havoc

If you’ve ever come home to find your usually well-behaved (well, kinda) cavapoo has decided to redecorate the lounge using the stuffing from three cushions and the contents of the kitchen bin, you’ve seen havoc in action.

As a noun, ‘havoc’ describes widespread destruction, confusion or disorder. It’s the kind of chaos that doesn’t just happen; it’s wreaked. And it turns out that its origins are rooted in a specific – and actually quite terrifying – military command.

In the Middle Ages, ‘Havoc!’ was a formal cry used during a conflict. It signalled that soldiers could start plundering and looting, grabbing whatever the olde equivalent of flat-screen TVs and games consoles was, and generally causing as much mayhem as they liked. The command came from an Old French word, havot, meaning pillaging. During the 14th century, as French-speaking officers gave orders to English-speaking troops, the soft French ‘t’ was gradually hardened into the English ‘k’. This is probably due to something called folk etymology, which is when a foreign word enters a language and people subconsciously ‘correct’ it to something that already sounds familiar to them. In this case, that was hafoc, the Old English name for a predatory hawk – to a 14th-century soldier, the command to start looting and pillaging might have felt conceptually very similar to the action of a hawk swooping down to snatch its prey.

Havoc time (did you just read that as MC Hammer? Maybe that’s just me) was so destructive that it had to be legally regulated. In 1385, Richard II issued the ‘Statutes of War’, which specifically forbade shouting ‘Havoc’ without authorisation under penalty of death. So anyone who lost their head and got overly enthusiastic about being first to the lootfest would quite literally lose it for real shortly after.

The most famous literary appearance of ‘havoc’ comes courtesy of, you’ve guessed it, William Shakespeare. In Julius Caesar, Mark Antony promises to ‘Cry “Havoc!” and let slip the dogs of war’. Today, we use ‘havoc’ for much lower stakes, though I’m fairly certain my dog still hears the 14th-century call to arms the second the front door clicks shut behind me.

laconic

If you’ve ever had a text from someone consisting entirely of the letter ‘k’, you’ve been on the receiving end of laconic. As an adjective, it describes a way of speaking or writing that uses the absolute minimum number of words to get a point across. No padding, no pleasantries, no ‘I hope this email finds you well’. Just straight to the point, like a cricket ball to the crotch.

But, why ‘laconic’? Well, it comes from Lakonikos – a Greek adjective for anything relating to Laconia, a region on the south-eastern part of the Peloponnese peninsula. Laconia was home to Sparta and (obviously) the Spartans, whose six-packs you may remember from Zack Snyder’s naked chest-fest, 300. The Spartans were not big talkers. And while other Greeks like the Athenians were busy writing philosophy, performing tragedies and inventing democracy, the Spartans were honing an arguably more useful skill: saying a great deal by saying almost nothing.

The most famous example of Spartans being spartanly (yep) with their words comes from Philip II of Macedon. He was a man who loved to open a can of whup-ass (and dad to Alexander the Great), having taken Macedon from a fairly insignificant kingdom to a power that conquered most of Ancient Greece in less than 25 years. Turning his attention to Sparta, he sent a message asking whether he should come as a friend or a foe. The reply was ‘Neither’. He then sent the message:

If I invade Laconia, I shall turn you out.

The Spartans replied with a single word:

If.

There’s also a story from Plutarch of a Spartan mother sending her son off to battle. After handing him his shield, her farewell advice consisted of five words: ‘Either this or upon this’, meaning ‘Come back with your shield, or on it’ – returning without your shield meant you’d thrown it away to run faster (the ancient Greek equivalent of updating your LinkedIn profile before handing in your notice). Inspiring and absolutely terrifying.

So next time someone accuses you of being curt in an email or a text, tell them you weren’t being rude, you’re just channelling your inner Gerard Butler/Greek warrior. Sparta would be proud. Although they probably wouldn’t say so.

(PS The Philip vs Sparta story would have been great if it ended ‘Philip did not invade Laconia’, which is what ChatGPT told me when I was researching this. When I checked it elsewhere, which thankfully I always do since ChatGPT told me a bunch of lies previously, it turns out that Philip did indeed invade Laconia, devastating large parts of it and kicking the Spartans out. In hindsight, maybe a few more words might have helped.)

chauffeur

Today a chauffeur is someone employed to drive someone else, usually to posh places in a posh car. But why are they called a ‘chauffeur’? Turns out the word has surprisingly hot origins. Literally.

As you might have already guessed, ‘chauffeur’ is a French word. It means ‘stoker’, as in someone who looks after a fire. That comes from the verb ‘chauffer’, meaning ‘to heat’, which goes all the way back through Old French to the Latin calefacere, a compound of calere (‘to be warm’, which is also where we get the word ‘calorie’ from, as well as ‘chafe’) and facere (‘to do’).

