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GDoS Update #7: 31 July 2018

Welcome to the seventh and latest update to the online version of Green’s Dictionary of Slang.

 

As ever, some statistics: research over the last three months has added 311 new slang terms, 319 entries have been predated as to their currently recorded ‘first use’ and 2,839 new citations – including ante-dates, inter-dates and post-dates to reflect the continuing use of many terms –  have been uploaded. The database currently offers 55,003 headwords (within which are nested over 133,000 discrete words and phrases, underpinned by approximately 630,000 citations). All of this new material can be seen by subscribers; the changes that are reflected by the predates  are also shown in alterations in the approximate dating used in the absence of citations: for instance ‘late 19C’ to ‘early 19C’, ‘1980s+’ back to ‘1940s+’, and so on. But as ever, for those who want or need to access the detailed and continually evolving and expanding heart of the data, we have to recommend a subscription.

 

For an overview, with the fruits of the last quarter’s research in chronological order, all users of the dictionary can go here. This uses the same software as the Timelines of Slang. As usual the research has focused largely on newspaper databases, notably that held by the British Library, the US Library of Congress and, for Australia, Trove. These, by their nature, tend to look backwards in time, but there is also an on-going accretion of up-to-date slang. Thus there are also a substantial number of terms from UK drill music, state of the art as regards London slang, and, to go back to the other end of slang’s history, some 17th century pamphleteering, often credited to women authors.

 

New terms are marked in red, ante-dates in blue. The format has been improved: entries now link to the specific part of an entry, its sense and where pertinent its homonym number. Unfortunately the software does not permit click-through access (this is in development) , but users will be able to see which part of an entry has improved.

 

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April 2018 Update + Hero of Slang 8: Billy Rowe

Welcome to the sixth and latest update to the online version of Green’s Dictionary of Slang.

 

As ever, some statistics: research over the last three months has added 301 new slang terms, 377 entries have been predated as to their currently recorded ‘first use’ and 2,775 new citations – including ante-dates, inter-dates and post-dates to reflect the continuing use of many terms –  have been uploaded. The database currently offers 54,873 headwords (within which are nested over 133,000 discrete words and phrases, underpinned by approximately 630,000 citations). All of this new material can be seen by subscribers; the changes that are reflected by the predates  are also shown in alterations in the approximate dating used in the absence of citations: for instance ‘late 19C’ to ‘early 19C’, ‘1980s+’ back to ‘1940s+’, and so on. But as ever, for those who want or need to access the detailed and continually evolving and expanding heart of the data, we have to recommend a subscription.

 

For an overview, with the fruits of the last quarter’s research in chronological order, all users of the dictionary can go here. This uses the same software as the Timelines of Slang. As usual the research has focused largely on newspaper databases, notably that held by the British Library, the US Library of Congress and, for Australia, Trove. These, by their nature, tend to look backwards in time, but there is also an on-going accretion of up-to-date slang.

 

New terms are marked in red, ante-dates in blue. The format has been improved: entries now link to the specific part of an entry, its sense and where pertinent its homonym number. Unfortunately the software does not permit click-through access (this is in development) , but users will be able to see which part of an entry has improved.

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Loveless in Slangland

In honour (?) of Valentine’s Day, I offer another slightly amended wander down the primrose path I trod with The Dabbler five years or so ago. The piece, as originally titled, was named ‘No Words for Love in Slang’. Well, no hearts and flowers, anyway. Please read on:

 

For those who wish cross-reference to GDoS, all combinations with ‘love’ can be found here unless otherwise noted.

 

I tried to write a musical once. I had lunched well, couldn’t face the database and it served to counterfeit work. It was called – goodness, how did you guess – Slang! I forget the plot – which is always the problem: I can sketch the puppets but can never make them dance – and it came to nothing. I composed, well, doodled, what I laughingly termed some lyrics. There was only one that was passable. It was called ‘There’s No Word for “Love” in Slang’. As I recall, the hero (poor, honest and resolutely foul-mouthed) sang it on his way to meet the heroine (rich, daughter of a grasping, snobbish papa, and forbidden on pain of disinheritance any non-standard syllables). You can see why I didn’t finish it. But the song title was correct. Because there isn’t.

