alcohol

This is quite apt, as I’m writing this with a bit of a hangover (don’t judge me). But whether you’re a drinker or not, you might not know that the word ‘alcohol’ has an interesting backstory.

Like lots of words starting with ‘al-’, ‘alcohol’ comes from an Arabic word: ‘al-kohl’. If you’re someone who likes a smoky eye, you’ll probably recognise that last bit from kohl eyeliner. And that’s what it meant – by the 10th century, ‘al-kohl’ was used to refer to the mix of lead-based minerals (including galena, cerussite, laurionite, phosgenite, stibnite and malachite) used as eyeliner in the Middle East. (And no, rocking a lead-based cat-eye isn’t a good idea – research has found that lots of people got lead poisoning as a result. There’s an upside though. It also acted as a toxin, killing off infections that got into people’s eyes when the Nile flooded. Bonus.)

Much like me walking home after a night at the pub, the word ‘alcohol’ took a slightly circuitous route to get to English. Because kohl was made by grinding, over time, the meaning of ‘al-kohl’ shifted in Arabic to mean any very fine powder. In the 13th to 14th centuries, Medieval Latin borrowed the word as ‘alcohol’ or ‘alcochol’, using it for fine powders or refined substances that were ground or distilled. By the 14th to 16th centuries, alchemists were applying it to the purified ‘essence’ of something – for example, ‘alcohol of wine’ meant highly concentrated ethanol. In the 17th and 18th centuries, the meaning narrowed further in English to ethanol specifically, and then more broadly to any drink containing it. AKA, booze.

Us humans have been finding ways to get pissed for the best part of 13,000 years. In 2018, residue from a beerlike fermented drink was found in stone mortars in a cave in Israel. They’re believed to date back to 9750–11,750 BCE. There’s also a theory that the hunt for beer is what prompted us to start farming cereals, which led to one of the biggest social-technological changes in human history. (It might also have been the hunt for bread or porridge, but that doesn’t make for such a good story.)

buttload

This one sounds American, and that’s because it is. You’ve probably heard it US films or TV used in the same way we’d say ‘shed/shitload’: ‘I’ve got a buttload of laundry’ or ‘They made a buttload of money’. It just means ‘a lot’.

Before you start muttering ‘These words of the week have really gone downhill, Emma,’ ‘buttload’ IS a real word. And it’s nothing to do with bottoms. If you’re a gardener, you might already be one step ahead of me – because the ‘butt’ of ‘buttload’ is the same one you might use to collect rainwater, AKA a waterbutt. That’s because ‘butt’ is an old word for a barrel. But it was a more fun barrel than a waterbutt, as this one was filled with wine or beer. A standard butt held about 108 imperial gallons or around 477 litres. So a ‘buttload’ literally meant the amount a butt could hold. You can even find references to ‘buttload’s in old brewing and shipping records. (I told you it was real.)

The slang version first appeared in print as a jokey way to say ‘loads’ in the late 1980s. That was in an autobiographical cult (according to Amazon) travelogue called ‘Los Angeles Without a Map’ by Richard Rayner, first published in 1988 (and made into a film starring David Tennant in the 90s). According to the synopsis, Brit Rayner left his long-term girlfriend and steady job in London to ‘fly on a whim to track down Barbara, a bunny girl, athlete and party head’. A party head is 80s slang for someone who likes to have a good time, apparently. And Richard sounds like a buttload of dickheads, frankly.

ornery

I saw this word in the blurb of a book I was looking at, where it referred to an ‘ornery teen’. In case you haven’t come across it before, it means ‘bad-tempered or difficult to deal with’. Despite its grumpy meaning, it’s a nice word, right? But where does it come from? Well, it turns out that ‘ornery’ actually has quite an ordinary background. Literally.

Let’s take a trip to 18th-century America. The word ‘ordinary’ was often slurred in speech to something like ‘ornary’ or ‘ornery’. Because of that, this pronunciation became associated with rural, working-class or ‘uneducated’ speakers. It then started to pick up negative connotations, implying something a bit rougher or more unsophisticated than ‘ordinary’. Over time, it moved even further from its ordinary roots, coming to mean contrary, grumpy or mean-spirited.

You’re most likely to hear ‘ornery’ in the south or midwest of Murica. It turns up a lot in ‘The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn’ by Mark Twain. He often uses it to show a kind of cranky self-loathing or backwoods stubbornness (this novel is also one of the earliest and most famous literary uses of the word):

‘… though I couldn’t make out how he was a-going to be any better off then than what he was before, seeing I was so ignorant, and so kind of low-down and ornery.’

‘There was empty drygoods boxes under the awnings, and loafers roosting on them all day long, whittling them with their Barlow knives; and chawing tobacco, and gaping and yawning and stretching—a mighty ornery lot.’

‘Ornery’ is an example of how pronunciation, social attitudes and a bit of good old-fashioned snobbery can shape the meaning of a word. This is called semantic drift. Not the snobbery bit – ‘semantic drift’ is where words acquire new senses, lose old ones or completely change their meaning (like how ‘gay’ shifted from meaning ‘cheerful’ to ‘homosexual’).

Semantic drift can lead to ‘polysemy’, which is when a word ends up with more than one meaning at the same time – like ‘wicked’, for example, which can mean ‘evil’ (from ‘wicca’, the Old English word for a male sorcerer) or ‘super cool’. As well as polysemy, ‘wicked’ is also an example of semantic inversion – where a word flips to mean its opposite (‘sick’ is another one that’s done that in slang).

Finally, if you’re looking for a band name, ‘semantic drift’ would be awesome.

flensing

I heard this gruesome little word on ‘Bookish’, a new detective show written by and starring Mark Gatiss, and set in post-war London. It isn’t for the faint-hearted or any animal lovers out there – it refers to the slicing and stripping of skin and fat from whales or seals.

‘Flensing’ itself is pretty old, and comes from an Old Norse word, ‘flesja’, meaning ‘to flay’. It came to English in the 1700s via the Netherlands and the Dutch word ‘flensen’, when commercial whaling was at its peak. At that time, every part of the whale had a use, including oil for lamps, baleen for corsets and blubber for soap.

Nowadays, most of us won’t hear or see flensing outside of ‘Moby Dick’ or grim Arctic documentaries. And thank goodness – because whales are some of the most extraordinary creatures on Earth. For example, male humpback songs can be heard up to 10 km (more than 6 miles) away, and follow patterns that are similar to human language.

This brings me on to the so-called ‘loneliest whale in the world’ – a mysterious creature that calls out at 52 hertz, a much higher pitch than other whales use. It’s been tracked since the 1980s but never seen, and scientists don’t think any other whales can hear its calls (sob).

The story of the loneliest whale has inspired books and documentaries, and even music – including ‘Whalien 52’ by K-pop behemoth BTS, which uses the 52-hertz whale as a metaphor for the alienation often felt by adolescents. The good news is that whale calls picked up by a sensor in California in 2010 suggest there might be more than one whale calling at 52 hertz. So maybe, at last, someone’s answering back.

Well, that was all a bit depressing, wasn’t it? To cheer us up, here’s a video of the Commerson’s Dolphin, a tiny black-and-white dolphin that lives in the cold waters near South America and the Kerguelen Islands. They look like teeny-weeny killer whales. (Of course, they’re critically endangered. Sorry.)

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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’.