So what does driving celebs and rich people around have to do with poking a fire? The term emerged in the 1890s, when French manufacturers dominated the early motor industry. They used Daimler engines fitted with something called hot tube igniters. These had to be heated with a Bunsen burner before the engine could fire, and the platinum tubes needed careful ongoing maintenance. This delicate, skilled work fell to a dedicated person called, you’ve guessed it, a chauffeur. By 1900, the hot tube was obsolete but the role didn’t disappear – it evolved, with the chauffeur becoming driver, mechanic and roadside repair expert as pneumatic tyres brought a whole new set of problems. The chauffeurs themselves were causing issues too – a 1906 article in The New York Times reported that ‘the chauffeur problem today is one of the most serious that the automobilist has to deal with’, complaining that ‘young men of no particular ability, who have been earning from $10 to $12 a week, are suddenly elevated to salaried positions paying from $25 to $50’. Plus ça change.

In modern French, ‘chauffeur’ is used more broadly to mean any professional driver, including bus and taxi drivers, without the luxury connotations we attach to it in English. There’s also a female version, ’chauffeuse’, although that’s pretty rare (as are female chauffeurs, presumably).

One particularly notable chauffeur was Roosevelt Smith Zanders (1912–1995). He was known for driving many famous clients around, including Richard Nixon, Margot Fontaine, Winston Churchill, John F Kennedy and Lana Turner. He also drove 100 pounds of shrimp to John Wayne while he was in Paris, delivered $200,000 in cash for Aristotle Onassis and sent two tiger cubs to the President of Panama. Not bad for someone who started out with a single Cadillac.

eigengrau

If you’ve ever woken up in the middle of the night and stared moodily into the darkness, you might have noticed that it isn’t actually black. Instead, it’s a faint, grainy grey. And believe it or not, that colour has a name – and no, it isn’t ‘grey’. It’s eigengrau.

Eigengrau is the shade your eyes perceive in complete darkness, when there’s no external light entering them at all. Rather than seeing pure black, our visual systems produce a sort of background ‘noise’, and the result is this soft grey-ey haze.

Vantablack is created by growing long microscopic carbon nanotubes in a field so dense that almost all light is trapped inside it.

You can probably guess that the word comes from German. ‘Eigen’ means ‘own’ or ‘intrinsic’, and ‘grau’ means, you’ve guessed it, ‘grey’. So it literally translates as ‘intrinsic grey’, which sounds like a colour they paint government buildings with or, more romantically, ‘one’s own grey’. The term is sometimes also called the ‘dark light’ of vision (and, more boringly, ‘visual noise’ or ‘background adaptation’). Scientists began studying this effect in the late nineteenth century while investigating how the retina behaves without stimulation from light.

So why does eigengrau look slightly lighter than true black? The effect comes from spontaneous activity in the photoreceptor cells in the retina – even when they’re not being hit by light, they still fire occasionally, and the brain interprets that activity as a faint visual signal. That’s also why you might notice little flickers or speckles when you close your eyes in the dark.

All this talk of colours reminds me of Vantablack, the blackest black of paints. It was developed by British company Surrey NanoSystems to use on stealth satellites, and reflects almost no light at all. Anish Kapoor, the British sculptor who designed the Orbit tower for the London Olympics, was given exclusive rights to use Vantablack artistically. That pissed off a load of artists who felt a colour (or colour-like material) shouldn’t be locked up by one person. One of the best responses came from another British artist called Stuart Semple. In 2016, he released a very bright pink pigment called Pinkest Pink, that he sold online with one condition: buyers had to confirm they were not Anish Kapoor and had no intention of letting him use it. The sales page even included a declaration along the lines of: ‘By adding this product to your cart you confirm that you’re not Anish Kapoor…’.

Semple used the same rule for many of his later materials too, including Black 2.0, Black 3.0, and various other pigments and paints, which were all sold to the public ‘except Anish Kapoor’. In June 2024, Semple officially changed his name to Anish Kapoor though, which presumably means he can’t use his own products.

braggadocio

If you ever watch the news, ‘braggadocio’ might sound familiar. During the 2016 US election, Donald Trump famously used the adjective ‘braggadocious’. At the time, most of us assumed he was talking rubbish as per usual – see ‘panican’ (used during his second term to describe those panicking over his economic tariffs), ‘bigly’ (often interpreted as ‘big league’) and ‘I’ve stopped eight wars’. But ‘braggadocious’ is actually rooted in a word that’s been around for over 400 years (although I doubt DT knows that). And ironically, both the word and its history describe him perfectly.

