Between editing “Words Christmas Gave Us” (my next Wordfoolery book, releasing in 2024) this month, I’ve been working on my downloads for readers. Did you know I have a downloads page with free articles? I’ve created some wonderful ones for the Christmas release (not yet available, sorry) and I’ve started work on “Words People and Places Gave Us” for the same page. It will contain all the eponyms and toponyms I’ve stumbled across since publishing “How to Get Your Name in the Dictionary”, a sequel of sorts. As these downloads go live, I’ll mention it here.
One of those eponyms was the bellini. It’s a word Venice gave us. Sometimes we can forget that Venice was a hugely influential city state, but its influence remains in the English language. We have all of these words thanks to Venice – gondola, regatta, quarantine, zany, bellini, and carpaccio. I’d make a case for casanova too.
The bellini cocktail was invented in the 1930s or 1940s by Giuseppe Cipriani, the founder of Harry’s Bar in Venice. The drink mixes puréed white peaches and the Italian sparkling wine called prosecco, sometimes with a dash of raspberry or cherry juice to enhance the colour. Initially this was a seasonal tipple as white peaches are only in season from midsummer to early autumn, but now the peach purée is more widely available.
Cipriani named the drink the bellini because its unique pink colour reminded him of the toga of a saint in a painting by the 15th-century Venetian artist Giovanni Bellini. Its variants are also eponymous. If you replace the peach with mandarin you get a puccini (Italian composer), a rossini (Italian composer) uses strawberry purée and a tintoretto (Venetian painter) deploys pomegranate juice.
Cipriani was an inventive chap. He also created carpaccio, the raw beef dish, which is named for Vittore Carpaccio, the Venetian painter known for the red and white tones in his work.
Now all I have to do is come up with an excuse to sample a bellini in Venice.
p.p.s. this post contains affiliate links which make a small payment to the blog if you choose to purchase through them. #CommissionsEarned. Alternatively, you can use my digital tip jar to say thanks for this year’s words.
Have you ever thought about the origins of getting off scot-free? I came across it in my reading this week (“Humble Pie and Cold Turkey” by Caroline Taggart, if you’re curious) and it set me on the distinctly non-Scottish trail of the expression.
A witty Scottish police box (updated as a coffee hut)
Scot-free dates to Old English and was originally spelled scotfreo. It meant you were exempt from a royal tax and was compounded from scot (royal tax) and freo (free).
The definition of scot as a royal tax caught my eye. Having visited Edinburgh recently I was pretty certain scot referred to somebody resident in Scotland. No, apparently a scot is from late Old English and refers to municipal taxes, royal taxes, or fees due to a feudal lord.
The word scot in this sense came from skot in Old Norse (contribution) so our friends the Vikings had a hand in this one. The Old Norse verb skjota had two meanings – one around the idea of shooting and throwing and the second about transferring to another or paying. It’s the later meaning that we’re looking at this time. Skot is also related to Old English sceotan (to pay), Dutch schot, and German Schoß (tax) so this word has plenty of Northern European roots. You can also find escot (payment) in Old French which comes from Latin scotum.
It appears that scot, or variants, was widely known throughout Europe at the time as meaning some type of payment. In the 1100s in English you might find yourself at a scot-ale. In this case ale meant a festival. Specifically a scot-ale was a festival (probably with compulsory attendance) held by the lord of the manor and the scot was a feudal tax payable to him for the party. You might have to pay others too. Rome-scot was a church tax payable to the Pope and soul-scot was a payment on behalf of the deceased.
With time the idea of scot-free arose, if you got away scot-free you avoided paying the tax. From the 1600s it expanded to getting away without any consequences.
Until next time happy reading, writing, and wordfooling,
p.p.s. this post contains affiliate links which make a small payment to the blog if you choose to purchase through them. #CommissionsEarned. Alternatively, you can use my digital tip jar to say thanks for this year’s words.
After the elegant history of vogue last week I’m taking a different angle with the hairy history of disheveled (or dishevelled if you prefer) this week.
Disheveled, having a messy personal appearance, appeared in English in the early 1400s but back then it was all about the hair. Manners may maketh the man according to Eton and other colleges, but the hairdressers in those days would disagree.
A disheveled Wordfoolery in 2018
Let’s hold up the mirror to disheveled’s roots first. Its original meaning in English was to be without dressed hair. There was also another adjective at the same time – dischevele – which meant bare-headed. Both came from Old French deschevele (bare headed or shaven headed). That came from the verb descheveler (to disarrange the hair). That formed from des (apart) and chevel (hair). Chevel originated in Latin capillus (hair), the same root that gives us capillary, but that’s a word for another day.
