sabotage

You know what ‘sabotage’ is – an awesome song by the Beastie Boys. It also means to deliberately damage or destroy something. And it has an interesting backstory, which I heard on this week’s Wittertainment podcast (currently being broadcast from Mark Kermode’s under-stairs’ cupboard and Simon Mayo’s spare room). So, apparently French labourers in ye olde times used to wear wooden shoes (why?) called ‘sabots’. And when they got pissed off with les crappy working conditions, they’d chuck these wooden shoes into the machinery to break it. So this became known as sabotage. Interesting, right?

Photo by Silvia Trigo on Unsplash.

Well, it would be, except a little bit of internet research reveals that it’s sadly bollocks. Although the word ‘sabotage’ does relate to those painful sounding wooden shoes, no one was hurling them angrily into machinery as a protest. Apparently the French word it comes from, ‘saboter’, actually means ‘to walk noisily’, as you would if you were wearing wooden shoes (probably because you’re saying ‘ouch, why am I wearing shoes made of tree’ every two seconds). This fake news story was made popular by the film Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country. Random, I know.

So what’s the real story? Well, ‘sabotage’ first appeared in writing in an 1897 report by two French anarchists (best job title ever), called Émile Pouget and Paul Delassale. They recommended that French labour unions follow in the footsteps of British trade unionists who’d successfully protested bad working conditions using work slowdowns and inefficiencies (apparently we’ve always been good at going on strike). Us Brits called this Ca’ Canny, a Scottish colloquialism which basically means ‘don’t do too much work’ (my mantra). While looking for a French equivalent, Émile came up with ‘sabotage’, inspired by the phrase ‘Travailler a coups de sabots’, or ‘to work as one wearing wooden shoes’, which had long been used to refer to slow workers. It made its way into English in the early 1900s.

Turns out it’s still a quite interesting story, even if it doesn’t involve any angry French shoe throwing.

(With special thanks to the Grammarphobia blog for the info.)

petrichor

Ooh, this is a lovely word. It describes the scent you smell when rain hits dry soil. It’s one of the few words we have for a specific smell – most, like fresh-cut grass or frying bacon, are just descriptions of what they are.

Photo by Zachary Gilseth on Unsplash.

In the words of Jennifer Aniston, here comes the science… So, certain plants exude an oil during dry weather, which is then absorbed by clay-based soil and rocks. When it rains this is released into the air, alongside another compound called geosmin (a metabolic byproduct of bacteria) which is emitted by wet soil. And together they make the smell petrichor. Hmmm, I’m glad someone came up with a nice word for it, cos it sounds gross.

Origin-wise, even though ‘petrichor’ sounds all Latiney or Ancient Greeky, it’s actually quite a modern word. It was coined in 1964 by two researchers called Isabel Joy Bear and Richard G Thomas in the scientific journal Nature. The reason it looks like ye olde word is because our researchers took its parts from Greek. ‘petra’ means ‘stone’ (you can also find this in words like ‘petrified’ and ‘petrol) and ‘ichor’ is basically a fancy word for fluid (it’s also the stuff that flows in the veins of the gods of Greek mythology apparently).

If you’re a fan of Doctor Who then you’ve probably come across ‘petrichor’ already – it was used by the TARDIS as part of a password to open a back-up control room in ‘The Doctor’s Wife’, and was also the name of a perfume that Amy Pond modelled in ‘Closing Time’.

Interesting fact alert: our noses are super sensitive to geosmin – we can detect it at concentrations as low as five parts per trillion (which is good…?). Some scientists think this is because it might have been handy for survival for our ancestors to know when rainy weather was on the way.

ennui

Photo by Jen Theodore on Unsplash.

We’re probably all feeling some ennui at the moment. It’s a French word for being a bit bored and listless. Because it’s French, in my head it involves lots of languid fanning of one’s own face while sighing and lolling about on a chaise longue. And turns out that’s not far wrong.