 

Valentine’s Day comes every year and may bring many a surprise (not least its definitions in slang), but one thing is wholly predictable: no troths will have been plighted on behalf of the counter-language. Slang remembers the unfortunate Valentine’s end: one does not attain martyrdom without…being martyred. So too the concept of ‘love’ at the vocabulary’s hands. Of course, if one searches for ‘love’ as a headword, one finds several. Though none, I would note, a verb. There is love as in ‘love of a…’ which is a term of praise kindred to duck, as in ‘duck of …’ and tends to apply to small children or else items of clothing: hats, dresses, although Walter, he of that multi-volumed stroke book My Secret Life, recalls how, on holiday, his hosts offered to ‘get me a love of an Italian boy to bugger.’ And there is the cry of Lord love a duck! which combines them. But it should surprise no-one that love is usually found in compounds, and that in the bulk of those compounds the word is substituting for ‘sex’. Thus these, for the penis, which of which at least some seem to have escaped from heavy metal, or at least a Spinal Tap tribute band: love bone, love dart, love gun, love hammer, love muscle, love pump, love rod, love staff, lovesteak, love stick, love torpedo, love truncheon and love warrior  (Not mention corporal love, which fleshy non-com ‘stands to attention’). If one has one genital than one must have its opposite number. Here it is: the love box, love canal, love crack, love flesh, love glove, love hole, love lane (and thus take a turn on Love Lane or on Mount Pleasant, to have sex), lovelips, love’s cabinet, love seat and the love shack which can equally efficiently multitask as the place a man keeps for seductions and as an object of sexual desire (who can also, lord help them, be a love muffin) and conquest. The fountain or treasury of love work too.

 

Nor are we done with the licentious list: love apples, grenades and spuds are testicles; the love button is the clitoris, love rug the female pubic hair, love custard and love juice semen, and the love envelope, a condom. Love handles (the idea being that one can hold on to them during sex) represent the excess flesh around a portly stomach that may be seen in a kinder light by those who appreciate the Rubensesque figure. There is the love bug, which in this context stands for VD rather than VW, as in Hollywood’s twee Herbie. And, how could we forget, the love machine is a what an older synonymy termed the ‘town bull.’

 

Love’s lexis is not all sexual. There are always the drugs: a love affair (punning on slang’s nicknames) is a speedball, i.e. a mixture of heroin (‘boy’) and cocaine (‘girl’). The love drug, plain and simple, is MDMA or Ecstasy, love weed marijuana and pure love LSD. Love curls represented a hairstyle in which the hair is cut short and worn low over the forehead, love-pot a drunkard. Perhaps slang’s take is best summed up in love letter, an American usage of the 1940s defined either as a bullet or as some form of hard projectile thrown at a human target. And for the love of Mike! (who can also be Heaven! holy Buddha! Jupiter! Michael Angelo! Moses! Pete (and Alf)! Peter the hermit! and Polly Simpkins!) is an exclamation of exasperation or surprise.

 

One can expand the search, but can one render the definitions more affectionate? No. Love and kisses, rhyming on ‘the missus’ at least suggests a tinge of harmony, but love and marriage, as ordained by a number of crooners, is merely a carriage, while other rhymes offer love and hate (weight), God-love-her (one’s mother) and light of love (a prison governor), and never forget that this last, un-rhymed, means a whore.

 

Last chance: definitions containing ‘love’. Excluding those that include ‘affair’. Slang resists moderation and passion, even obsession are the rule. Not much improvement here. Do one’s balls on, busted on, collared on, dead set on, daffy, dotty, doughy, drop one’s ovaries (a gay term as it happens, at least in South Africa), fall for, have it for, hung up on, gone a million, nuts on, potty about, snowed over, soft on, spoons on, stuck on, go turtles on (‘turtle dove’ = love) and wrapped. Is it me, or do other also fail to hear much in the way of hearts and flowers? Half of them, after all, are synonyms for ‘mad’. As for sugar on and sweet on, it is not merely my diabetes that shudders.

