geminate

I’ve been doing some geminating this morning, with my socks, which I hate (the geminating, not the socks. I’m fine with socks in general).

Not to be confused with germinating, ‘geminate’ as a verb means to put something into pairs. Although it’s usually used in this way by linguists to describe sounds that are doubled, you can also use it to be fancy-dancy when you’re doing laundry (and who doesn’t need to add a bit of fancy-dancy when they’re sorting out washing?).

Geminate is also an adjective (AKA a describing word). So when you’ve finished sorting those goddamn socks, you can says that they’re geminate (sadly I still can’t say this about mine as many of them are still lounging in the laundry basket).

It’s not just about socks of course – you can use ‘geminate’ for anything that comes in a pair, like headlights, eyes or the twins from The Shining (other twins are available).

So, where does the word come from? Well, if you were born between 21 May and 20 June then you’re probably well ahead of me – like the star sign gemini, it comes from the Latin word ‘geminatus’ which itself comes from ‘geminus’, meaning ‘twin’.

The constellation Gemini is named for the twins Castor and Pollux from Greek mythology. The story goes that their mother, Leda, was seduced by Zeus in the form of a swan (the logistics of this always bother me). She later laid four eggs (because, swan) out of which hatched the aforementioned twins, as well as two others – Helen (later to become ‘of Troy’ and launch a bunch of boats) and Clytemnestra (which I always think sounds like an STD). Because Leda had also had relations with her husband (not a bird) on the same night, it seems that Castor and Clytemnestra were his kids, while Pollux and Helen were Zeus’, which therefore gave them demigod status, and immortality. When Castor was later killed in battle, Pollux was so upset that he begged his dad to let him give up half his immortality to give to his bro. Zeus agreed, and Castor and Pollux were transformed into the Gemini constellation.

Woman impregnated by swan? Sounds like a load of old Pollux to me.

The geminate twins from ‘The Shining’. I used to work with the grown-up version of one of these actresses. Yes, really. Dunno which one though.

inmate

I’ve just started watching Screw on Channel 4, a comedy-drama (although two episodes in there’s definitely more emphasis on drama than comedy) about a category-B men’s prison oop North somewhere. One of the prisoners talked about the word ‘inmate’. and how it hasn’t always applied to prisoners. Which got me thinking…

You might have already guessed where ‘inmate’ comes from (although I didn’t). It dates back to the 1500s and originally meant someone who lived in a house which was rented by someone else (AKA a possibly illegal sub-letter). It’s literally just ‘inn’ (as in pub where people can stay) and ‘mate’ (as in pal) smushed together. Which seems a bit unimaginative, but whatevs.

Over time, ‘inmate’ came to mean anyone who lived with lots of other people in a single house. Then, in the late 1800s, people also started using it to refer to those who’d been locked up against their will in prisons, asylums and hospitals. At around the same time, the words ‘roommate’ and ‘housemate’ appeared in the dictionary. So it wasn’t long before ‘inmate’ lost its original meaning and came to be used only to refer to people who’d been incarcerated at Her Majesty’s pleasure.

nickname

You know what a nickname is, of course – a substitute for someone or something’s proper name. But have you ever wondered who Nick is?

As it’s Christmas, it would be great if the ‘nick’ was St Nick. But, sadly, it turns out there’s no Nick in nickname. It’s a very old word, going all the way back to the early 1300s. And it looked a bit different then, as it was spelled ‘ekename’. This literally means ‘additional name’ from the Old English word ‘eac’, which comes from ‘eacian’ – to increase. So how did it become ‘nickname’? This is down to a process called rebracketing (also resegmentation or metanalysis if you want to get really technical), which is a fancy-dancy way of saying that the ‘n’ of the ‘an’ got moved to the beginning of the noun. So it went from [an][ekename] to [a][nekename], which eventually morphed into ‘nickname’.

This specific type of rebracketing is called ‘false splitting’. Other words that have lost an ‘n’ because of false splitting include:

• a napron ⇾ an apron (the thing you wear when you’re cooking)

• a naddere ⇾ an adder (snake)

• a noumpere ⇾ an umpire (the tennis people).