Ennui comes from an Old French word, enui, meaning ‘annoyance’. That comes from the Latin ‘in odio’ which means ‘hatred’. At some point ‘enui’ gained an extra ‘n’, and became popular in the 18th century to describe the boredom felt by French youth, who were disappointed that the French Revolution hadn’t been as revolutionary as they’d hoped. This left them full of existential angst, AKA ennui. The meaning morphed again a century or so later, becoming a word expressing a dissatisfaction with the modern age and industrialisation. Lots of arty-farty types suffered from ennui at this time, poor lambs, and because of this it was seen as a mark of how clever you were – because the bourgeoisie were far too stupid to worry about important things like the futility of human existence.

The German version of ennui is ‘Weltschmerz’, which literally translates as ‘world pain’. The difference between the German and French versions is the whole listlessness thing – the Germans are just sad, without all the lying around. I guess they’re just too efficient for that #nationalstereotypes

groggy

Old Grog himself

To feel groggy is to feel slow or weak, for example after a bad night’s sleep, a bump on the head or a hella awesome night out (remember those?). Groggy is derived from ‘grog’ which these days means any kind of booze. But it used to refer purely to the watered-down rum that was issued to sailors of our very own Royal Navy. It’s named after one Admiral Edward Vernon, a British naval officer and MP. He was known for wearing a cloak made from a material called ‘grogham’ (a mixture of silk and wool – also called grosgrain) which earned him the nickname ‘Old Grog’. Despite having a long and distinguished career in the Navy, he’s most remembered for his order in 1740 that his sailors’ neat rum ration should be watered down. The resulting weak drink became known as ‘grog’.

It’s not all bad news. The first president of Murica George Washington had an estate named Mount Vernon in honour of Ed – George’s older bro Lawrence served under him. He obviously made an impression, and the estate is still called Mount Vernon to this day.

I’d like to think that Old Grog was maybe the inspiration for Old Gregg from ‘The Mighty Boosh’, but this is complete speculation on my part (I can’t find any history of Old Grog having a blinding mangina for a start). Despite that, here’s a video of Old Gregg and Howard Moon singing ‘Love Games’ – because I think we could all do with a bit more Boosh in our lives right now.

dunce

You know what a dunce is – a stupid person (e.g. someone who stockpiles toilet rolls). But did you know that it’s actually named after someone? Well, if you do, then you’re deffo not a dunce, and you can go back to your self-isolating. But if you don’t, read on…*

The man himself

John Duns Scotus was born in 1266ish (no one’s entirely sure) in Scotland near the village of Duns, hence the name. He was a Catholic priest and Franciscan friar, as well as a university professor, philosopher and theologian (#overachiever). According to the internet he’s actually one of the three most important philosopher-theologians of Western Europe (the other two being Thomas Aquinas and William of Ockham – but I’m sure you knew that already, dear reader). He’s credited with coming up with several different doctrines including the idea of ‘haecceity’ (future word of the week), which is about there being some stuff in each thing that makes it an individual, or something – it’s very complicated. Duns’ nickname was Doctor Subtilis, which makes him sound like a Marvel villain, but was actually a scholastic accolade (a fancy-dancy name given to people to show that they was well clever), due to his ‘penetrating and subtle manner of thought’ (according to Wikipedia).

So, where did it all go wrong? Well, up until the English Reformation in the 16th century (when the Church of England broke away from the Roman Catholic Church), Duns’ ideas and work were still widely taught and respected. But, the Protestants started using some of his more out-there theories to discredit Catholicism, and called his followers ‘duns’. Over time, this morphed into ‘dunce’, and was soon being used to describe anyone who was a bit of a dumbo.

It’s not all bad news – Duns spawned a whole school of philosophy called Scotism. Even better, he was beatified (AKA saintified) by Pope John Paul II in 1996. Peaks and troughs.

A dunce cap – nothing to do with the KKK, honest.

Bonus fact: dunce caps (conical hats with a ‘D’ on them – badly behaved school kids back in the day were made to put these on while standing in the corner) might also come from our John, although no one’s entirely sure. Some sources claim it comes from a theory of his that wearing a conical hat made you cleverer (hmmm). But the OED says that ‘dunce cap’ didn’t enter the English language until 1833, which was well after ‘dunce’ had become a derogatory term – so chances are we can’t blame this one on him.

* You’re not a dunce either BTW.

shampoo

Obviously you know what shampoo is. But have you ever wondered where the word comes from? Luckily you have me to do that for you. So, let’s start with the most important question – does it have anything to do with poo? No, is the slightly disappointing answer (or is it just me who’s disappointed by that…?).