‘Braggadocio’ is an uncountable or mass noun (exactly what it says on the tin – examples include ‘bravery’, ‘nonsense’ or ‘happiness’) that describes empty, arrogant boasting or a swaggering manner that isn’t backed up by much substance. Despite its Italian looks, ‘braggadocio’ wasn’t born in the olive oil-drenched streets of Florence or Rome – its origins are actually a lot closer to home. It was cooked up in 1590 by the English poet Edmund Spenser for his epic poem, The Faerie Queene, one of the longest poems in the English language at a bum-numbing 36,000 lines and over 4,000 stanzas.

In the poem, Spenser created a character named Braggadocchio – a ‘knight’ who was all mouth and no trousers. He first appears in Book II, Canto iii when he steals the horse and spear of the hero, Sir Guyon. He then spends the rest of the book riding around on his fell-off-the-back-of-a-lorry warhorse, pretending to be a legendary warrior while actually being terrified of his own shadow. Why Braggadocio? To give the character an air of pretension (and perhaps to make him sound like the vainglorious characters found in Italian comedy), Spenser took the very English word ‘brag’ and slapped a pseudo-Italian suffix on the end of it. It’s the linguistic equivalent of putting a spoiler on a 2005 Vauxhall Corsa.

Eventually, ‘braggadocio’ escaped the poem and became shorthand for anyone whose mouth is (to quote that literary giant, Limp Bizkit) writing cheques that their ass can’t cash. Whether it’s a stolen horse in an epic poem or a stolen election narrative on social media, ‘braggadocio’ remains the ultimate red flag for a man with a massive ego who’s all wrapping paper and no present.

genuflect

To genuflect is to bend one knee to the ground, usually as a sign of reverence or respect. It’s mostly associated with churches and religion, particularly Catholicism – people genuflect before entering a pew. It also has a metaphorical meaning: to show excessive deference or subservience to someone. As in, ‘I'm not going to genuflect to my dog just because he’s the most gorgeous boy in the world’ (even though I spend a lot of time cramped into weird positions because he’s asleep on me and I don’t want to upset him by getting blood back into my limbs).

‘Genuflect’ comes from a Late Latin word, genuflectere, and it’s pretty straightforward when you break it down: genu means ‘knee’ and flectere means ‘to bend’. So literally, knee-bending. The Romans were nothing if not literal. (Oh, and ‘Late Latin’ refers to the form of Latin used roughly from the 3rd to the 7th centuries AD i.e. when the Roman Empire was beginning that falling business. At this point, Latin was becoming less standardised, picking up influences from regional dialects and the languages of the various peoples who were interacting with (or invading) the Roman world. Grammar got simpler, new words were created and it moved away from the highly polished Classical Latin of Cicero and Caesar.)

Flectere has been quite busy in the English language, popping up in all sorts of places. For example, it’s where we get ‘reflect’ from (bending light), ‘deflect’ (as in turning aside) and ‘inflect’ (bending as in modulating something, usually your voice). Meanwhile, poor old genu has been rather left on the sidelines. Its only real claim to fame beyond genuflect is ‘geniculate’, a scientific term that means ‘bent abruptly at an angle like a bent knee’. Sounds painful.

You might look at ‘genuflect’ and think ‘well, surely that’s also related to “genius” and “genuine”’, unless, unlike me, you have a life. Well, I’m afraid that, despite the resemblance, those words come from an entirely different Latin verb, gignere, which means ‘to beget’. So no knees involved whatsoever. But, if you’re hungry for more knee-based etymology, the Latin genu is related to the Greek gonu (also meaning ‘knee’), which gave us gōnia meaning both ‘knee’ and ‘angle’. And that means that polygons, pentagons and hexagons are all essentially named after knees. You’re welcome.

watershed

If you grew up watching British TV, you’ll know what ‘watershed’ means. It’s that time in the evening – 9pm, traditionally – after which the figurative (and literal, sometimes) gloves come off. There’s effing and jeffing all over the show, blood and guts strewn everywhere, and you’re falling over naked bodies. Or maybe that’s just the TV shows I’ve been watching.

But why is this line between family-friendly TV and X-rated adult-only programming called ‘the watershed’?

Well, it’s pleasingly literal. The term ‘watershed’ comes from geography, and refers to a ridge or boundary that separates one drainage area from another – so rain falling on one side flows one way while rain falling on the other side goes somewhere else entirely. The word has been around since at least the early 19th century, and is made up of ‘water’ (obviously) and ‘shed’ in the sense of ‘to divide’ or ‘to part’ (so nothing to do with that place you keep your tools). That idea of a clear dividing line is exactly why UK broadcasters borrowed ‘watershed’.