Another type of rebracketing is when words become split in a way that’s different from how they were built. If you just said ‘huh’, here are some examples which will hopefully help:

• hamburger – hamburgers are called hamburgers because they come from Hamburg i.e. [Hamburg][er]. But because ham is a food, at some point we decided they were made from ham (even though they’re not), and created a new word, ‘burger’. Then we attached that to lots of other foodstuffs (cheeseburger, veggieburger, etc). Ooh, I’m hungry now

• helicopter – this is made up of ‘helico’, from the Greek word ‘helix’ meaning ‘spiral’, and ‘pter’ from ‘pterón’ which means ‘wing’. So it’s actually [helico][pter]. Presumably because ‘pter’ is quite hard to pronouce, we’ve rebracketed it as [heli][copter] and use both of these as parts of other words (helipad and gyrocopter being the only two I can think of at the moment)

• alcoholic – this is actually made up of [alcohol] and [ic], with alcohol being, well, alcohol, and the suffix ‘ic’ meaning ‘relating to’. We’ve rebracketed this as [alco][holic] and added the [holic] bit to anything vaguely addictive (shopaholic, workaholic, etc.).

Well, that was a lot of technical gubbins, wasn’t it? Let’s finish up with some awesome historical nicknames.

Henry the Impotent doing a medieval finger gun

• Viscount Goderich, AKA The Blubberer: Goderich (1782–1859) holds the dubious honour of being the briefest-serving British prime minister ever (who didn’t die in office) at only 144 days. He got his nickname from crying in the House of Commons about people who died in riots against the Corn Laws (which I think makes him sound like quite a nice bloke).

• Ragnar Hairy Pants: This one’s slightly cheeky as Ragnar might not have been a real person, although he does turn up in The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle which is apparently pretty reliable. I think his nickname’s fairly self-explanatory (he had hairy trousers). His son also had an awesome nickname – Ivar the Boneless – although no-one knows for sure where that came from.

• Charles XIV of Sweden, AKA Sergeant Pretty Legs: He was king of Sweden and Norway from 1818 until he died in 1844, and he had good legs. Nuff said.

• Honourable mentions to: Constantine the Dung-Named (Byzantine emperor from 741 to 775); John The Babymaker (born in 1458 and ruled Cleves – where ‘Anne of’ came from presumably, apparently fathering 63, yep, 63 illegitimate children); and Henry the Impotent (King of Castile from 1454 to 1474, who failed to consummate his 13-year marriage to his cousin, although didn’t have trouble doing it with anyone else apparently).

ihi

This is the noise Michael Jackson used to make in most of his songs. I jest, of course. This is in fact a really lovely Māori word that doesn’t have an equivalent in English. It describes that feeling you get from an amazing performance that gives you goosebumps. Here’s a quote from Māori Language Commission chief executive Ngahiwi Apanui on the meaning of ‘ihi’:

‘It's a combination of something spiritual and something physical … It's the kind of x-factor the performer has ... it’s hitting you in the heart and the hair is standing up on the back of your neck and you’re thinking, “wow, this is amazing”.’

‘Ihi’ is often accompanied by ‘wehi’, which describes the impact that ihi has on someone.

Another awesome Māori word that doesn’t have an English equivalent is pōhēhē, a person who wrongly assumes they know something and then continues to insist that they’re right. I think we all know a pōhēhē.

The Māori language is called ‘te reo’, which simply means ‘the language’. It became one of New Zealand’s three official languages in 1987 (the others being English and NZ sign language). Originally there was no written version of it, until European settlers came along. These days the Māori alphabet is made up of 15 letters, two of which are digraphs (which is a fancy way of saying there are two pairs of letters for one sound). Oh, and that little line over the ‘a’ of Māori is called a ‘macron’ (nothing to do with the French president), which tells you it should be pronounced as a long vowel.

The Māori name for New Zealand is Aotearoa which means ‘land of the long white cloud’ (the much less romantic English name comes from the Dutch province of Zeeland).

[Disclaimer: I’m by no means an expert on te reo, so if you’d like to find out more, head on over to the Te Taura Whiri i te Reo Māori or Māori Language Commission’s website to find out more.]

shrift

Have you ever given someone or someone short shrift? And if you have, have you ever wondered what it actually means? No? Oh.

For anyone who’s still here, if you get or are given short shrift, it means you’re treated without sympathy and don’t get much in the way of attention. The word ‘shrift’ is well old, going all the way back to ye olde Anglo Saxons. Back then a shrift referred to the penance you were given by a priest for doing something naughty. That comes from the verb ‘shrive’, which means to hear confession, or give someone penance or absolution. And ‘shrive’ goes all the way back to the Latin word ‘scribere’, which means ‘to write’. I told you it was well old.