The meaning of disheveled was entirely about hair for quite some time. It described hair that was hanging loose, or having a neglected appearance. This was an era when letting your hair down only happened in the privacy of your own home, hence its association with relaxation. Women, after girlhood, wore their hair up and usually under a cap of some variety. Even the men paid attention to the dressing of their hair. Sailors were so keen to keep their hair tied back that they’d apply tar to their plaits, giving them the nickname of “tars”.
Disheveled gained the modern meaning of a messy or untidy appearance from around 1600 and now most of us wouldn’t even think of it being exclusive to hair. Plus some more recent hairstyles are deliberately disheveled. I doubt they would have liked the idea of “bed-head” back in the 1400s.
Until next time happy reading, writing, and wordfooling,
There’s an avid reader of “Vogue” in my house (not me), so the word caught my eye when recently its roots were disputed and nearly landed before the courts.
Part of my daughter’s “Vogue” collection
The word vogue arrived in English in the late 1500s as something being the accepted fashion or the height of popularity. It was a direct borrowing from French where it had the same meaning, and a second one – the swaying motion of a boat – because in Old French the verb voguer meant to row, sway, or sail. The French may have borrowed in their own turn from German verb wagon (to float or to balance oneself) and ultimately the Proto Indo European root word wegh (to go, to move).
Apparently there’s a French expression vogue la galère (row the galley) which urges us to keep on no matter what happens.
Other languages have similar words and expressions from the same Germanic source. Italian has voga (a rowing) and Spanish has boga (rowing) but also used for fashion.
It’s not entirely clear how vogue moved from moving on the water to sweeping down a catwalk but it predates the famous magazine of the same name by centuries. In vogue meant to have a prominent place in fashion since the 1600s but the magazine was first published in 1892. It wasn’t until 1990 that Madonna released her song “Vogue” and popularised voguing dance moves thanks to the iconic video for her song. She didn’t invent the moves, however. They emerged in the late 1980s as an evolution of the 1960s Harlem ballroom scene.
Vogue has another, and older, history entirely and this is where we reach the realms of legal threats and then apologies.
As a famous brand, “Vogue” keeps an eye on enterprises using similar names. Their lawyers leaped into action in 2022 when they noticed the Star Inn Vogue being registered at Companies House in the U.K. (where you register limited companies). Unfortunately they didn’t do enough research before getting upset.
The Star Inn is a pub in the village of Vogue in Cornwall and had no intention of encroaching on the fashion sector. They also believe they have first British claim to the name – no matter what magazines or Madonna might say.
Vogue is a small village and has held the name since medieval times. The name Vogue in this case isn’t English at all, it’s Cornish, and it means a smelting house or furnace (vogue means fog in Cornish – like the smoke and fumes from such a building) which makes sense as the village was the location of mining activities for hundreds of years.
All this was pointed out in good humour by the owners of the 200 year old inn to the multinational publishers and both sides are happy there’s no risk of confusion between their respective businesses now.
Until next time happy reading, writing, and wordfooling,
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I finally finished reading the 1213 pages of “Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase and Fable” this week and I’m so glad I did. I’ve been at it for more than a year. No, I didn’t only read one book during that time, I also read about 65 other books. I took my time with this one, jotting down notes, grouping words into possible future blog posts, mystery words for my radio slot, and of course ideas and inspirations for future Wordfoolery books.
Gathering candidate words for the blog and for the books is a long job. It takes me at least three years to gather the words before I even consider writing the book – which is why I usually work on word lists for several topics at the same time. I can already tell that this particular dictionary will be a rich source for me. I’ve used it as a reference on blog posts during the year, as you may have noticed.
Anyhow, I made it to the letter Z, my favourite letter in the alphabet, and found zany there. I hope you enjoy its history.
Zany, as you probably know, is defined as “amusingly unconventional and idiosyncratic”. You might describe a friend’s sense of humour or sense of style as being zany. You might enjoy a zany sit-com on the television. It’s a word the Italians gave us. Not the Romans, the Italians, the Venetians to be precise.
Zany entered English in the late 1500s to mean a “comic performer”. It came from French zani, and before that from Italian zanni (a zany or a clown). The word zanni was originally a name, Zanni. In the Venetian dialect of Italian this was their word for Gianni, which is the shortened or pet form of Giovanni (John). The closest equivalent in English would be Jack as the pet form of John.