Watershed times vary all over the world. For example, in Australia, it’s much earlier than here – 7.30 pm. While in Italy, they save the smut til much later, at 10.30 pm. We definitely have the best name for it though, with the exception of the US who call it the ‘safe harbor’, although that’s industry jargon that most audiences wouldn’t recognise. In Australia, it’s just called ‘adult viewing time’ – very on the nose and therefore on brand from the country that brought us the Great Sandy Desert. In France, it’s ‘heure de protection des mineurs’, which you can probably figure out even if you don’t speak French. And in Germany, it’s efficiently called ‘youth protection’. Compared with those, ‘watershed’ is unusually elegant. It’s abstract, metaphorical and euphemistic – a very British way of saying ‘put the kids to bed, things are about to get a little bit rude’.

woebegone

If someone’s woebegone, they’re really sad. Not just a bit fed up, but proper miserable (think someone who’s just accidentally pressed ‘reply all’ or called their teacher ‘Mum’).

At first glance, ‘woebegone’ looks pretty straightforward – ‘woe, begone’, right? Well, no. ‘Begone’ does mean ‘go away’, but the second part isn’t actually anything to do with ‘begone’ at all. Instead it comes from ‘begān’, an Old English verb meaning ‘to go about’ or ‘to befall’. So woebegone isn’t sending woe away; it’s actively surrounding you. A figurative shitstorm, if you will.

‘Woebegone’ has been doing this slightly misleading double act since at least the 14th century. According to the OED, its earliest recorded use is from 1325 in Middle English, where it appears in forms like ‘wo-bigon’.

One of the reasons I chose this word was because I thought there was a species of shark called a woebegone, and I was going to regale you with interesting facts about it. But it turns out that it’s actually called a wobbegong. Still, that’s similar, so let’s talk about them anyway. Wobbegong is the common name for carpet sharks, so-called because they literally look like carpets and like to lie on the floor (well, seabed) – they can pump water over their gills which means they can sit quietly, then ambush their prey (most sharks need to keep moving to breathe). They’re believed to have got their name from the Australian Aboriginal word for ‘shaggy beard’, which is another reference to the way they look – they have fringed skin flaps, or dermal lobes, around their heads and mouths. These flaps help them camouflage when they’re pretending to be carpets on the sea floor, as they break up the outline of the shark so they blend into their surroundings even more.

All completely irrelevant, but interesting, I’m sure you’ll agree.

callithump

A ‘callithump’ is a noun that describes a noisy, boisterous band or parade. Think drunken revelry, tins banging, horns blaring, maybe a smattering of cowbells and a general ruckus. So just your average Friday night on most British high streets then. You can also use it as an adjective (describing word) – so something can be 'callithumpian'.

The origin of the word is a bit murky, but most authorities agree it comes from an older British dialect term, ‘Gallithumpian’. The capital ‘G’ here isn’t a mistake – Gallithumpian is a proper noun (a unique person, place or thing) and, just in case you’re as geeky as me, nothing to do with Doctor Who’s home planet. In the late 18th and early 19th centuries, Gallithumpians were groups who deliberately turned up at elections, hustings and public gatherings to make as much noise as possible – banging pots, ringing bells and generally drowning things out. While this might sound like a protest, contemporary accounts describe Gallithumpians less as protesters and more as organised nuisances – they arrived, f*cked things up, then went home again.

Etymologists usually break ‘Gallithump’ down into elements meaning noise or bluster simply combined with ‘thump’. So it’s slightly mocking label for people whose main contribution was a load of noise and disruption rather than an actual counterpoint. Hmmm, I know a few people that could refer to.

Over time, ‘Gallithump’ lost its political edge and shifted from a label for the people involved to a description of the behaviour itself. ‘Gallithumpian’ softened into ‘callithumpian’, and eventually into ‘callithump’.

The first recorded use of ‘callithump’ as a noun in the sense of a riotous parade dates to 1843. In 19th‑century America the term was often used to describe makeshift celebrations or mock serenades – sometimes cheerful (pots and pans for a wedding, say), sometimes protest‑style chaos (anything to do with Donald Trump then).

So next time you see a chaotic, clang-and-carnival-style parade coming down your street, you might think: ‘Ah yes… a proper callithump.’ And, if you’re me, stand very still until it passes.

chout

I discovered this word through one of my mum’s random Wordle guesses (as we all do, sometimes she just tries random letters until Wordle says ‘yes’). And being as it’s nearly Christmas, it’s actually quite fitting. Well, half of it is, anyway. That’s because ‘chout’ has two completely different meanings.