Ricky III #nohunchback

But why are shrifts generally short nowadays? As with many of our words and phrases we can thank Shakespeare for that. ‘short shrift’ appears in ‘The Tragedy of King Richard the Third’, first performed in 1594. Lord Hastings, who’s loyal to Ricky’s bro Edward IV, is sentenced to be executed for treason. He’s told to make his pre-beheading confession – AKA his shrift – quick, because the Duke of Gloucester (the Lord Protector of England who’s ordered the separation of H’s head from his body) is hangry:

‘Dispatch, my lord [Hastings]; the duke would be at dinner:

Make a short shrift; he longs to see your head.’

It wasn’t long before people took the phrase ‘short shrift’ and started using it to describe giving something little thought or sympathy.

The word ‘shrive’ also gave us the ‘Shrove’ in Shrove Tuesday. That’s because it’s traditionally a day for Christians to be be shriven (or shrove) i.e. do some confessing before Lent. Oh, and eat a load of pancakes at the same time.

matutolypea

I can guarantee you’ve had matutolypea at some point in your life. Don’t panic – it’s not some horrible internal disease or toe fungus. It’s when you wake up in the morning feeling grumpy and out of sorts. So it’s basically a posh way of saying that you got out of bed the wrong side.

A very old figurine that may or may not be Hakuna Matata, sorry Matuta Mater (from Wikipedia).

Etymology wise, despite its grand appearance, matutolypea is actually pretty straightforward. It’s a word of two halves. The ‘matuto’ bit comes from ‘Matuta Mater’, an ancient Roman goddess of the dawn. She was worshipped on the western and southern edges of the Roman empire and would later matutate (this is a bad play on words, sorry) into the slightly better-known Aurora. The second part of matutolypea comes from the Greek word ‘lype’, which means ‘grief or sorrow’. So it basically translates as ‘morning mourning’, which is pleasing (unless you’ve got it, or live with someone who does).

Even with these impressive classical roots, ‘matutolypea’ seems to be a fairly modern word, first turning up in print in the 1990s. Sadly, you won’t find it in any mainstream dictionaries either (but that’s never stopped me before).

Despite Matuta being largely forgotten when it comes to goddesses, we get lots of other morning-type words from her name, some more well known than others. They include ‘matins’ which are morning church services, ‘matinee’ for an afternoon performance and ‘matutinal’ which means something is happening in the morning (these have come to us via the French word ‘matin’, which I’m sure you’ll remember from school means ‘morning’).

Your challenge for this week is to say something like this to as many people as you can:

‘Don’t talk to me for at least an hour until my matutolypea subsides.’

And feel free to let me know their reaction in the comments.

inaptronym

If a word has the prefix ‘in-’ before it, like this one, then it usually means ‘no’ or ‘not’ (sometimes it just means ‘in’, but let’s ignore that for the purposes of this post). Think ‘independent’ (i.e. not dependent), ‘invisible’ (i.e. not visible) and inoffensive (i.e. well, you get it now). So before we get into what an inaptronym is, let’s talk about aptronyms. An aptronym is a name that suits its owner in an apt (usually funny) way. Like Les McBurney, firefighter (yes, that is a real person – regular readers (hello parents!) might remember that I previously wrote a blog post about my favourite aptronyms which featured Les, as well as weather forecaster Sarah Blizzard and plastic surgeon Dr Alter). All of this means you’ve probably already worked out what an inaptronym is – when someone’s name is very inappropriate for what they do. Before I get into the funny real-life examples of inaptronyms (which, let’s face it, is why we’re all here), you must sit through some etymology. Sorry.

‘-onym’ comes from the Greek word for ‘name’, and has a starring role in words like ‘synonym’ (a word that has the same meaning as another word – literally ‘named with’) and ‘patronym’ (a name derived from a father’s). And the ‘apt’ bit is just that – apt. Aptronym is a relatively young word, although accounts differ as to who actually coined it. It might have been created by an American columnist and author called Franklin P. Adams, although the OED cites it as having appeared in an awesomely named dictionary, Funk & Wagnall’s, way back in 1921. The concept itself (also known as nominative determinism) isn’t young though, and goes all the way back to Aristotle, who called it ou ta tuchonta onomata (did you just start singing ‘Hakuna Matata’ from The Lion King?) or ‘purposeful names’.

Okay, on to the candidates for ‘best inaptronym’.