Zanni was a standard character in the Commedia dell’Arte. I’m not an expert on this particular form of theatre (maybe check out this article instead) but it was popular from the 1500s in Italy and also across Europe. It had an influence on “Punch and Judy” shows and pantomime in the British Isles. It was comedy-focused and used standard characters, improvisation, and masks.
Zanni was played as a clever servant and trickster. He mimicked the other characters and probably dates back to the 1300s. Two facts I loved – apparently the longer the nose on his mask, the more foolish he was and he was always hungry.
The idea of a zany being a foolish person with wild movements and ideas gives us the modern meaning of zany humour and style.
Until next time happy reading, writing, and wordfooling,
Did you know you can add a word to the dictionary? No, I don’t mean by using your pen to scribble it in the margins. I can’t condone such vandalism. You can submit a word for consideration by the lexicographers. All the major dictionaries are open to this notion. For example, you’ll find the lowdown on submitting a word to the Collins Dictionary here. You create an account, submit the word for consideration and they track usage and conduct research before possibly adding it to online and finally print editions of their book.
This week’s word, dissectologist, is such a thing. I found it in “Body of Truth” by Marie Cassidy, the former Irish State Pathologist who has taken up crime-writing in her retirement from autopsies. I imagine anybody who enjoys dissections would be charmed by the word, but it has nothing to do with cutting up bodies, thankfully.
Dissectologist was submitted to Collins Dictionary for consideration in 2022 and it’s currently being “monitored for evidence of usage” so I reckon we all have a chance to help this one into the dictionary. Tempted? Use it online, use it in print. Have some fun with it. Marie Cassidy is using it, let’s join her. The woman is handy with a scalpel, let’s not annoy her.
What is a dissectologist? It’s not somebody in a science lab or autopsy suite.
It’s a jigsaw puzzle enthusiast.
The Bard’s London, a literary jigsaw I completed recently
Dissectologist comes from the original name of jigsaw puzzles in the late 1700s. They were called dissected maps. They were wooden maps which could be broken up into sections to teach geography to students. Over time other pictures were used and the jigsaw we know today evolved.
The verb dissect entered English around 1600 to describe the action of cutting into pieces. It came from Latin dissectus where dis means apart and secare is the verb to cut. When it arrived in English it was all about science – cutting up plants or animals to study their structure and to diagnose diseases. The more figurative idea of dissecting an argument point by point arose a few decades later.
The jigsaw-loving dissectologists founded the wonderfully named Benevolent Confraternity of Dissectologists (BCD for short) in 1985 to celebrate their hobby and its history. The CBD are based in the UK but have members worldwide. I can only imagine how excited they will be if dissectologist gets the official dictionary stamp of approval one day.
Until next time happy reading, writing, and wordfooling,
As a word geek from Dublin I always have one eye looking for words the Irish gave to the dictionary. There aren’t as many as you’d think, although I managed to create a chapter of some in my first book “How To Get Your Name in the Dictionary” featuring boycott, the Beaufort scale, burke, garryowen, Ireland, hooligan, limerick, murphy’s law, and the wellington boot.
One which featured there was Guinness but since publication I’ve gathered a few more facts about this word and so here’s an expanded history of perhaps Dublin’s most famous export (apologies to U2).
Guinness is an Irish dry stout named for its first brewer, Arthur Guinness (1725-1803). Arthur established his brewery at St. James’ Gate, Dublin in 1759, signing a 9,000 year lease at £45 per year. His signature is still copied onto every bottle of Guinness sold.
Ten years later Arthur shipped his first casks of stout and the now Diageo-owned brewery is one of the largest worldwide. The brewery tour is always a popular stop on tourist itineraries.
The brewery took the Irish harp as its logo in 1876. It is based on the antique Brian Boru harp which is now in the Trinity College Dublin library, along with the famous Book of Kells. In the Guinness emblem the harp’s curved edge is to the right. When the Irish state was founded and they wanted to use the harp emblem on our coinage (where it remains to this day), the harp had to curve to the left instead because Guinness had the prior claim.
Arthur and his wife Olivia had 21 children, of whom ten survived to adulthood. Their descendants include missionaries, “It girls”, and politicians. During the 1798 United Irishman rebellion in Ireland, Arthur was accused of spying for the British. His nickname in Dublin is Uncle Arthur.