Let’s start with the (sort-of) Christmassy one. ‘Chout’ in this sense means to joke, play the fool or mess about in a silly, good‑natured way. This meaning appears in some older English dialect dictionaries, like the Century Dictionary, a massive, multi-volume English dictionary originally published in the late 19th century.

The second, and better documented, meaning of ‘chout’ comes from a tax that Maratha rulers in western India demanded from neighbouring territories during the 17th and 18th centuries. (The Maratha were a powerful group of rulers and warriors who controlled much of western and central India during this time.) They called this ‘chauth’, which meant ‘a quarter’ in Marathi, because they demanded a quarter of the revenue from the territories they targeted. I say ‘tax’, but it was essentially protection money which rulers paid to avoid being raided by the Marathas. British administrators in India picked up the word and began describing it in English as ‘chout’.

There you go. I hope we all have a good chout this festive season – just the first kind, though. If you find yourself demanding payment from your neighbours in exchange for not setting fire to their recycling bins, you’ve got the wrong one.

(PS While I was researching this post I found Chout, a Chicago-based 90s-style grunge rock band known for their Alice in Chains-like sound and music. And I think I love them.)

tare

I have a dog with a dodgy stomach, which means I spend a lot of time weighing various potions and powders for his food. My weighing scales flash up with the word ‘tare’ every time I turn them on or press the ‘zero’ button. Now I don’t usually spend a lot of time thinking about weighing scales, but I do spend a lot of time thinking about words – and I realised I have no idea what ‘tare’ actually means.

Strap yourself in...

It turns out that ‘tare’ is the name for the weight of any container or packaging that isn’t part of the thing you actually want to measure. So when my scales show ‘tare’, they’re telling me they’ve set that deducted weight to zero. Put a bowl on, press the zero button and the scales adjust the tare so you only see the weight of the food itself.

‘Tare’ has travelled a long way to get to my dog’s daily allowance of probiotics. It comes from Middle French (also ‘tare’), which in turn comes from the Medieval Latin word, ‘tara’. Go one step further back and you reach the Arabic word ‘ṭarḥ’ – this means ‘that which is deducted’ or ‘something thrown away’. It’s a very old word in Arabic that’s been around for more than 1,400 years (and its earliest form goes back even further than that). But it’s always referred to the bit you don’t count.

So that’s the story behind ‘tare’. A word that has crossed continents and centuries to help me measure out pumpkin powder for a dog who still hasn’t learned not to eat disgusting things he finds in the street.

dragoon

I’m not sure what I thought ‘dragoon’ meant, but I think I’ve been conflating it with ‘platoon’ all my life. And maybe also ‘doubloon’.

It turns out that ‘dragoon’ isn’t even a noun (a person, place or thing) – it’s a verb (doing word). If you dragoon someone, it means you pressure or force them into doing something they don’t really want to do. It’s not always aggressive – it could just be heavy-handed persuasion – but it definitely suggests a lack of choice. Think of being ‘dragooned into organising the office Christmas party’ when all you want to do is go home and watch ‘Kirstie’s Handmade Christmas’ with an eggnog. (Every Christmas I thank god I no longer have to run the gauntlet of senior colleagues and free alcohol. And that’s all I’m going to say about that.)

Like many good words, ‘dragoon’ started out in uniform. In the 1600s and 1700s, a dragoon was a mounted European infantryman – someone who rode to battle but fought on foot. They were named after their weapon, a short musket so-called due to its resemblance to a fire-breathing dragon when fired.

Here’s where things get a bit darker. Under Louis XIV in 17th-century France, dragoons were sent to persecute French Protestants (Huguenots) – often moving in with them forcibly and staying until they converted to Catholicism. This coercion was so notorious that ‘dragoon’ eventually became a verb, meaning to force someone to do something, echoing that original, presumably very literal, form of arm-twisting.

So next time someone’s trying to make you do something you don’t want to, try telling them you refuse to be dragooned – it might not get you out of it, but at least your resistance will sound stylish.

testify

At first glance, ‘testify’ seems very serious and upright. It’s something you do in court with your hand on your heart as you swear to only tell the truth, and nothing but the truth. But like so many English words, ‘testify’ has a surprisingly cheeky backstory. And just in case you’ve got there before me, yes, it involves testicles.

Strap yourselves in.

The theory goes that in ancient Rome, men would swear oaths with their hands on their testicles to prove they were telling the truth. And from there, we get ‘testify’. (I also read one article that said two men taking an oath of allegiance would hold each other’s knackers. Don’t remember seeing that in Gladiator.)