• Frank Beard, the only member of ZZ Top who didn’t have a beard

• Rob Banks, an officer with Avon and Somerset police force

• Peter Bowler, a cricketer who was mainly a batsman

• Samuel Foote, an actor who only had one foot.

But the winner for me, is one Jaime Lachica Sin. He was the 30th Roman Catholic Archbishop of Manila and also a cardinal which means his official title was… wait for it: Cardinal Sin.

Amazing.

samhainophobia

Samhainophobia is a morbid fear of Hallowe’en. But why isn’t it called halloweenophobia, I hear you ask? Well, the word comes from ‘Samhain’, the name of an ancient Gaelic festival, which means ‘summer’s end’. Like our modern-day Hallowe’en, it was held on 31 October, and observed in Ireland, Scotland and the Isle of Man. In fact, Samhain is first mentioned in Irish literature as far back as the ninth century. It’s what’s known as a liminal festival, which means it marks the end of one thing and the start of another (in this case summer and winter). It was also the one day a year when the boundaries between realms became thin, allowing the spirits of the Otherworld (a supernatural realm in Celtic mythology) to cross over to Earth. The dead were also said to return for one night to visit their living relatives. Samhain was celebrated with partying and feasting and all that good stuff, as well as some (non-human, thankfully) sacrifices to the pagan gods for a good year ahead.

So, when did Samhain mutate into Hallowe’en? In the ninth century the Catholic church brought in a new feast day to celebrate saints called, unimaginatively, All Saints’ Day. And the old English words for ‘All Saints’ are ‘All Hallows’. The Catholic church already had form for co-opting pagan festival dates and traditions (see Christmas and Easter), so quickly rebranded Samhain as All Hallows’ Even (AKA ‘Eve’), which became Hallowe’en (that’s what the apostrophe is there for – to show that a letter is missing).

You might think trick or treating (or ‘trickle treeting’ as I saw it referred to on social media last week) is a modern-day American invention, but it actually has its roots in Samhain too. Poor children in medieval Europe would go door to door begging for food and money during the feast day, offering to pray for the souls of their neighbours’ recently departed relatives. This later morphed into the more familiar kids-mugging-you-for-sweets we get today.

Carving pumpkins is another ancient tradition, going all the way back to the 1660s. You can blame an Irishman called Stingy Jack for this – to cut a very long story short, he was a pisshead who had a run in with the Devil, and ended up walking the earth for all eternity with only a candle in a carved turnip to light his way. People began to make their own versions of Jack’s lanterns from various root vegetables, and put them in their windows or doorways to frighten him or any other wandering evil spirits away. Immigrants to the US brought jack-o’-lanterns with them, soon switching to the presumably more-available native pumpkins.

(If you’ve got some leftover pumpkins from Hallowe’en and you’re happy that Stingy Jack isn’t coming to get you, chuck them in your garden or some local woods. Apparently squirrels and rabbits love ’em. Farms and zoos might like them as well, so whatever you do, don’t bin them. Alright, lecture over.)

bezoar

You know when you come across a word you didn’t know, and then you keep seeing it everywhere? This is what happened to me with ‘bezoar’ this week (well, in two places – QI, and an episode of Audible’s excellent dramatisation of Neil Gaiman’s ‘The Sandman’). A bezoar is a solid mass of indigestible material that forms in the digestive tract. So far, so gross. But, for years many people have believed bezoars to have medicinal properties, and even that they’re full-on magical.

A ring made out of a bezoar. Why, WHY?

The word itself comes from the Persian language – specifically pād-zahr, which means ‘antidote’. In fact, if you were born in 11th-century Europe and were unfortunate enough to get poisoned, it’s likely you’d be presented with a bezoar in a glass of water by your friendly neighbourhood medicine person. That’s because they were believed to be universal antidotes that would cure any type of poison. This was proved to be utter bullshit in 1567 by a French surgeon called Ambroise Paré. He found a cook in the King’s court who’d been sentenced to death and chosen to be poisoned. He gave the unlucky chef a bezoar stone. As you can probably guess, the man died in agony seven hours after taking the poison. Merde.

It’s actually not all complete bunkum though – modern experiments have shown that bezoars can actually remove arsenic (I guess our French cook was poisoned with something other than arsenic – quel dommage).