Photo by Dan Smedley on Unsplash.

Shampoo is an Indian word which goes all the way back to 1762. It comes from the Hindi word chāmpo, which is derived from the Sanskrit root chapati (yes, as in the flatbread), which means to press, knead or soothe. The word came over to us dirty Europeans from India by way of one Sake Dean Mahomed, an Indian traveller, surgeon and entrepreneur, who used it to describe a form of massage. In 1814 he and his Irish wife Jane opened the first commercial ‘shampooing’ vapour masseur bath in Brighton (I don’t know what a ‘vapour masseur bath’ is, but it sounds like the sort of thing that would cost several hundred pounds to use in a health spa). He described shampoo in a local paper as ‘…a cure to many diseases and giving full relief when everything fails; particularly Rheumatic and paralytic, gout, stiff joints, old sprains, lame legs, aches and pains in the joints’. At some point after this ‘shampoo’ was used to refer to a scalp massage and then, in the 19th century to the soap used during that massage.

metonymy

Metonymy is a figure of speech (i.e. a thing we do to make language more fancy or poetic) that replaces the name of something with the name of something else it’s closely associated with, but isn’t a part of. Got it? Nope, me neither. Let’s look at a famous example of metonymy: ‘The pen is mightier than the sword’ (from Edward Bulwer Lytton’s play Richelieu, BTdubz – good to know in case it ever comes up in a pub quiz). The ‘pen’ refers to the written word, and the ‘sword’ is military power – so both ‘pen’ and ‘sword’ are representations of something else that they’re associated with. (Personally I’d rather have a sword than a pen in most situations, for example a zombie apocalypse, but that might just be because I watch too many horror films.)

Some other more modern examples of metonymy are:

• ‘Hollywood’ to refer to all celebs, film directors and producers and so on

• ‘top brass’ for management types

• ‘new blood’ for new people or ideas

• ‘the big house’ for prison.

It’s probably fairly unlikely that you’ll find yourself in a situation where it might be an issue, but try not to confuse metonymy with synedoche (pronounced si-nek-duh-keen – although I’ve never heard anyone say it out loud). Synecdoche is when you talk about a thing using the name of one of its parts. So it’s a bit more literal than metonymy – like calling business people ‘suits’, or your car your ‘wheels’ (although if you do either of those I’m afraid you might be a prick).

mountweazel

If you watched this week’s Inside No. 9 on the BBC (and if you didn’t, go and do that immediately), you will have heard this term, along with its definition. A mountweazel is a bit of fake information deliberately added to a reference work like a map or dictionary to root out anyone who’s illegally copying them. I used to work in directory publishing (which is as boring as it sounds), and we included made-up companies based at our home addresses to make sure people weren’t stealing data from our directories. So if I got a bit of marketing bumpf delivered at home from a company we knew hadn’t bought a list of addresses from us, then we knew they’d just copied it from the publication.

Here are some more fun examples.

Photo by REVOLT on Unsplash.

• The New Oxford American Dictionary added the made-up word ‘esquivalience’ in 2005 which they defined as ‘the wilful avoidance of one’s official responsibilities’ (geddit?).

• The fictional town of Agloe in New York was added to maps as a ‘trap street’ to catch any would-be copyright infringers. Agloe ended up becoming a real landmark for a brief time after a shop opened on the spot named ‘Agloe General Store’, after the name on the maps. Unfortunately it later went bust and Agloe is no more. (Trap streets are quite common in cartography – so much so that they were a major plot point in an episode of Doctor Who called ‘Face the Raven’. It featured a hidden street where aliens could seek asylum, which people dismissed as a trap street when they saw it on maps.)

So, why are these called ‘mountweazels’? Well, it’s after one Lillian Virginia Mountweazel, a fake entry added to the 1975 edition of the New Columbia Encyclopedia. It read as follows:

‘Mountweazel, Lillian Virginia, 1942–1973, American photographer, b. Bangs, Ohio. Turning from fountain design to photography in 1963, Mountweazel produced her celebrated portraits of the South Sierra Miwok in 1964. She was awarded government grants to make a series of photo-essays of unusual subject matter, including New York City buses, the cemeteries of Paris and rural American mailboxes. The last group was exhibited extensively abroad and published as Flags Up! (1972). Mountweazel died at 31 in an explosion while on assignment for Combustibles magazine.’