It’s a great story. But is there any truth in it? Well, both ‘testify’ and ‘testicle’ do come from the same Latin root, ‘testis’. Although that probably doesn’t mean what you think it means – it actually translates as ‘witness’. Some etymologists think the anatomical sense came about because testicles were seen, metaphorically, as ‘witnesses’ to a man’s virility. Others say that the two words just sound similar. But frankly, the image of a Roman swearing on his love spuds was just too good for me to pass up.

So ‘testify’ and ‘testicle’ are genuinely related, although perhaps not in a holding-your-family-jewels-to-show-you’re-serious way. Same root, VERY different destinies. Either way, it’s probably not something to start doing if you ever find yourself in the witness box.

weird

I had to doublecheck this hasn’t featured as a word of the week before, as it’s a really common adjective (describing word) with an interesting backstory. Amazingly, it hasn’t, so hang on to your (witch’s) hats…

You know what ‘weird’ means. And it turns out people have been being weird for a bloody long time – it first appeared in the 700s as the Old English noun, ‘wyrd’. The word ‘noun’ is the important thing here (a noun being a person, place or thing). Rather than using ‘wyrd’ to describe someone or something like we do today, you’d talk about ‘their wyrd’, meaning the path their life would take: what lay ahead of them and how that might unfold. That’s because at this point it meant ‘fate’ or ‘destiny’. So you could say ‘Her wyrd was to carry on coming up with words of the week’.

Fast forward a few centuries to the 1100s, and the English language was changing fast. For a start, we were all ooh-la-laaing a lot more after the Norman Conquest. And as monastic scribes who were familiar with our Old English spelling system died, the French-trained ones who replaced them didn’t know what to do with all our wyrd spellings. So they started writing them the way they sounded (gasp! Although clearly that didn’t stick). That’s when ‘wyrd’ began to shift. Because it was pronounced with a long ‘ee’ sound, people started spelling it as ‘werd’, ‘weyrd’ and, finally, ‘weird’. At the same time, the noun version was slowly disappearing from everyday speech, and being replaced with an adjective that meant something like ‘linked to fate’.

In the 1600s, our old friend Shakespeare locked in the new spelling and adjectival use when he called the witches in ‘Macbeth’ ‘the weird sisters’. That still didn’t mean odd at this point though – he was using it with its old meaning of ‘tied to destiny’. But because the witches’ scenes were eerie and unsettling, and full of toil and trouble and thumb pricking, the word picked up that mood. Over the next couple of centuries, it shifted from ‘fate-related’ to ‘supernatural’, and then to the softer, everyday sense of ‘strange’ or ‘unusual’ that we use now.

Warning: contains someone puking up a baby’s finger. Shakespeare is WILD.

arachibutyrophobia

At eighteen letters long, arachibutyrophobia is one of the longest words of the week so far (although see hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia). It has ‘phobia’ at the end, so you’re probably halfway there (well, a third of the way, technically) already. It’s a fear of something – from Phobos, the Greek personification of fear, obviously. But fear of what? I can almost 100 per cent guarantee that you won’t be able to guess it.

It is…

Wait for it…

The fear of peanut butter sticking to the roof of your mouth.

Yep, really.

As well as the already-mentioned ‘phobia’, arachibutyrophobia has two other parts. ‘Arachi’ comes from Arachis, the scientific genus name for the peanut plant, and ‘butyro’, is from the Latin word butyrum, meaning butter. So despite its magnificent appearance, it’s actually pretty straightforward etymologically speaking.

‘Arachibutyrophobia’ isn’t formally recognised as a mental health disorder, although that doesn’t mean it isn’t a genuine anxiety for some people (not me – I can’t stand peanut butter so it’s not coming anywhere near the roof of my mouth). It’s a relatively young word and first appeared in a 1975 book called ‘The People’s Almanac’ by Irving Wallace and David Wallechinsky – a classic reference book packed with entertaining facts and figures. This included a phobia list by a lexicographer called Robert Hendrickson, and it’s there that ‘arachibutyrophobia’ first made its appearance. It’s also incorrectly credited to a 1982 Peanuts comic strip by Charles Schulz, where Sally reads a school report about it (calling it ‘a beautiful excuse for not going to school’), as well as Peter O’Donnell’s 1985 Modesty Blaise novel ‘Dead Man’s Handle’. But as both of these came after ‘The People’s Almanac’, they were simply spreading the word (much like peanut butter itself) rather than inventing it.