There are lots of different types of bezoar. One of the most minging is a trichobezoar. That’s a bezoar made of undigested hair, often formed as a result of Rapunzel syndrome, a (thankfully) rare intestinal condition which comes about from eating too much of YOUR OWN HAIR. One of the largest trichobezoars I could find online was removed from the stomach of an 18-year-old woman in India and was a metre long, weighing in at 1.13kg (2.5lbs). If you’d like to feel a bit sick, you can check out the actual thing in this article. Wikipedia also lists a 4.5kg (9.9lbs) hairball which came out of a woman (ladies, what are you doing?!) in Chicago in 2006, but thankfully I couldn’t find a picture of that one (actually I didn’t look, as I didn’t think my stomach could handle it).

gird

You’ll no doubt have heard the phrase ‘to gird one’s loins’ which means to prepare yourself for something, usually stressful. It’s always given me a slightly minging image of hairy thighs rubbing together (sorry). But it’s also made me wonder where the word ‘gird’ comes from. And do we gird anything other than loins? Let’s find out…

‘To gird’ something means to encircle or bind it with a flexible band (like a belt – that’s also where we get ‘girdle’ from). Girding of loins goes all the way back to the Bible. The actual quote (from the King James version) is:

Wherefore gird up the loins of your mind, be sober, and hope to the end for the grace that is to be brought unto you at the revelation of Jesus Christ…

So, what does it actually mean? Well, ye olde Biblical fashionistas would have been decked out in long flowing tunics. Yes, these were great in the desert-y heat, but they weren’t all that practical for anything other than standing around. So when they had to do running or crucifying or killing first borns, they’d take all that long flowy fabric and tie it up with their belt like a pair of shorts, AKA ‘gird’ it round their nethers.

Because you can literally find anything on the internet, someone with too much time on his hands has put together a guide on how to gird your loins. So if you ever find yourself wearing a floor-length tunic then needing to run away from someone or something, you’re all sorted. I know, I spoil you.

Turns out you can gird something other than loins, because ‘gird’ also has a secondary meaning, which is to be sneering or mocking. So presumably if someone mucks up their tunic-tying – think the fashion show testicle in The Inbetweeners – you can be girding about the way they’ve girded their loins.

steganography

Steganography is the practice of hiding a secret message inside another message or a physical object that isn’t secret. Think Tim Messenger, Adam Buxton’s character in the film ‘Hot Fuzz’ (one of my all-time favourites) who hides messages in misspelt newspaper headlines about what’s going on in the village of Sandford (‘He’s Judge Judy and executioner!’). Other examples of steganography include invisible ink or playing a record backwards to reveal a hidden message.

Steganography is action – if you look at the first image under white, blue, green and red lights you see different hidden numbers (not that well-hidden, but still).

Etymology time (my favourite time). ‘Steganography’ comes from the Greek word steganographia. That’s made up of steganós, meaning ‘covered or concealed’, and ‘-graphia’ meaning ‘writing’. The first recorded use of the term was in 1499 by one Johannes Trithemius (amazing name) who wrote a book called ‘Steganographia’. It was a treatise on cryptography and steganography disguised as a book on magic.

The advantage of steganography over cryptography – i.e. converting text into something unintelligible so only someone who has the key or cipher can convert it back – is that the secret message doesn’t attract attention because it’s hidden in something else. So while cryptography is just about protecting the contents of a secret message, steganography hides the fact that there’s a message at all.

The earliest recorded use of steganography was in 440 BC in Greece, which Herodotus (writer, philosopher and all-round clever dude) mentions in his book ‘Histories’ (an account of the Greco-Persian Wars). A ruler by the name of Histiaeus sent a message to a minion about an upcoming revolt by shaving the head of a servant, tattoing the message on to his scalp, then sending him to deliver it once his hair had regrown. Obviously there are a lot of issues here, not least that hair growth takes a long time. Oh, and you need a new servant for every message.

Today steganography has moved on a bit. The word is commonly used to descibe the ways hackers infect people’s computers i.e. by hiding nasty bits of code in common-or-garden documents like PDFs. Then when you open the doc it installs a horrible bit of malware or ransomware on your PC. Bastards.

Warning: contains a lot of blood and some swearing (just a ‘wanker’).

physiognotrace

A physiognotrace is a machine used to automate the production of silhouette portraits. Previously an artist would cut these out by hand. Although this was actually very quick to do, the demand for these types of portrait in the 1700s was so great that a Frenchman named Gilles-Louis Chrétien invented the physiognotrace (also spelled without the ‘g’) to speed things up even more.