Mountweazels are also known as ‘nihilartikels’ which means ‘nothing article’ in Latin and German.

Sometimes words get added to reference works by accident (or crappy proofreading), in which case they’re called ‘ghost words’. The most famous example of a ghost word is ‘dord’ which appeared in the 1934 second edition of Webster’s New International Dictionary, and was defined as meaning ‘density’. This was in fact a proofreading error (the original entry said ‘D or d, cont/ density’ and was referring to the abbreviation ‘d’). It took five years for an eagle-eyed editor to spot it, and another eight years before it was removed from the dictionary.

sycophant

Photo by Deidre Schlabs on Unsplash.

You know what a sycophant is – someone who sucks up to someone else to get an advantage. Also known as a toady, creep, lickspittle and so on. But it hasn’t always meant that. Previously, a sychophant was someone who accused someone else of being a fig-smuggler. Nope, this isn’t another name for Speedos – it dates all the way back to classical Athens (which was a long time ago y’all).

So, way back in the sixth century (I said it was a long time ago), Athens law didn’t let anyone export food (apart from olives, because that would just be mean) outside its borders. Apparently this was torture for some fig-loving souls, who broke the law by smuggling the fruit* out. Unlike food transportation, blackmail wasn’t against the law (that’s some effed-up legal system right there). So if someone busted you leaving town with your pockets full of figs, they’d threaten to tell the fuzz about it. These blackmailers were called sykophantes, which translates as ‘revealer of figs’.

(At this point I should probably say that Wikipedia reckons this is a load of old cobblers, as there’s no concrete proof for the whole thing. But ‘sykophantes’ does mean ‘revealer of figs’, and Plutarch (Greek scholar and all round clever dude) said it was true, so let’s just go with it. Because the other explanations are nowhere near as interesting.)

I’ve just realised I’ve never had a fig.

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*Interesting fact alert: A fig isn’t technically a fruit – it’s an ‘inverted flower’. And they only exist because of the fig wasp. (Warning: this is gross, sorry. Brace yourself.)

Female wasps clamber inside figs to lay their eggs. It’s a one-way trip – getting in rips their wings off (I told you it was gross). Once the eggs are laid, the wasp dies. The baby wasps grow up inside the fig then mate (wait, aren’t they all related? Ewww). Then the boys die (they’re born without any wings, so their only job is to get their rocks off with their sisters), and the females fly out of the fig, all covered in pollen, off to find a male fig of their own to do the whole thing again. But, PLOT TWIST: figs have genders, and only the male ones have the special egg area (not what it’s called) the wasps need to lay in. So as long as Mrs Wasp sets up shop in a male fig, everything’s fine (apart from the whole wing-ripping, dying part). But if she ends up in a female fig, she’s a bit screwed. So, she just dies, with no babies. But the good news is, she does pollinate the fig with the pollen she bought with her. Which means more figs, I think (I’m not a scientist, okay?).

Us humans only eat female figs (I’m not sure how you tell the difference – maybe they get paid less than their male counterparts), which contain an enzyme that digests the bits of dead wasp. But because of the absolute horror show mentioned above, a lot of vegans don’t eat them at all. And I don’t think I’ll be trying one any time soon.

tanka

A tanka is a Japanese lyric poem (stay with me). It’s like a haiku, which you probably had to learn about at school, but a bit longer – 31 syllables rather than 17. Tankas are made up of five unrhymed lines of five, seven, five, seven and seven syllables. They’re often romantic poems, and they talk about the weather a lot as well (so us Brits should LOVE them). They generally follow a set structure – the first three lines are usually about a particular image or thought, then the last two move the focus to something else (but still related to the original idea). Confused? Me too. Here’s an example of a tanka by Stella Pierides, a British writer and poet which hopefully shows what I mean.

this sultry evening
I mistake your eyes for two
hovering fireflies
such stillness only the dead
and the truly happy know

Nice, right?

