rife and soldiers were bored, driven nuts by sandflies and often afflicted with all the fun stuff you got from hanging out in the brothels and gin palaces that inevitably sprung up near to barracks (alcoholism, syphilis and other delightful venereal diseases). These men were described as being in ‘full doolally tap’, which we’ve since shortened to just ‘doolally’.

If you’re of a certain age then you might remember a 70s sitcom called ‘It Ain't Half Hot Mum’ which was set in Deolali. Like most British sitcoms from the 70s it’s since been accused of racism, homophobia and pandering to imperialism, meaning it’s now been assigned to the recycling bin of TV history.

charisma

The excellently named Charisma Carpenter – yes, that is her real name – of Buffy the Vampire Slayer fame (photo credit: Gage Skidmore – also an excellent name)

Someone who’s charismatic is charming, attractive and often a little bit sexy. But you know that already. But did you know that ‘charisma’ actually has its roots in religion, specifically Christianity? It was only in the early 20th century that it came to have the little-bit-sexy meaning it has today.

‘Charisma’ originally comes from the Greek word ‘kharisma’ (so not much of a leap there) which means ‘favour freely given’ or ‘gift of grace’. Both the Hebrew and Christian Bibles talk about divinely conferred charisma, which is used to talk about someone who’s a favourite of him/her upstairs i.e. who’s received God’s favour. In English, from about 1640 onwards, people used ‘charisma’ to refer to a gift or power bestowed on someone by the Holy Spirit for the good of the church.

So where did the sexy come in? I’m afraid that’s a very unsexy story. German sociologist Max Weber came up with a new definition of charisma some time before 1920 (it was found in an unfinished manuscript after he died), which is generally regarded as having dragged the concept from theological obscurity into everyday use. He described it as:

“… a certain quality of an individual personality by virtue of which he is set apart from ordinary men and treated as endowed with supernatural, superhuman, or at least specifically exceptional powers or qualities. These as such are not accessible to the ordinary person …”

janitor

This is a bit of an American word – we tend to have caretakers over here. ‘Janitor’ has a less obvious backstory than caretaker though (because that’s presumably just ‘one who takes care of somewhere’ innit). ‘Janitor’ comes from the Latin word ‘janus’ (yes, it has ‘bum’ in it – no sniggering at the back please) which means ‘arch’ or ‘gate’. So in days of yore ‘janitor’ was used to describe someone who guarded, you’ve guessed it, an arch or gate (and any other kind of entrance – agin, no sniggering please). Here it is in action in Vanity Fair:

“At the expiration of that time, wheels were heard whirling up to the gate – the young janitor went out with his gate-keys. It was a lady whom he let in at the bailiff’s door.”

— ‘Vanity Fair’ by William Makepeace Thackeray

Janus is also the name of a Roman god (who’s starred in a previous word of the week – contronym), who was the doorkeeper/bouncer for heaven. He had two faces, which presumably made him very good at his job (as he could see people coming and going – although I can’t imagine many people were leaving…). I like to think he said things like ‘your name’s not down, you’re not coming in’ and ‘no shirt, no entry’.

lalochezia

This one’s for everyone whose Christmas has been ruined by the goddamn corona virus. Lalochezia is the emotional relief you get from shouting out a big old dirty swear. So go on, I won’t tell anyone. Better? Good. Scientific studies have shown that swearing relieves stress, dulls pain and can actually make you physically stronger – there’s more about that in this article.

The word lalochezia itself has an interesting etymology. It’s got Greek roots and the first part, ‘lalo-’, means ‘speech’. The second part means ‘to defecate’. Yup. Other words which share the same roots include glossolalia, which is incomprehensible speech in an imaginary language (from someone who’s in a trance for example), and dyschezia, which means to poop with difficulty. So that’s nice.

Ironically, this word of the week is all about swearing, but doesn’t actually have any swearing in it (unlike 99.9 per cent of my other posts). So let’s end with a Merry shitty Christmas, and a happy fucking new year.

forensic

Photo by Nicole Reyes on Unsplash.

I listen to a lot of true-crime podcasts, and the word ‘forensic’ comes up all the time. I’ve recently been listening to an audiobook about a forensic scientist, which said that it doesn’t (as I thought) just relate to physical evidence like bits of skin and other gross stuff people leave at crime scenes. It’s actually a much broader term, and is a synonym (i.e. a word that means the same as) for ‘legal’ or ‘related to courts’.

Etymology-wise, ‘forensic’ comes from the Latin term forēnsis, which means ‘of or before the forum’. This is because, back in Roman times, people accused of crimes were presented to a group of important public individuals in the forum (AKA the marketplace). The naughty person and the person accusing them of being naughty would both give a speech telling their side of the story. The person who gave the best speech would then win. Yup, it was all about the argument and how they delivered it – the definition of not letting the truth get in the way of a good story. So I guess as long as you could do a good presentation then you could literally get away with murder.