Your subject would sit in profile and the physiognotrace used a pantograph (a metal arm made up of pivoted levers) to transmit the tracing to an engraving needle via an eyepiece. This made it easy to produce multiple copies, as well as aquatints, which are much more detailed portraits. The physiognotrace is considered a precursor to the camera, as it allowed artists to reproduce someone’s likeness in a fairly short space of time.

Physiognotrace is a portmanteau, i.e. two words smooshed together, of ‘physiognomy’ and ‘trace’ (you probably don’t need to be Susie Dent to figure that out).

Before photography, silhouette portraits were the cheapest way to record someone’s appearance. They’re named after Étienne de Silhouette, a French finance minister who was forced to impose austerity measures on France during the Seven Years’ War. Obviously no one liked that, and therefore him, so it wasn’t long before his name became synonymous with anything done on the cheap, including these little portraits, where it stuck.

Here’s a physiognotrace in action (accompanied by some very calming music).

A portrait made by a physiognotrace

I’d know that silhouette anywhere

inimical

If something is inimical, it means it’s hostile or unfriendly. Here it is in a sentence: today I pulled a burr out of my dog’s tail, and he fixed me with an inimical stare. It’s not to be confused with inimitable, which is much more positive – it means that something is not able to be imitated or is uniquely extraordinary.

‘Inimical’s etymology is a bit Wayne’s World (#datedreference) – the ‘imicus’ bit comes from ‘amicus’ which means ‘friend’ in Latin. That’s also where we get ‘amicable’ from. So that’s nice. But the ‘in’ suffix means ‘not’.

AKA friendly. NOT.

Even though I’ve used inimical above to describe my dog, we actually don’t generally use it to describe people (wait, what do you mean my dog isn’t a person? Get away with you). It’s used to talk about forces, concepts or situations that are harmful or hostile. Like climate change, the Taliban, Texas law courts… pretty much everything that’s happening in the world right now.

That got dark quickly, sorry. Here’s some Bohemian Rhapsody to cheer you up.

‘Don’t touch my tail.’

majuscule

You already know what a majuscule is, even if you don’t know the name of it. In fact, I’ve used three majuscules in this post already. Go back and have a look, and see if you can find them (that’s four now).

OK, I’ll stop being a smart-arse now. A majuscule is just an upper-case (or large) letter, or script in which every letter is the same size. It was first used in 1722, and comes from the Latin word ‘majusculus’ which simply means ‘rather large’. So not ‘really large’ – just ‘rather’.

You can also use majuscule as an adjective to describe things that are rather large (stop it) e.g. ‘that’s a majuscular carrot’ or ‘I’ve made a majuscular mistake’. No one will know what you mean though (except me).

You’ve probably guessed that the opposite of ‘majuscule’ is ‘miniscule’. Originally ‘miniscule’ was only used to describe lower-case letters in printing. But while it’s since evolved to describe anything that’s ickle, poor old majuscule got left behind. Shame.

Majuscule scripts are actually harder for us humans to read. That’s because we use the up-and-downness (yes, that is the technical term) of upper and lower-case letters to help us recognise words. So when people capitalise things (like headings) because they want to make them look more IMPORTANT, they’re actually making them harder to read (and they look like they’re shouting). So only use majuscule letters where they belong – at the start of sentences, and for proper nouns.

avatar

Vishnu – also blue, like the na’vi.

Now, if you’re a young person, you might have only come across the word ‘avatar’ in the context of James Cameron’s big blue na’vi, or the icon you use to represent you on social media, internet forums, and so on. In fact, ‘avatar’ is much older than that. Like, super old. It first appeared in English in the late 18th century (1784 to be precise) and comes from a Sanskrit word meaning ‘descent’. It was generally used to describe a deity coming to earth – specifically Vishnu, one of the top bods in the Hindu religion. Vishnu is the protector of the universe and whenever the world is threatened, he comes to visit in the form of one of ten different avatars to sort it all out.