The word ‘tanka’ was used in the second half of the eighth century in Japan to describe short poems, as opposed to chōka for (you’ve guessed it) long poems. As time went on, and probably due to a general lack of attention span, short poems became more popular. These were given the general name of ‘waka’, and the word ‘tanka’ fell out of favour for a bit (thank god they didn’t decide to combine the two names…). Then, in the early 20th century, a Japanese poet and critic by the name of Masaoka Shiki decided that waku needed updating for the times, and revived the word ‘tanka’. He also made the word ‘haiku’ popular as well (these were previously called hokkus) for the same reason. I’m not sure where he got all this renaming power from, but well done him.

Seventh-century nobles in the Japanese Imperial court held tanka poetry competitions. I like to think of these as ye olde rap battles.

licit

I came across this word in the book I’m reading at the moment (A Fatal Inversion by Barbara Vine in case you’re interested). You can probably guess that it’s the opposite of ‘illicit’, a word I’d always assumed is unpaired (i.e. one that looks like it should have an opposite, but doesn’t – I wrote a blog post on this a while back, which you can read here). Because that’s the kind of thing I think about. What a loser.

I don’t know what this picture has to do with anything, but it was the only one that came up when I put ‘illicit’ into the Unsplash image search (there was nothing at all for ‘licit’). So I stuck it here anyway. Oh, and it’s by timJ.

Licit means ‘lawful’ and comes from the Latin word licitus, meaning ‘lawful, permitted, allowed’ which is where we also get ‘licence’ from. Its first use in print was in 1483, and then someone stuck an ‘il’ on it to make its opposite number around 19 years later (‘il’ as a prefix often appears at the start of words beginning with ‘l’ to change the meaning – think logical/illogical, literate/illiterate, legal/illegal, and so on). For some reason – maybe because us humans much prefer doing/writing about bad behaviour over the good stuff…? – illicit went on to be used much more regularly while licit fell by the linguistic wayside. I also found a source that said that in the 19th century licit was ‘condemned unjustly as an Americanism’, which might be another reason we stopped using it (because it seems we’re xenophobic as well as naughty).

Read the other words of the week.

eggcorn

(Photo by Caleb Lucas on Unsplash.)

An eggcorn is when you mistakenly use a word or phrase for another word or phrase that sounds similar. But the end result still makes a weird kind of sense. Wow, that explanation sucked all the fun out of it, didn’t it? Sorry. Eggcorns are things like:

• ‘it’s a bit of a damp squid’ (should be squib, but it still make sense cos squids are wet)

• ‘for all intensive purposes’ (should be ‘intents and purposes’, but ‘intensive purposes’ sound like very important things)

• ‘he’s a card shark’ (it’s a sharp, not a shark, but still makes sense because we use shark to mean someone who’s really good at stuff, like a pool shark).

The name ‘eggcorn’ was coined by a linguistics professor called Geoffrey Pullum. He read an article by a linguist called Mark Liberman about a woman who used the word ‘egg corn’ instead of ‘acorn’ (because acorns look like eggs in egg cups), and pointed out that there was no name for this. Pullum suggested that we all just call them ‘eggcorns’. So now we do. I think I love Geoffrey Pullum.

Because the internet is a wonderful thing, there’s a whole website devoted to eggcorns. 648 and counting…

Bonus word: malapropism

A malapropism is the same as an eggcorn in that it’s when you use the wrong word in place of one which sounds similar. The difference is that the end result doesn’t make sense and you end up with something humorous (another super-fun explanation there, sorry). A couple of famous examples of malapropisms include ‘And then he’ll have only channel vision’ (Frank Bruno talking about Mike Tyson) and ‘Don’t upset the apple tart’ (Bertie Ahearn, former Taoiseach of Ireland).

The word malapropism comes from Mrs Malaprop, a character in a play called ‘The Rivals’ (1775, by Richard Brinsley Sheridan), who often mixes up her words. Her name’s probably based on the French phrase ‘mal à propos’, which means ‘poorly placed’.

According to the New Scientist, an office worker described a colleague as ‘a vast suppository of information’ (presumably they meant ‘repository’). They then apparently apologised for their ‘Miss-Marple-ism’, which is a malapropism for the word malapropism. HEAD EXPLODES.