Whether or not Hendrickson made arachibutyrophobia up as a bit of a laugh, or sourced it from somewhere else, is a mystery. Apparently his research files were donated to Claremont University in California when he died, but so far no one’s done the detective work to find out if he was having us all on or not.

spoof

I picked this because it was one of the Wordle words this week, and my dad said, I quote, ‘Dodgy word IMAO’, although that might have been because he only got a five. Either way, I thought I’d find out if it is, as he says, ‘dodgy’.

When we say something’s a spoof, we usually mean it’s a parody or a send-up – an imitation that exaggerates the original for laughs. We usually use it to describe stuff on TV like films and sketches – think ‘The Office’, ‘Airplane!’ and my favourite film evs, ‘Shaun of the Dead’.

But the original spoof started life on stage, not screen.

Arthur Roberts, who looks a bit scary, TBH

In the 1880s, an English music-hall comedian by the name of Arthur Roberts created a parlour game which he named ‘Spoof’. No one knows exactly why he called it that, but it was probably just a nonsense word he thought sounded funny and playful. Spoof was a guessing and bluffing game involving hiding coins in one hand and then guessing how many each person had. The aim was to bluff confidently while keeping a straight face (and according to ChatGPT, people still play a version of it in pubs, although I can’t say I’ve ever seen that).

Arthur Roberts went on to turn his game into a music-hall routine which became very popular. And because the game involved tricking people while remaining poker-faced, audiences started using the word ‘spoof’ to describe any kind of trick or hoax. It wasn’t long before it appeared in the Oxford English Dictionary – in 1889 – and only a few short years later it went global, appearing in an article in the Evening Star in New Zealand in 1896. From there it stuck, later moving from ‘hoax’ to ‘comedy imitation’ in the 20th century as writers and performers began using it to describe send-ups and parodies.

So there you go. No complicated root or Latin etymology – just a Victorian comedian having a bit of a laugh with a silly game, and somehow coming up with a word that would stick around for 140 years. Does that count as dodgy? Depends on your point of view, I suppose.

Oh, and if you’re wondering about the modern-day version for faking an identity online, that appeared in the 1970s – so it’s still the same old bluff, but just with fancier tech.

urchin

When you hear the word ‘urchin’, you probably picture a scruffy Victorian street kid saying ‘Please sir, can I have some more?’. But, did you know that the OG urchin had prickles rather than pickpocketing skills? Yep, in Middle English, ‘urchin’ meant ‘hedgehog’. It appears in writing as ‘yrchoun’ or ‘irchoun’, which we borrowed from an Old French word, ‘herichon’. That came from the Latin word for hedgehog, ‘ericius’. That Latin root is also linked to the Proto-Indo-European word ‘ghers-’, which means ‘to bristle’. That’s also where we get ‘horror’ from, which literally means ‘a bristling of the hair’.

From ‘hedgehog’, ‘urchin’ did what words (and Victorian pickpockets, probably) love to do – it wandered. In the 1500s, people started using it figuratively for anyone or anything small, mischievous or misshapen, including hunchbacks, women of bad reputation (rolls eyes), and even goblins and elves. Shakespeare mentions ‘urchin-shows’ in ‘The Tempest’, which refers to the ghostly or spirit-like apparitions that Prospero sends to haunt Caliban:

‘His spirits hear me,
And yet I needs must curse. But they’ll nor pinch,
Fright me with urchin-shows, pitch me i’ th’ mire,
Nor lead me like a firebrand in the dark
Out of my way, unless he bid ’em.’

It wasn’t long before those meanings of small, ragged, impish and half-wild started to blur together, and the word ‘urchin’ began being applied to children who fit the same image. By the 18th to 19th centuries ‘street urchin’ had become a familiar phrase, especially in urban contexts. Here it is in Dickens’ ‘The Pickwick Papers’:

‘Gabriel had been looking forward to reaching the dark lane, because it was, generally speaking, a nice, gloomy, mournful place … he was not a little indignant to hear a young urchin roaring out some jolly song about a merry Christmas, in this very sanctuary …’

Another urchin also appeared in the 1500s, this time in the sea. This is when the phrase ‘sea urchin’ cropped up, when English speakers spotted those spiky little sea creatures and thought, essentially, ‘there’s an underwater hedgehog’. The link’s completely visual: same shape and same spines, just wetter. Well, kinda.

I trod on a sea urchin on holiday when I was younger, and got a few of its spines lodged in my foot. The locals told me to pee on it, and I still don’t know if that was good advice or just them taking the piss out of the tourists. I’ll leave it up to your imagination as to whether I did or not, but let’s just say I flew home without any sea urchin spines in my foot.

rankle

If something rankles, it irritates you in a way that really gets under your skin. Like neighbours who leave their bins out for a week, people who eat loudly or drivers who don’t park at the back of the box on a street with very limited parking (that last one might just be me). It’s an annoyance that lingers, festers and keeps you muttering to yourself. And maybe sneaking out in the middle of the night to leave a rude note on someone’s windscreen.

