unobtainium

‘Unobtainium’ is a fictional term used to describe a material that’s super rare, expensive or impossible to get hold of. The term dates back to the 1950s, and is believed to have originated in the aerospace engineering community. Engineers used it as a joke to describe materials that had perfect properties but were impossible or impractical to get hold of with current technology – like something that’s lightweight but incredibly strong or resistant to damage. As you can probably guess, it’s derived from the word ‘unobtainable’.

‘Unobtainium’ turns up in science fiction a lot, although I’m not completely convinced that the writers/directors are always in on the joke. The most famous one is probably from CGI snooze-fest Avatar, where unobtainium is a highly valuable mineral mined on the moon Pandora. It also turns up in The Core, a terrible 2003 sci-fi starring Hilary Swank and international treasure Stanley Tucci (both of whom should know better, frankly). In that film it’s a material used to construct a drilling machine that can withstand the extreme conditions in the Earth’s core. Why do they need to build that? Well, because the Earth’s core has stopped rotating, causing chaos on the surface including people with pacemakers suddenly dropping dead, and lightning strikes causing Rome’s Colosseum to explode. Ah, okay then.

The Core has the dubious accolade of having got almost all of its science completely wrong. Here are just a couple of examples:

• if the Earth’s core did stop spinning, we’d have no protection from solar radiation and would all cook to death (which would have been a very short, and probably better, film)

• the movie’s scientists constantly refer to the Earth's ‘electromagnetic field’ when, in reality, the Earth has a magnetic field, which is quite different

• when our hastily assembled team of random heroes reach the centre of the Earth, they communicate with their commander using a radio. This would be completely impossible because the ground would block the signal

• when the drilly-ship thing is drilling through the Earth to the core, it’s going straight down. But the writers seemed to forget about gravity, as the people inside it still manage to walk back and forth between different parts of the ship, when they should in fact be climbing.

This is just the tip of the bad science iceberg – The Core’s science was so inaccurate that it led to the creation of The Science & Entertainment Exchange, a programme that connects entertainment industry workers with scientists and engineers to promote better science in movies and television. Wow.

(With thanks to my friend Abby for suggesting this as a word of the week.)

prestigious

If something or someone’s prestigious, they’re generally highly respected and renowned. But ‘prestigious’ is one of those words which has completely reinvented itself over the years. When it first appeared in English in the 16th century, it referred to someone or something that was deceptive or fraudulent, or that involved trickery. It wasn’t until the 19th century that ‘prestigious’ tricked us all and morphed into the positive meaning it has today.

Before we get into the ‘why’ of that, let’s take a look at the etymology. Like lots of other words of the week, prestigious has its roots in Latin. It comes from the word ‘praestigiosus’, which meant ‘full of tricks’ or ‘deceitful’. That’s derived from ‘praestigiae’, meaning ‘delusions’ or ‘illusions’, and was often used to refer to conjuring tricks or sleight of hand. (You might also have heard the word ‘prestidigitation’, which also comes from ‘praestigiae’, and refers specifically to the skill of performing magic tricks or illusions, often using quick hand movements). The root word ‘prae-’ means ‘before’ or ‘in front of,’ while ‘stringere’ means ‘to bind’ or ‘to tighten’, suggesting something that deceives or confounds the senses.

So how did ‘prestigious’ fool us all into turning it into something positive? It’s probably down to the fact that we’re all impressed by someone who has the power to dazzle and deceive. And over time, we started using ‘prestigious’ to describe someone or something that does that as having earned our admiration and respect. By the mid-19th century, the association with trickery had pretty much completely disappeared, and we were only using it in the positive sense we do today.

Harrison Ford’s reaction to this is PRICELESS.

harangue

If you harangue someone, you verbally attack them in a confrontational way, usually for quite a long time. Harangue is also a noun, so you can ‘deliver a harangue’ (think Trump, immigrants and pets).

People have been haranguing each other about all sorts since the late 16th century, when this word first appeared in English. It comes from an Old Italian term ‘aringo’, meaning ‘public assembly’ or ‘a place for public speaking’. This word is from a Medieval Latin word ‘harenga’, which referred to a speech delivered in a public setting. And for a time, a ‘harangue’ was a term for any formal, impassioned speech, often by a political or military leader. Figures like Napoleon and General Patton were known for delivering harangues – impassioned, sometimes aggressive addresses to inspire and rally their troops.

In the late 17th century ‘harangue’s meaning gradually shifted to the one it has today of a long, aggressive or scolding lecture or rant. This might simply be because there was a cultural shift in the way we perceive speeches – things that used to be motivational or persuasive were now seen as tiresome or irritating.

The official Guinness World Record for the longest lecture marathon belongs to Arvind Mishra of India. Mishra delivered a lecture on scientific computation at Graphic Era University in Dehradun, India, which lasted 139 hours, 42 minutes and 56 seconds in March 2014. Numb bums all round, I’m sure.

vaccine

‘Vaccine’s history begins in 1796 with Edward Jenner, a country doctor in Gloucestershire. Smallpox was a leading cause of death at the time, with a mortality rate of about 20% to 30%. Survivors were often left with severe scarring and sometimes blindness too. Jenner noticed a pattern among the local milkmaids. Lots of them caught cowpox, a mild disease that caused sores similar to smallpox but was far less dangerous. But they rarely caught the much deadlier smallpox. He decided to investigate why.

On 14 May 1796, Jenner took material from a cowpox sore on the hand of a local milkmaid (called Sarah Nelmes). He then made small incisions on the arm of an eight-year-old boy called James Phipps (whose parents must have been very trusting), and inserted the cowpox stuff. The boy developed a mild fever but recovered quickly.

A few weeks later, Jenner exposed James to smallpox to see if the cowpox had protected him (seriously, that poor child). Thankfully for everyone concerned, he didn’t develop smallpox, proving the theory that cowpox had made the boy immune to it.

Jenner performing his first vaccination on poor old James Phipps

The concept of deliberately introducing a bit of a disease (not the technical term) to bring about immunity wasn’t new. Called ‘variolation’, people had been doing it with smallpox for centuries (it was used in China as early as the 10th century). But it didn’t always work, and sometimes led to severe cases of the disease. Jenner’s innovation was much safer because it used cowpox, which was less dangerous than smallpox. That’s why it got a new name – ‘vaccine’ – which comes from the Latin word ‘vacca’, meaning ‘cow’ (we got there eventually).

Jenner’s method spread across Europe and eventually the world, laying the groundwork for modern immunology and the development of vaccines for many other diseases, including covid. In 1802, he got a grant from the British government to continue his research, which would eventually lead to the global eradication of smallpox by the World Health Organization in 1980. Well done, Edward.

If you’re wondering what happened to James, he died of smallpox a few years later. KIDDING. There’s not actually much known about his later life, although he did get a free house from Jenner. Which seems like the least he could do, frankly. Phipps died in 1853, making him 65. And in a nice twist, that cottage went on to house the Edward Jenner Museum between 1968 and 1982.

(I don’t want to be Debbie Downer, but in the interests of balance I should probably point out that Phipps wasn’t the first child to be experimented on, I mean, vaccinated against smallpox with cowpox. In 1791, a man called Peter Plett picked a pickled pepper, sorry, inoculated three children in Germany, and in 1774 a guy called Benjamin Jesty also did it on three of his family members (!). But Jenner was the first person to publish details of the vaccination, which is why he gets the credit.)