 

I give up. Slang and love use single beds, or draw a line with what used to be known as the Dutch wife, i.e. a bolster (though modern use has redefined the compound as a blow-up ‘love doll’). I gave up the musical too. Let it not be said, however, that my creative fantasies are at an end. I see…the hard-boiled slang lexicographer. ‘They call me Lex, lady, Lex Argot. Argot’s the name — etymology’s my game’. No guns, just a vast and heavy book. And maybe the cute and of course a sassy lesbian mixed-race sidekick, who speaks only in Multi-ethnic London English. Or rhyming slang. ‘There are 130,000 words in the naked dictionary: this has not really been one of them.’

 

January 2018 Update & Hero of Slang 7: Edward Bradley

Welcome to the fifth and latest update to the online version of Green’s Dictionary of Slang, the first to appear in what is now the second year of the  dictionary’s life as a website.

 

As ever, some statistics: research over the last three months has added 294 new slang terms, 376 entries have been predated as to their currently recorded ‘first use’ and nearly 3,300 citations – including ante-dates, inter-dates and post-dates to reflect the continuing use of many terms –  have been uploaded. The database currently offers 54,791 headwords (within which are nested over 133,000 discrete words and phrases, underpinned by a total of 630,000 citations). All of this new material can be seen by subscribers; the changes that are reflected by the predates  are also shown in alterations in the approximate dating used in the absence of citations: for instance ‘late 19C’ to ‘early 19C’, ‘1980s+’ back to ‘1940s+’, and so on. But as ever, for those who want or need to access the detailed heart of the data, we have to recommend a subscription.

 

For an overview, in chronological order, all users of the dictionary can go here. This uses the same software as the Timelines of Slang. As usual the research has focused largely on newspaper databases, notably that held by the British Library, the US Library of Congress and, for Australia, Trove. These, by their nature, tend to look backwards in time, but there is also an on-going accretion of up-to-date slang.

 

New terms are marked in red, ante-dates in blue. The format has been improved: entries now link to the specific part of an entry, its sense and where pertinent its homonym number. Unfortunately the software does not permit click-through access (this is in development) , but users will be able to see which part of an entry has improved.

 

______________________

 

Given the lack of focus on a single area of slang over the past quarter, I offer in place of my usual disquisition, Hero of Slang 7 (slightly augmented from the original version as published on line by the Dabbler in 2011). In this case the star is the Reverend Edward Bradley, best-known by his literary pseudonym ‘Cuthbert Bede’.

 

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October 2017 Update

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Welcome to the fourth and latest update to the online version of Green’s Dictionary of Slang. This represents our first anniversary: just over one year since the site launched in October 2016.

Research over the last three months has added 351 new slang terms, 465 entries have been predated as to their currently recorded ‘first use’ and over 2,300 citations – including ante-dates, inter-dates and post-dates to reflect the continuing use of many terms –  have been uploaded. The database currently offers 54,718 headwords (within which are nested over 133,000 discrete words and phrases, underpinned by a total of 628,000 citations). All of this new material can be seen by subscribers; the changes that are reflected by the predates  are also shown in alterations in the approximate dating used in the absence of citations: for instance ‘late 19C’ to ‘early 19C’, ‘1980s+’ back to ‘1940s+’, and so on. But as ever, for those who want or need to access the detailed heart of the data, we have to recommend a subscription.

For an overview, in chronological order, all users of the dictionary can go here. This uses the same software as the Timelines of Slang. New terms are marked in red, ante-dates in blue.

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GDoS FIRST ANNIVERSARY COMPETITION

To celebrate the First Anniversary since the launch of Green’s Dictionary of Slang in October 2016 we offer a small competition.