Bonus, bonus word: malaphor

Wow, I’m really spoiling you this week, aren’t I? A malaphor is an informal term (which means it’s not really a proper word, hence it being a buy-one-get-one-free type of deal) for when you mix your metaphors, idioms, clichés or aphorisms. So that’s when you mash two phrases together like ‘we’ll burn that bridge when we come to it’, ‘you hit the nail on the nose’ or ‘stop winding my leg’ (© my sister, 1986).

Read the other words of the week.

tmesis

This is a linguistic term (don’t fall asleep) for when you stick a word in the middle of another word or phrase. Like ‘fan-bloody-tastic’ or ‘abso-fucking-lutely’. It doesn’t have to be a swearword, but obviously swearing’s funny (and big and clever, regardless of what your parents might tell you).

George Bernard Shaw was one of the first writers to bring tmesis to the masses in Pygmalion, published in 1912, when Eliza Doolittle says ‘abso-blooming-lutely’. And in English we mainly use tmesis like this, for comic effect. But as a rhetorical device, it’s been around for a really long time. It started out in classic literature (although not with swearwords sadly). Homer (of Iliad/Odyssey fame) was a big fan of whacking some tmesis in an epic poem, as was Ovid who used it in Metamorphoses (an 11,995-line narrative poem in Latin – woop woop). Shakepeare also jumped on the tmesis bandwagon and used it in Romeo and Juliet (‘This is not Romeo, he’s some other where,’) and Richard II (this one’s a bit harder to spot, but he’s splitting ye old version of ‘however’:  ‘how heinous e’er it be’).

The word itself first turned up in the 1550s, and is Greek (although you probably guessed that from the weird-ass spelling). It means, unimaginatively, ‘to cut’.

In Australian English, tmesis is called ‘tumba rumba’, which is obviously a much better name, and one I’ll be shoehorning into every conversation I have from now on. No one knows exactly why it’s called this, but it’s probably down to a poem called Tumba-bloody-rumba (1959) by Aussie writer John O’Grady (about the small town of Tumbarumba in New South Wales). It has loads of tmeses in it, which I’m pleased to say almost all involve swearing. Here’s an extract:

This is a kangaroo I met a few weeks ago when I was in Australia.

“And the other bloke says ‘Seen’ im? Owed ’im half a bloody quid.
Forgot to give it back to him, but now I bloody did –
Could’ve used the thing me bloody self. Been off the bloody booze,
Up at Tumba-bloody-rumba shootin’ kanga-bloody-roos.”

You can read the whole thing here.

Read the other words of the week.

quincunx

This was a pointless answer on ‘Pointless’ (obviously) last week (they had to come up with words ending in ‘nx’ – who says daytime telly rots your brain?). A quincunx is a geometric pattern made up of four points forming a square or rectangle, with a fifth in the middle. If you’re having trouble visualising that, it’s basically the five-side on a dice (yes, yes, I know the singular is ‘die’, but saying that just makes you sound like a wanker – like those people who insist on saying ‘panino’ because ‘panini’ is plural), or the five of anything in a pack of cards.

The word comes from the name of a Roman coin which dates back to ye olde time of 211–200BC. It was worth five twelfths (‘quinque’ and ‘uncia’) of an ‘as’, which (according to my usual in-depth Wikipedia-based research) was the standard Roman bronze coin. Five dots on it showed it was a quincunx, which is why we now use it to describe that formation.

Later, people started using the word ‘quincux’ in English for other things placed in this cross-shape. Quincunxes actually turn up a lot in different places – for example, a quincunx is the standard pattern for planting in an orchard (I don’t know why, and finding out involved reading a different Wikipedia page which, frankly, I couldn’t be bothered to do). They’re also used in modern computer graphics as a pattern for multisample anti-aliasing, and in numerical analysis to describe the two-dimensional five-point stencil, a sampling pattern used to derive finite difference approximations to derivatives. Obviously we all know what those are, so I won’t bore you with the details. Oh, and Thomas Edison of lightbulb-inventing fame had a quincunx tattoo on his forearm. Rock and roll.

Read the other words of the week.

gymkhana

Photo by Christine Benton on Unsplash.

If you’re a bit posh, or you’ve ever read Jilly Cooper, then you’ll know what a gymkhana is – an event where people, usually children whose parents have lots of dosh, on horses do jumping over stuff (that’s the technical term) and other equestrian-type things. But, have you ever wondered where the word comes from? Probably not, but I’m going to tell you anyway.