(Ummm, are you there, Vishnu? I think we could definitely do with a little bit of help at the moment…)

‘Avatar’ later came to mean any incarnation in human form, and after that any concept or philosophy embodied in a different form (not necessarily human). We can thank the game Second Life for the popularity of the modern-day meaning as an icon representing someone online. Its creator, Philip Rosedale, defines a gaming avatar as ‘the representation of your chosen embodied appearance to other people in a virtual world’. It’d been used in a gaming sense for a while before that though – one Chip Morningstar (What. A. Name.) first used it in a game called Habitat (nothing to do with the furniture store), a forerunner of today’s MMORPGs (massively multiplayer online role-playing games in case you’re not a gamer – probably the most famous of which is World of Warcraft). Even though Chip gets the credit for coining the term ‘avatar’ for people’s online personas, it wasn’t the first time it was used in gaming. That honour belongs to a 1979 game called, you’ve guessed it, Avatar.

Oh, and there’s also a vegan Swedish death metal band called Avatar.

agathokakological

That’s a mouthful, isn’t it? If something is agathokakological it means it’s made up of both good and evil. Think Spike from Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Darth Vader.

Photo by Jack Hamilton on Unsplash.

Agathokakological is a combo of the Greek roots agath- (which means good), kako- (which is a variant of cac-, and means, you’ve guessed it, bad) plus -logical (which is a suffix based on logos, meaning word). It was probably coined by Robert Southey, the least famous of the Lake Poets (Wordsworth and Coleridge being much more well known). Southey loved inventing words (the OED has him as the creator of almost 400) but, unlike other well-known word inventors, very few of his have survived to the modern day. This isn’t particularly surprising as several of them seem to be as hard to say/spell as agathokakological. Exhibit 1: batrachophagous which means ‘frog-eating’. What?

In 1813 Southey became poet laureate after being bigged up by his pal Sir Walter Scott (he of Ivanhoe and Rob Roy fame). Not because he was nice, but because Scott didn’t want to do it – he described it as a ‘poisoned chalice’ and said that previous holders had ‘churned out conventional and obsequious odes on royal occasions’. Ouch. In 1837, while being poet laureate and presumably churning out those crappy odes, Southey got a letter from a then-unknown young lady named Charlotte Brontë, asking for some advice on her poems. He praised Brontë’s writing but told her she shouldn’t give up the day job stating ‘Literature cannot be the business of a woman’s life…’. What a dick. And thank goodness she didn’t listen.

pleonasm

As a copywriter, this is something I have to deal with Every. Single. Day. No, it’s not a nasty disease – a pleonasm is a redundant word or phrase. So it’s basically when people use more words than they need to. Here are some examples:

• future prospects (because prospects are always in the future)

• a true fact (facts are, by definition, true)

• free gift (because you never pay for a gift).

One of my pet hates is ‘in order to’ – you can just say ‘to’. Always. Go on, try it.

The word ‘pleonasm’ has been around for four centuries, and it comes from the Greek pleonazein, which means ‘to be excessive’ (from pleiōn or pleōn, meaning ‘more’).

Pleonasms are similar to tautologies, which is when you repeat the same thing in a slightly different way. Like ‘In my opinion, I think’ and ‘please RSVP’. In fact, it’s so similar that I’m not entirely sure what the difference is… From what I can work out by reading things on the internet, all tautologies are pleonasms but not all pleonasms are tautologies. But then my head exploded so I stopped looking.

Here are some other words for being overly wordy, almost all of which sound like they could also be medical conditions and/or STIs: garrulous, verbose, logorrhea, prolix and periphrasis.

cocktail

Summer is finally here (at least for the next day or so). And what better way to celebrate than with an ice-cold glass of something colourful and cold, maybe with an umbrella in it? But have you ever wondered why pina coladas, mojitos, bellinis et al are called cocktails? Well, the answer is… no one really knows.

Thankfully there are a few theories (which is good, cos otherwise this would be a really short post).

1. The horse theory

Back in the 17th century, the word ‘cock tail’ was used to describe a horse with a docked (i.e. cut short) tail. From there, ‘cock-tailed’ came to be used to describe non-thoroughbred racehorses. The theory goes that it was then applied to drinks made up of lots of mixed ingredients.

2. The eggcup theory

In late 18th century New Orleans, an apothecary (which seems to be synonymous with ‘barman’ in this context) by the name of Antoine Amédée Peychaud used to serve brandy in eggcups alongside bitters (I’ve learnt that ‘bitters’ refers to ‘alcohol infused with plant matter’ which sounds pretty gross to be honest. I also read it described as ‘spirits infused with fruit, spices, leaves, bark, roots and herbs – collectively known as botanicals’ which sounds all organic and artisanal, and also yum. Just goes to show the power of words… Also, you can still buy Peychaud’s bitters today). The theory is that ‘cocktail’ is a mispronounciation of the word ‘coquetier’ i.e. the French for eggcup.