The following text comes from a pamphlet The New Sprees of London, or, A guide to all the flash cribs of the metropolis detailed in a night’s spree of Harry Flashton and his cousin Giles : in this valuable work will be found general maxims for a night’s spree, … peep into the night houses from west to east, … description of the cadgers’ palace …, list of accommodation houses, … economical calculations of the expense of a night’s spree. Published in 1844 it was one of many such publications, a guide to ‘low life’ amusements in the capital. Harry and Giles tip their tiles to the pioneers of such exploits: Pierce Egan’s Tom and Jerry (and their pal Bob Logic). And like Egan’s best-seller, Life in London, the New Sprees was keen to demonstrate a through knowledge of current slang as proof of its authenticity. In this introduction the anonymous author addresses his readers directly:

 

new-sprees-1844-gdos-sub-competition

There are approximately 70 slang terms here (some italicised, some in roman). For the purposes of our competition, the challenge is to ‘translate’ them all into standard English and, if possible, thereby to rewrite the text ‘in English’. If a translation proves too much, then a simple list will pass muster.

All the terms should be available in the free version of GDoS. If any have escaped, then try a bit of educated guesswork – it’s what slang researchers have to do all the time. (The spelling is inevitably shaky: manty, line 18, for instance, is in fact nanty as in line 2).

The fullest translation (and failing that the best shot at a comprehensive list) to arrive by Monday 13 November will receive a one-year free subscription to the dictionary. Five runners-up get a GDoS tote bag. Mr Slang will of course be amenable to bungs, dropsy, freemans, palm oil, straighteners and any other of the 64 terms whereby slang synonymizes the bribe.

Please email your solutions to jg@greensdictofslang.com.

Go it, boots, and cushty bok!

 

 

July 2017 Update

Welcome to the third and latest update to the online version of Green’s Dictionary of Slang. Research over the last three months has added 215 new slang terms, 474 entries have been predated as to their currently recorded ‘first use’ and over 2,650 citations – including predates, inter-dates and post-dates to reflect the continuing use of many terms –  have been uploaded. The database currently offers 54,618 headwords (within which are nested 133,000 discrete words and phrases, underpinned by a total of 626,000 citations). All of this new material can be seen by subscribers; the changes that are reflected by the predates  are also shown in alterations in the approximate dating used in the absence of citations: for instance ‘late 19C’ to ‘early 19C’, ‘1980s+’ back to ‘1940s+’, and so on. But as ever, for those who want or need to access the detailed heart of the data, we have to recommend a subscription.

For an overview, in chronological order, all users of the dictionary can go here. This uses the same software as the Timelines of Slang. New terms are marked in red, predates in blue.

While research continues to look at what in slang might be termed both ends of the busk, in other words both old and new (though in fact a coarse 18th century toast), the lexicographical grail of finding the earliest recorded use of a term means that we are often focused on the past. This has led us to one of the late 19th century’s stranger titles, Australia’s Dead Bird, published in Sydney, NSW, from 1889 to 1891. The title was slang, meaning a ‘dead cert’ for racecourse gamblers, and the paper can ostensibly be bracketed with the UK’s Sporting Times (aka ‘The Pink ’Un’) and America’s Spirit of the Times, also self-identified as ‘sporting’ papers, with an accent on sport in its widest senses.

We know little of the Bird’s personnel. Its owner was one Charles Mark Curtiss, who seems to have been something of a minor press baron. Otherwise all was pseudonymous. Like the Sporting Times, which rejoiced in such signatories as The Dwarf of Blood, The Tale-Pitcher, Peter Blobbs, the Stalled Ox and many others, the Bird offered the Early Bird, the Old ’Un, the Rorty Rooster, the Prodigal, the Emu and so on. Unlike its London cousin it also boasted a pair of ‘girls’, albeit generic and serving a variety of purposes, usually with an accent, generally muted, on sex: ‘Flossie Fewclothes’ and ‘Tottie Titefit,’ with occasional walk-ons from ‘Lottie Lacepantze’. They were cast as usually chorus-girls, and ‘The Hartist,’ another pseudonym, illustrated such lovelies in as minimal garb as the era permitted.