Stay sexy, and don’t get murdered.

ultracrepidarian

We probably all know an ultracrepidarian. It’s someone who gives advice or opinions on things they don’t know anything about.

A different type of cobbler.

The story behind this word comes, as do many of my words of the week, from Ancient Greece. A famous painter by the name of Apelles (said to have been court artist to Alexander the Great – so a pretty big deal then) heard a cobbler being rude about the way he’d painted a foot in one of his works. Apelles then said something very cutting and witty to the cobbler about how he shouldn’t judge things that were beyond him (although, to be fair to the cobbler, he probably had seen a fair few feet working as he did in the shoemaking game… Anyway, I digress). Sadly, Apelles’ exact remark has been lost in the mists of time, which is annoying. But much cleverer people than me think it probably went something along the lines of ultra crepidam, which means ‘beyond the sole’ in Latin. And from that we get ultracrepidarian. Or, in modern parlance, mansplainer.

disaster

Photo by Greg Rakozy on Unsplash.

You know what a disaster is – a shitshow. So basically the whole world at the moment (just in case you’re from the future, it’s late 2020 and we’re in the middle of the COVID-19 pandemic). But ‘disaster’ is another everyday word that has an interesting backstory.

It first turned up in 1567, and the ‘aster’ bit comes from the Latin word for ‘star’ (‘astro’). And the ‘dis’ bit is Latin for ‘baaaaaaaaaaad’. Or, to put it in a more professional way, the ‘dis-’ prefix expresses that a word is negative (think discontent, dishearten, dislike, and so on). This all comes from ye olde idea that the position of the stars influences what happens on terra firma. And that if those stars are out of whack, bad stuff goes down here. Like how Romeo and Juliet are described as ‘star-crossed’ AKA (spoiler alert) doomed to be thwarted by outside forces.

‘Disaster’ isn’t the only word that has a galactic flavour – ‘influenza’ comes from the Medieval Latin word for ‘influence’, based on the idea that epidemics were influenced by the position of the stars. Well, it’s as good a theory as any, I guess.

relict

I saw this word on a gravestone while walking my pooch. In case you can’t see it clearly in the picture, it says:

‘In memory of Robert Harvey
Who died January 21st 1855
Aged 80 years
Also of
Maria, relict of the above
Who died December 1886, aged 87’

I immediately felt sorry for poor Maria, forever immortalised in sexist stone as just the ‘relict’ of her husband Robert (although it’s a better epitaph than this poor lady got, also in the same churchyard). A quick Google search revealed that yes, a relict is an archaic term for a widow. It comes from the Latin verb ‘relinquere’ which means ‘leave behind’. Okay, so it still feels a bit sexist, but it’s also quite sad.

The word ‘relict’ actually has a few different meanings. It’s sometimes used interchangeably with ‘relic’, and in fact saints’ bits, the selling of which was big business back in the day, were originally called ‘relicts’. Somewhere along the way the ‘t’ fell off (much like those saints’ bits).

In biology a relict is a once prolific plant or animal that still exists in a single place, when the rest of its mates have gone extinct (not to be confused with previous word of the week ‘endling’ which you can find here – it actually mentions ‘relict’ in this context despite me having no memory of writing about it already). Relictualism (ooh, fancy) usually happens when a small area of a habitat gets cut off from the rest.

Back to widows for a sec. According to Wikipedia, the collective noun for a group of widows is an ‘ambush’. This seems a bit mean, especially as it’s also used for a group of tigers. I blame the patriarchy.

palimpsest

A palimpsest is a manuscript or scroll that someone’s written something on, which someone else has later scraped off and then written on again. So it’s very environmentally friendly, but also means that lots of historic words were destroyed just so some arsehole had a fresh piece of paper.

Etymology wise, this one’s really straightforward. ‘Palimpsest’ comes from a Latin word ‘palimpsestus’. And that comes from an Ancient Greek word, ‘palímpsēstos’, which literally means ‘again scraped’. That doesn’t leave me very much to say here, sorry.

Lots of palimpsests came about due to the Greeks and Romans doing their writing on wax tablets. When they didn’t need the words anymore they’d scrape them off and start again. Kinda like ye olde Etch-a-Sketch, if you will. Later on people used parchment made of lamb, calf or goat kid’s skin which was expensive, hence reusing it wherever possible.

The most famous (relatively speaking) palimpsest is the Archimedes (yes, he of ‘eureka’ and naked bum fame) Palimpsest. It’s a 13th-century prayer book which contains several erased texts that were written hundreds of years before that. That includes two treatises by Archimedes that have never turned up anywhere else, ‘The Method’ and ‘Stomachion’ (good name for a band). You can find out more about how a team of scholars recovered these, and other texts, here. Oh, and it only took them 12 bloody years.