3. The dregs theory

Ye olde tavern owners used to combine the dregs from the end of barrels and sell them off at a discount. These were called ‘cock tailings’, ‘tailings’ being another word for dregs, and ‘cock’ (no sniggering at the back) another name for the spigot or tap of a barrel.

So what’s the real story?

Well, according to spirits historian David Wondrich (I so wish this was my job), who’s done extensive research into this, the closest one to the truth is number 1 – the horse theory. But it’s actually a much more shady tale (or tail). Let’s head back to the 18th century again. Imagine you were in the market for a new horse. Apparently one of the things you would look for was a cocked (or raised up) tail. To fake this, unscrupulous horse dealers would shove a mixture of ginger and/or pepper up horses’ arses, the utter bastards. Ginger and pepper were also common ingredients used to liven up alcoholic drinks – hence, cocktail.

It certainly gives a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘bottoms up’…

hocus-pocus

Hocus-pocus is a noun used to describe magic or sleight of hand, often in a derogatory sense (as in ‘the saleperson did some kind of hocus-pocus and now I own a cow’). But did you know that actually, using it might get you struck by lightning/sent straight to hell (if you believe in that type of thing, of course)? That’s because some people believe it’s a corruption (or a perversion if you’re feeling particulary angry) of the phrase ‘Hoc est enim corpus meum’ or ‘This is my body’ which is used in Catholic masses for the Eucharist. GASP. This connection was first made in 1694 (which shows how old the word is) by John Tillotson, who was only the bloody Archbishop of Canterbury. He said this is one of his sermons:

“In all probability those common juggling words of hocus pocus are nothing else but a corruption of hoc est corpus, by way of ridiculous imitation of the priests of the Church of Rome in their trick of Transubstantiation.”

Despite this, there isn’t any real evidence to prove that 17th-century conjurers were actively trying to commit blasphemy or sentence themselves to eternal damnation. It’s more likely that hocus-pocus is just a couple of rhyming nonsense words put together that magicians incorporated into their patter to help them misdirect their audiences.

There’s also a theory that we get the word ‘hoax’ from the ‘hocus’ of ‘hocus pocus’, which was itself used on its own to mean ‘to play a trick on, to trick (someone)’ or, randomly, ‘to stupefy (someone) with drugged liquor ( … to steal from them)’ (from Wiktionary).

illeist

If you’re an illeist, it means you’re speaking about yourself in the third person, instead of the first. So if I said ‘Emma has a wet bum, because she just spilled a full cup of coffee in her lap’ (true story folks), then I’d be using illeism. And also sounding like a bit of an idiot.

Etymology-wise this one’s pretty straightforward, with ‘ille’ being Latin for ‘that man’ or ‘he’, plus the suffix ‘-ist’ which we add to things to show that someone’s doing them (if that makes sense) – like ‘pianist’ or ‘capitalist’. The term was coined by Samuel Taylor Coleridge (he of The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, which I genuinely love, and also the opium-induced, unfinished Kubla Khan) in 1809.

One of the most famous historical illeists is Julius Caesar, who used it in Commentarii de Bello Gallico, his non-fictional account of the Gallic Wars. This was to make it sound like it was impartial, when obviously it wasn’t at all. And it might also be better filed in the ‘Fiction’ section at Waterstones, as several of Caesar's claims seem to have been outright lies. For example, he said that the Romans fought Gallic forces of up to 430,000, which was an impossible army size for the time, and also that not one Roman died during this battle. I call bullshit…

Other more modern illeists, both fictional and non-fictional, include:

• Gollum from Lord of the Rings – although he does it because he doesn’t have anyone else to talk to, which is sad

• Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson who used illeism in his wrestling catchphrases – ‘Do you smell what The Rock is cooking?’ (um, no thanks)

• Hercule Poirot, who almost always talked about himself and his little grey cells in the third person

• Dobby the house elf in the Harry Potter series (god rest his soul) – ‘Dobby has no master. Dobby is a free elf!’

While you might think talking about yourself in the third person makes you sound like a dick, in fact psychologists suggest that there are real benefits to doing just that – but only in your head, not out loud. The idea is that it can help you change your perspective to get past biases and improve decision-making. Emma will definitely be trying this from now on (once her bum dries off).

(With thanks to the No Such Thing As A Fish podcast, which is where I heard this word.)