The Guinness family, thanks to stout sales, didn’t lack funds and were famously generous employers. Their many country estates around Ireland have, in some cases, returned to state ownership over time. Examples include Iveagh Gardens, St. Anne’s Park (where I explored as a child and teen), Luggala estate (now part of Wicklow Mountains National Park), and Ashford Castle hotel (not owned by the state!).
“The Guinness Book of World Records” is published annually, since 1955, to list the many and often strange records established worldwide. It began as an idea by Sir Hugh Beaver, the managing director of the Guinness Brewery to resolve disputes over trivia questions amongst bar patrons. He’d encountered a debate over which was the fastest game bird in Europe during a shooting party and it gave him the notion of the reference book which is still published today and has inspired countless record-breaking efforts around the world.
According to “Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase and Fable” the favourite drink of Otto von Bismarck (1815-1898), the Iron Chancellor, was a Black Velvet which is equal parts champagne and Guinness. Perhaps it helped him achieve German unification?
Until next time happy reading, writing, and wordfooling,
This week’s word, debacle, is with thanks to Irene from the Academy Bookshop in Drogheda, Ireland who likes to send me unusual words now and then. It’s a word I use regularly and I’m surprised I hadn’t already covered it here. As it turns out it’s the perfect word for the rather icy conditions we’re experiencing this week in Ireland.
Ice on my crab apple tree
Debacle is another word for a disaster. I might describe a cake which failed to rise as a debacle, or a grocery shopping trip where I omitted key ingredients for dinner, or a party where no guests arrived. I use it for disaster when the word disaster is a little too strong.
The word debacle joined the English dictionary in 1848 as a borrowing from French débâcle (collapse, disaster). Débâcler in French is a verb meaning to free which arose from an earlier verb desbacler (to unbar). That earlier verb was formed from des (off) and bacler (to bar) and came to French from Latin bacculare and baculum (stick). The same Latin roots also give us the origin of bacillus, a stick shaped bacteria.
What does un-sticking have to do with French disasters? This idea is to do with frozen rivers. The verb was used about the breaking up of ice on the river and the rise of water levels and violent floods of meltwater in spring thaws. The river un-sticks and then comes disaster as water and debris rushes down on towns and villages along its banks.
This idea of un-sticking being a disaster came with the word debacle as it joined English and was used there from the early 1800s in geological texts explaining the way landscapes were shaped in the aftermath of ice ages.
All this means that not having enough ice for cocktails at your party is a true debacle.
Until next time happy reading, writing, and wordfooling,
I’m not a coffee drinker but sometimes caffeine is the only thing to get you started on a dark winter morning such as this. Have you tried a cappuccino? If so, have a sip as I tell you its story.
The cappuccino coffee style isn’t particularly old. The term arose in English in the 1940s, as a direct import from Italian, to describe an espresso coffee with a steamed milk foam. It was so named because the colour combination reminded drinkers of the brown hoods of the Friars Minor Capuchins.
The Capuchins, as they were called when I was growing up, were always a presence in my locality as their monastery was on the top of a nearby hill. They later opened a hospice there which is much appreciated by the community. Where I live now they also have a presence, albeit waning with the reduction in vocations, because they founded the school my teen attends.
Capuchin entered the English language as a word in the late 1500s to describe this order of friars, founded in 1528, who live under the rules laid down by Saint Francis (an Italian saint known for his affinity with animals and the creation of the crib/nativity scene). The word arrived in English via French capuchin from Italian capuccino – the diminutive of capuccio (hood) and cappa (cap). They were named for the long pointed hoods on their cloaks. Orders of religious were often named by the style of their habits as it was the most obvious way to distinguish them. For example Whitefrairs (Carmelites) had a white habit and Blackfriars (Dominicans) had a darker one.
Later than the friars came the cupuchin monkey, in 1785, a South American species, which is named for the shape of hair on its head which was thought to resemble a monk’s hood.
Until next time happy reading, writing, and wordfooling,
I love reading as much as I love unusual words. I have an annual tradition to look back at my reading (55 books) during 2023 with help from my Goodreads account. Here are eight of my favourite books of the year. They’re not all recent releases, as books wait in my Towering To Be Read Pile and because I’m still working my way through the 501 Books to Read Before You Die List (my favourite from that this year was A Short Walk in the Hindu Kush by Eric Newby, a travel book about 1950s Afghanistan). I’d recommend any of these books. If you order through the links provided, a tiny fee is paid towards supporting this blog.