Name and shame time. The scribe who erased Archimedes’ writings only went and wrote his name on the first page of the palimpsest. He was called Johannes Myronas, and he overwrote Archimedes’ words in Jerusalem, finishing up on 14 April 1229. What an idiot.

anachronism

An anachronism is a person or a thing that’s chronologically out of place. It was part of a question on The Chase recently – ‘Which one of these is an anachronism?’ or something similar – and the right answer was ‘a knight wearing a wristwatch’, which is a good example. The word comes from chronos which is the Greek word for ‘time’, and ana-, a Greek prefix which means ‘up’, ‘back’ or ‘again’.

This is Chronos, the Greek personification of time, which is where the ‘chron’ bit of ‘anachronism’ comes from. I don’t know what he’s doing to that child.

‘Anachronism’ first turned up in in English in the 17th century (in 1617 to be precise). But then it was used to talk about a mistake in dating – no, not my entire lovelife, but dating a thing (the example given on the Merriam-Webster site is in etymology (yay!), when a word or its use is mistakenly assumed to have been earlier than it actually was). Back then there was also a thing called a ‘parachronism’, which is a nice word, used to describe an error when a date is set later than it should be. Unfortunately this one’s largely fallen out of use nowadays though.

One of the most famous recent anachronisms was that Starbucks cup that turned up in Game of Thrones (although technically that’s not supposed to be historically accurate anyway – dragons, anyone? – so perhaps it doesn’t count). You won’t be surprised to hear that this is by no means the first anachronistic error committed to celluloid. Here are some other movies that failed their history A-levels.

• Braveheart and kilts: Mel Gibson proudly sports a Scottish man skirt in this epic about William Wallace (still never seen it), which is set in 1280. But plaid and tartan kilts weren’t introduced til the 1700s. FAIL. (Before anyone Scottish gets cross, there was a type of kilt around before this. But it certainly didn’t look like the one Mel sports in the film, and it’s highly unlikely WW would have been wearing one anyway.)

• Indiana Jones and a lot of countries: In Raiders of the Lost Ark, a plane drawing a red line flies over a map that includes Thailand. But the film’s set in 1936, when Thailand was still called Siam (it wouldn’t become Thailand until 1939). Sadly Steven Spielberg didn’t learn from his mistakes in The Kingdom of the Crystal Skull either – this time the plane flies over Belize in 1957. But then it was called British Honduras and would be until 1973. D’oh.

• Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves and telescopes: Morethan Freeman takes the piss out of Kevin Costner’s Robin for not knowing what a telescope is (but is apparently fine with him having an American accent). But telescopes wouldn’t be invented for another FOUR HUNDRED YEARS. Oh dear.

assassin

An assassin is someone who murders prominent people like politicians (I’m saying NOTHING) or royalty. You know that. But where does the word come from? And why has it got so many goddamn ‘s’s in it? Well, the word ‘assassin’ derives from has even more ‘s’s: hashshashin (it is physically impossible to not sound drunk when attempting to say this).

If you’re thinking ‘hashshashin’ sounds a bit marijuana-y, then you’re bang on – it means ‘hashish eaters’. But how did stoners become associated with political killers? Let me start by taking you back a thousand years or so to the mountains of Persia and Syria. Why? Because this is where we find a Muslim sect called the assassins, carrying out covert murders of both Muslim and Christian leaders they considered enemies of their state. According to my usual not-very-in-depth research, the assassins were pretty hardcore, and their missions were often suicidal. Their preferred method of killing was with daggers, and, over nearly 300 years, they took out hundreds of people including three caliphs and a ruler of Jerusalem.

This unassuming chap is Lee Harvey Oswald who assassinated JFK (OR DID HE?) on 22 November 1963.

So how did the link between the word ‘assassin’ and ‘hashish’ come about? Disappointingly, historians say there’s no real evidence that they smoked any hashish at all (which is probably a good thing as they’d never have got any murdering done with all the giggling and going to the 24-hour garage for snacks). One theory is that because ‘hash’ means ‘weed’, the name comes from the idea that they cut down their enemies as easily as if they were weeds. Whatever the answer, we can apparently blame Marco Polo for popularising the link between the two.

The earliest known use of the verb ‘assassinate’ in print in English was in a pamplet by one Matthew Sutcliffe printed in 1600. Sutcliffe was an English clergyman, academic, lawyer and ‘controversialist’ (according to Wikipedia). The pamplet was called A Briefe Replie to a Certaine Odious and Slanderous Libel, Lately Published by a Seditious Jesuite (I don’t know if this was controversial or not). Five years later a little-known writer by the name of William Shakespeare introduced ‘assassinate’ to the masses (sorry Matt), in Macbeth.