If these names suggest a certain smuttiness, so they should. It is the world that a decade later gave us Leopold Bloom enjoying inadvertent seashore upskirts and musing over ‘wondrous gowns and costliest frillies’. The Dead Bird, to an extent that had not been seen in Australia since another off-colour  publication, the Satirist and Sporting Chronicle, had flourished very briefly in 1843, specialized in double entendres. Some took the form of elaborate puns, others were faster on the draw; all had an air of what were termed ‘smoking-room’ stories, the province of men who, for all their self-proclamation as gents (with the casual racism, wide-spectrum xenophobia and loudly paraded patriotism that went with the pose) were more accurately categorised as either bounders or cads.

This, from 28 December 1889, is typical:

Says Mrs A., ‘What are you going to have for your Christmas dinner?’ says Mrs B., ‘Well, if Joe is at home I will have a good goose, but if he is not at home I do not know what I will have’.

Or this, from August of the same year, with a nudge at slang’s take on stand:

A special grandstand is to be erected for the Shah of Persia to view the Kempton Park (England) race meeting. It is said the Shah prefers a grandstand to a temporary erection.

Moustaches were doubtless twirled and ribs nudged. The readers thought themselves fearful fellows, but the word that emerges is snigger. As for sport in its athletic sense, there was much horse-racing, some boxing and an occasional foray into cricket and lesser competitions. Bowing to the word’s more raffish definition, there was seemingly non-stop drinking, always to excess, and a near obsession with the mysteries – ideally rendered visible through the disarray that followed on a droolingly recounted trip or stumble – of women’s lingerie. There was a good deal of kissing, which, it was usually implied, was merely a preliminary to more intimate examples of yum-yum. The paper was never pornographic, but as the prosecution which closed it in January 1891 alleged, judged by contemporary prudery, it was surely obscene. For the record, the problematic par. told of a girl who had been ‘under the doctor’ for a week.

All of which is background. What matters is that the Bird was remarkably slangy. Its issues – weekly for just 16 months – offered 603 instances and of these 132 pushed our knowledge of a term’s coinage back beyond what had hitherto been recorded. Among these revised ‘first uses’ are barrack (to cheer for a team)  beer-chewer (a drunk), bumper (a cigarette end), half-a-caser  (half-a-crown), continuations (legs), cop-man (policeman), ding-dong (a fight), dolled up (dressed up), lovey–dovey (affectionate), man-eater (a sexually forward woman), straight goer (a dependable individual) and ornythorhynchus  properly a duck-billed platypus, but here an importuning creditor, ‘a beast with a bill’. Brand new terms include smock-dozzler (a womanizer), Cabbageopolis (Melbourne), gospel grabber (a preacher), nadget (the head), rinse one’s neck (to drink) and have sand in one’s teeth (to lose one’s temper).

The Dead Bird was laid to rest with the final issue of January 1891. A week later, with due fanfare and much teasing of the authorities, appeared its successor The Bird o’ Freedom.

 

 

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AB&Z: Anthony Burgess’ Lost Dictionary of Slang

This is the text of a talk I gave at the international Anthony Burgess Foundation in Manchester earlier in July 2017. It looks at Anthony Burgess’ attempt to compile a dictionary of slang, for which he was commissioned by Penguin books in 1965. As the talk explains, despite his initial committment to the task, it did work out. Brugess abandoned the task, and returned his publisher’s advance in 1966. The dictionary then seemed to vanish. Remarkably, and quite by chance, it was rediscovered in 2012 at the bottom of an old box of the author’s bed-linen.

 

What follows looks at the dictionary – its slang content and its lexicography – and at Burgess’s own involvement with slang as both reviewer and collector.I would like to thank the IABF and its director Prof. Andrew Biswell for permission to post the talk here.