Away from the UK and trashy novels (sorry Jilly, I love you really), ‘gymkhana’ is an Indian word which originally meant ‘place of assembly’. The first bit, ‘gym’ doesn’t have anything to do with the exercise place where I never go (that has its roots in Latin and Greek) – it’s from a Hindustani word, ‘gend’, which means ‘ball’. And the ‘khana’ part is an Indo-Persian/Indo-Arabic word meaning a place or a dwelling. So it literally means ‘ball-house’, which sounds a bit rude (or maybe that’s just me), but was actually used to describe somewhere where racket games were played. Over time the meaning changed to mean any type of skill-based event.

The word ‘gymkhana’ can also refer to a type of motorsport where drivers have to get round a track while performing Top-Gear like manoeuvres including reversals (don’t know what they are), 180 and 360-degree spins, parking boxes (huh?) and figure 8s. Oh, and in the days of the Raj, ‘gymkhana’ also referred to an upper-class gentlemen’s club which didn’t allow locals or women in, just to make sure all the racist/sexist bases were covered.

Read the other words of the week.

hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia

The word of the week is going on holiday for a while (it’s been working really hard and it deserves it). So I thought I’d better make it a good one. Hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia (phew) means a fear of long words.

Photo by Dušan Smetana on Unsplash.

Basically this is one big wordy joke. And whether or not it’s a ‘real’ word is debateable. There’s a shorter version – ‘sesquipedaliophobia’ – which turns up in The Aldrich Dictionary of Phobias and Other Word Families (published in 2002). ‘Phobia’ means ‘fear of’ (from Phobos, the Greek personification of fear – check out this blog post for more words we get from ancient Greek), while ‘sesquipedalian’ means having many syllables. That dates back to 1656, and comes from a Latin word ‘sesquipedalis’, which literally means a foot and a half long. From what I can gather, some wordy wag (those lexicographers are a wacky lot) then added the ‘hippo’ and the ‘monstro’ to make it even longer and, presumably, more scary sounding. Which is very unfair on any hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobics out there.

Bonus fact: the longest word in the English dictionary is pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanokoniosis. It’s a lung disease you catch from inhaling very fine silica particles, specifically from a volcano. So not much chance of getting it in Suffolk then. Which is lucky as I’d never be able to tell people what was wrong with me.

(See you back here in January for more words of the week.)

ghost

You already know what a ghost is. So instead of the meaning, in this WOTW (as no one calls it), I’m looking at that silent ‘h’ nestled between the ‘g’ and ‘o’. It hasn’t always been there – back in the 16th century, the word was spelled ‘gost’, as it comes from an Old English word, ‘gást’ (other spellings included gæst – ooh, I do love a ligature – goost, goist and goste). So how did the ‘h’ sneak in?

BOO! This picture is genuinely a bit unsettling, sorry. (Oh, and it’s by Syarafina Yusof on Unsplash.)

Well, we can blame this on William Caxton, the dude who introduced the printing press to us Brits in 1476. His first press was in Bruges (great film), and when he came back to Blighty to set up shop he brought some Flemish typesetters with him. One of them was called Wynkyn de Worde which is (a) an awesome name and (b) a nice case of nominative determinism (when your name matches your job). It seems that Caxton didn’t give a flying whatsit about spelling (gasp!), so largely left de Worde and his posse to it when they were typesetting English works. So if they came across a word that looked like a Flemish one, they tended to just use the Flemish version (because, why not?). And the Flemish word for ‘ghost’ was ‘gheest’. All of which means that they stuck an ‘h’ in our ‘gost’ whenever they typeset it. They did the same with ‘gastly’ and ‘agast’. Apparently they also tried it with ‘goat’, ‘goose’ and ‘girl’ but lucky for us, and small children trying to learn written English everywhere, those didn’t stick.

(I shamelessly stole this story from Susie Dent on Countdown, so thanks Suze.)

benighted

Benighted has two meanings – the one that you probably know (although I confess I thought it meant something else until I looked it up for this) is that it’s an adjective which describes someone who’s without morals or knowledge. There’s also a second older, and more literal, meaning which is to be overtaken by darkness – whacking the prefix ‘be’ on to the start of a word generally changes the meaning to making or causing to be, as in becalm or bedazzle. If you put the two meanings together then it all makes sense – if you’re short on morals or knowledge then you’re unenlightened, or in the (figurative, this time) dark.