‘Rankle’s etymology is quite literal – it came into English from an Old French word, ‘draoncle’, which meant ‘boil’ or ‘festering sore’. Lovely. That comes from a Latin word, dracunculus, which is less gross – it means ‘little serpent’ or ‘little dragon’ (and would have been an ace name for one of the Game of Thrones dragons).

So how did we get from serpents to sores? Well, in the ancient world, apparently people thought some ulcers looked like wriggling little snakes under the skin. I’m not googling this to check though.

When ‘rankle’ first slithered into English in the 14th century as ‘ranclen’, it was all about wounds festering away. Then, over the next couple of centuries, writers started using it in the figurative sense for feelings that behave like sores that refuse to heal. Shakespeare was of course leading the pack, using it as a metaphor for an emotional condition in Richard II:

‘Fell sorrow’s tooth doth never rankle more

Than when he bites, but lanceth not the sore.’

Thanks to our Will, and others like him, when something rankles today, there’s no pus involved. And ‘no pus involved’ is always a good thing, right?

muster

These days, most mustering is about courage or passing: ‘I mustered the courage to speak up’ or ‘that comment doesn’t pass muster.’ But originally it referred to a formal gathering of troops for inspection. Medieval armies would call all their soldiers together to check no one was AWOL, and that they were all properly armed and fit for duty – and that was called ‘a muster’.

14th-century ‘muster rolls’ show sheriffs and commanders doing just that: assembling the county’s able-bodied men, checking weapons and recording who turned up (muster rolls are not to be confused with roll calls, which are when someone reads aloud the names of the people on the muster roll to check who’s there).

‘Muster’ has other military uses too – when a military unit is created, it’s ‘mustered in’, and when it’s disbanded, it’s ‘mustered out’.

This is of course where we get the phrase ‘passing muster’ from, which has been around since the late 16th century, although then it was ‘pass the muster’. It wasn’t long until we dropped the ‘the’, and started using ‘muster’ in a more figurative, non-military way to mean ‘to gain acceptance or approval’.

‘Muster’ comes from a Latin word, ‘monstrare’, which means ‘to show’. This passed into Old French as ‘mostrer’ and then into Middle English as ‘muster’.

During Jubilee years, British armed forces perform a muster for the king or queen. This tradition dates back to Tudor times, and gives the military a chance to show the monarch what they do and what they look like. The 2012 Diamond Jubilee Armed Forces Parade and Muster was the first time all three service branches were present at the same time to celebrate Elizabeth II’s years on the throne. 2,500 servicemen and women took part in it, and it was the first major event of the Diamond Jubilee.

gargoyle

I’m sure you know what a gargoyle is – an ugly little devil-like figure, often winged, that sits high up on the outside walls of churches, cathedrals and other Christian buildings to ward off evil. Well, you’re half right. A gargoyle is one of those things, but only if it has a hole where its mouth is for water to flow out of. That’s because gargoyles actually have a very practical purpose – to channel rainwater through their mouths and away from church walls, so the stonework didn’t crumble. If it doesn’t have any water flowing through it, it’s a grotesque. So all gargoyles are grotesques, but not all grotesques are gargoyles.

‘Gargoyle’ goes back to an Old French word, ‘gargouille’, which means ‘throat’ or ‘gullet’. That comes via Medieval Latin from ‘gargola’/‘gargulio’. It’s the same root as ‘gargle’ – both words echo the sound of liquid gurgling down the throat.

So far, so good. But who decided to gussy up gutters as gargoyles in the first place? Well, we have a French legend to thank for that. The story goes that in 7th-century Rouen, a dragon-like creature called La Gargouille was terrorising the town, breathing fire and flooding it with water (I’m not entirely sure how the fires turned into floods, but let’s gloss over that). When the townspeople finally defeated it, they mounted its head and neck on the town’s church. And that’s apparently the reason why gargoyles came to be carved onto churches as both water spouts and protectors.

(In truth, it was probably just the whimsy of medieval architects and designers – but that doesn’t make for nearly as good a story.)

Gargoyles and grotesques might feel like an olde worlde thing, but they’re still being added to buildings today. Paisley Abbey in Scotland was built in the 12th century and restored in the 1990s. A stonemason hired to replace 12 crumbling stone gargoyles added a grotesque that looks exactly like the xenomorph from the 1979 film ‘Alien’ – great to see a modern movie monster keeping company with its medieval cousins.

Image credit: Colin, via Wikimedia Commons, CC BY-SA 3.0