If you prefer posts about the history of unusual words, normal service will resume next Monday.
They’re in reverse reading order. I can’t rank books, I love them too much.
The staff of the Stranger Times are misfits reporting on UFOs and demons, until it gradually becomes clear that some of the stories are true and “they” really are out to get them. There’s new assistant editor Hannah, in desperate need of a fresh start, editor Banecroft (drunk and drummed out of Fleet Street), mystery owner Mrs H, Grace the god-fearing mother hen office manager who has taken in runaway teen Stella who is definitely hiding something, the two writers Reg and Ox (one in debt to mafia, the other seeking UFO proof), and finally Manny the printer and his nudity habit plus Simon – the nerdy teen who waits on their doorstep for his big break.
Add in an American clearly up to no good, a werewolf, a couple of murders, plenty of rain, and an overly diligent policeman and you’ve got a twisty story to relish.
My whole book club loved this. Three main characters – Jamie (young teen struggling to process grief for his mum, on the autism spectrum somewhere), Tess his English teacher (daughter of alcoholic in a dying marriage) and Tadgh his woodwork teacher (running from his past on a remote island community) – all influence each other to strive for a more connected and true to themselves lives, while building a boat, and a community.
My favourite book of the year. Worthy winner of various awards. Very proud the author is Irish and astounded I hadn’t heard of her before now.
Tough topic, sensitively handled. Loved the way she included plenty of the migrants own words. Traces the tales of several (some with happy-ish endings, others less so) from home lands along routes, stalling in Libya for years at hands of warlords thanks to the EU deal with their coastguard. Shocking expose of UNHCR and EU disregard for the migrants. Brilliantly detailed and supported with a massive reference list at the back.
Truly beautiful art from an incredibly talented artist (I dabble with dip pen drawings and he is boss level, not to mention the other media he uses in the book). Then add in the simple yet powerful text.
Who might like this book? Anybody, of any age, who loves their friends or needs a little extra help right now, or loves art or nature.
Also – I love Mole and his cake obsession (he’s not wrong).
I read this book twice this year. Once when my mother was very ill and I needed support and again after her passing when I needed some joy. It helped.
Well structured, clearly and wittily written epic fantasy hero tale told by the (possibly) retired hero. Great secondary characters, one of the best dragons I’ve met in books for a long time, true love, magical university training, creepy creatures, sinister villains getting closer, fae, it literally has it all.
Dervla Murphy was a great Irish travel writer. This time she takes her teen daughter for three months in Madagascar. She’s knowledgeable about the country and its environmental and political issues but her focus is on the people and the landscape and she loves both.
She isn’t afraid to admit her mistakes (she manages to get a dose of gout at one point) but it’s her willingness to engage with the local people which is most charming. I’ve read many travel writers but I hadn’t realised that all of them were middle-class single males (typically from colonial countries) and it was refreshing to get a female viewpoint on travel.
As you’d expect we find plenty of ramshackle buses, confused timetables, and unusual companions along the road. I enjoyed her daughter’s witty one-liners (nothing like a 14 year old to bring their famous mother down to size and to see things clearly).
His book describes Harrer’s escape from a wartime internment camp in British ruled India and a two year flight to the capital of Tibet, his life there ending with his year of tutoring the teenaged Dalai Lama before their flight from Chinese troops.
Harrier is a great travel writer, he brings you into the world with him but doesn’t bore you with unimportant details. His love for the country and its people shines through. My edition gave extra biographical info at the back (he has an SS past which he rejected and continued his friendship with the Dalai Lama for the rest of his life). He has spent a lifetime exploring remote places, drawn to the mountains again and again.
And finally – the Wordfoolery Books, of course.
My four books inspired by this blog are out now in paperback and ebook (all the ways to get them are listed here). “Modern Words with Old Roots” delves into the astonishingly ancient history of 50 modern words from avatar to zarf. “Words the Vikings Gave Us” explores the influence of Old Norse and modern Scandinavia on English. “Words The Sea Gave Us” covers nautical words and phrases from ahoy to skyscraper. “How To Get Your Name In The Dictionary” records the lives of the people whose names became part of the English language including Guillotine, Casanova, and Fedora.
Right, that’s enough book chat. Next week I’ll be back with the history of unusual words. Wishing you happy reading in 2024.
p.s. this post contains affiliate links which make a small payment to the blog if you choose to purchase through them. #CommissionsEarned. Alternatively, you can use my digital tip jar to say thanks for this year’s words.
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