The literal definition of ‘benighted’ has been around since the mid-1500s. Here’s a nice example of it in action from W.B. Yeats in ‘From The Tower’ (1928):

“Benighted travellers

From markets and from fairs

Have seen his midnight candle glimmering.”

(When I re-read that, the thought of seeing someone’s midnight candle glimmering made me giggle a bit, because I’m extremely juvenile and smutty. I’m sure you’re much more grown up than me though, and the thought never crossed your mind.)

endling

This is a bit of a sad one (sorry). An endling is the last known member of a species – so once it dies, that species (it can be an animal or a plant) is officially extinct.

The word was coined in the scientific journal ‘Nature’ in 1996. Other equally gloomy words for endling include ‘ender’ and ‘terminarch’. And if there’s a couple left, then they’re referred to collectively as a ‘relict’.

[This isn’t actually a Sehuencas water frog, but I couldn’t find a royalty-free one of those. Sorry.]

Etymology-wise, the ‘end’ bit of ‘endling’ is self-explanatory, I hope. Adding the suffix ‘-ling’ to a word either denotes that the thing is younger, smaller or inferior to the thing at the start (which is a terrible explanation but hopefully you get the gist) – think duckling, hatchling and so on. Or it can just mean that the thing is in the category described by the root word (that’s a slightly better explanation), as in earthling, and some other words which I can’t think of right now.

You can find a list of notable endlings on Wikipedia. It’s incredibly depressing though, so I wouldn’t recommend reading it if you’re feeling at all maudlin.

Now that we’re all thoroughly glum, here’s a nice story about an endling called Romeo, which I saw on QI this week (where I first heard the word). Romeo is a Sehuencas water frog, a native of Bolivia. He lives in Bolivia’s Natural History Museum (I suspect not voluntarily), and is 10 years old, which is pretty darn old in frog years. To try to see if he really is an endling, conservationists put a profile for Romeo on match.com. REALLY – you can see it here. (If you can’t be bothered to do reading, his profile begins with ‘Well, hi there. I’m Romeo. I’m a Sehuencas (pronounced “say-when-cuss”) water frog and, not to start this off super heavy or anything, but I’m literally the last of my species.’) Romeo had much better luck that I ever have with internet dating, and with money raised through the profile, some other conservationists found his Juliet in a Bolivian cloud forest (which is the most romantic-sounding thing ever), along with four other froggy pals. A breeding programme will be happening soon, so hopefully lots of Sehuencas tadpoles will follow. Hurrah!

(You can read more about R&J here.)

burnsides

Now, if you’re one of my more, erm, mature readers, you might be thinking of DCI Frank Burnside from ‘The Bill’ (I just googled him and his entry on ‘The Bill’ wiki – yes, that’s a thing – says ‘built his reputation on good detective work combined with his unique approach of putting informants’ heads down the toilet’. They don’t make ’em like that anymore). Unfortunately this doesn’t have anything to do with long-running police procedural dramas, but it does have a military background, which I’ll get to in a minute. It’s also my second (spoiler alert!) beard-related word in two weeks – make of that what you will.

Excellent facial hair, questionable military tactics

So, burnsides are another name for sideburns – strips of facial hair growing down your cheeks and connecting to a moustache, but with a clean-shaven chin. They’re named after one General Ambrose Burnside whose face hair was so distinctive it spawned a whole new genre (?). Which was lucky, as he was a pretty crap general – his most notable achievement was a crushing defeat in the American Civil War.

The savvy among you will have realised that sideburns is just burnsides swapped round. Annoyingly, I can’t find out how or why this happened – maybe it just made more sense to people as (in a happy coincidence) they’re on the side of your face?

A sideburn fact for you: sideburns went out of fashion in the early 20th century. One of the reasons for this was war – to keep a gas mask on your face you needed to be clean-shaven (which meant ’taches were still okay).

(Oh, and in case you’re wondering what sideburns were called before the 1800s, the answer is, rather disappointingly, ‘side whiskers’.)