 

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Heroes and Heroines of Slang 6: Sir Thomas Urquhart

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The Translator: Sir Thomas Urquhart

 

Of the many canards that assail the object of the slang lexicographer’s toil and linguistic affections is that of verbal inadequacy, the mockery by the loquaciously well-endowed of the size of one’s lexis. To use slang, they sneer, is to demonstrate communicative inadequacy. You and whose dictionary, ripostes the wounded drudge, brandishing 133,000 slang variations. The counter-language is in fact vastly inventive, creative some might suggest, given its admitted focus on certain themes, to the point of satiety.

 

It is true that this may not have been apparent in slang’s earliest days, when faint hearts omitted it from the printed page and what was recorded focused strictly on the jargon of the world of crime, but earliest days pass, and comes the hour comes the man or woman. Slang, as this expanding list of heroes and heroines is intended to demonstrate, has many such. Thus, as the latest example of slang’s brightest stars, I offer the word-obsessed courtier and author Sir Thomas Urquhart of Cromarty (1611-60).

 

A Scottish aristocrat and unabashed cavalier, he was knighted by Charles I, and inherited his father’s estates, but also his debts. He attempted to deal with them by writing. In the way of his century, Urquhart’s works boasted splendid titles. Among them were the Pantochronochanon, or, A Peculiar Promptuary of Time, which explained his family genealogy,  the Ekskubalauron, or, The Discovery of a most Exquisite Jewel, which pushed Urquhart’s hatred of presbyterianism – the family were always episcopalians – and simultaneously touted a wide range of Scottish heroes, not all of whom may in fact have existed. A third important work was the Logopandecteision, or, An Introduction to the Universal Language. This promoted the universal language that had been invented, if never popularized, by the linguistic scholar Francis Lodwick.

 

This last title had barely appeared when this ‘logofascinated spirit’ as he described himself, took upon himself the publication of ‘The Works of Master Francois Rabelais doctor in physick … now faithfully translated into English.’ Rabelais (c. 1494-1553) was French and had written in a contemporary version of that language the work known as Gargantua and Pantagruel, the first books of which appeared in 1534 authored by one ‘Alcofribas Nasier’ – an anagram of the author’s name. Books one and two of Urquhart’s translation appeared in 1653, book three in 1693; the last two books, edited and translated by Peter Motteux, came in 1694 and 1708. Sir Thomas remains the canonical interpreter of an ‘Englished’ Rabelais.

 

The literary merits of his work (among other things one of the more censored productions of the last half millennium) are irrelevant here. What matters is the language he used, or more properly the language into which Urquhart, a devotee of  ‘metonymical, ironical, metaphysical and synecdochical instruments of elocution’ – or ‘meaningful words’, as the less circumlocutious might put it – rendered it in his translation.

 

A good example is one of Urquhart’s (and Rabelais’) lists, all items of which refer to what the translator initially terms the ‘you know what’, a piece of careless vaguery applicable to many aspects of sex, and in this case the giant Gargantua’s penis. When Urquhart wrote, aside from its medico-Latin self, the primary synonym for penis was yard. Its roots lie in number of terms, typically the Old Teutonic gazdjo, all of which mean a thin pole and which as such may possibly be linked to the Latin hasta, a spear, and even to the Italian cazzo, also slang for penis. (Certainly 17th century slang’s gadso and catso borrow from the Italian original and like a number of similar terms mean both penis and rogue or villain.) The first dictionary use comes in John Florio’s New World of Words of 1598: ‘Priapismo, […] pertaining to a mans priuities, or the standing of a mans yard), but it can be found much earlier, e.g. in Wyclif’s 1682 translation of the Bible (where, in Genesis, it is found in the story of the first circumcision). Though Urquhart does not disdain yard, he had Rabelais’ vast linguistic inventiveness to deal with. He proved an able pupil.

 

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The Translated: ‘Alcofribas Nasier’

 

The list derives from a scene in which that same penis, an object of both wonder and delight, is being dandled by an enthusiastic gaggle of court ladies. So gross a member doubtless merited so extensive a list: ‘One of them would call it her pillicock, her fiddle-diddle, her staff of love, her tickle-gizzard, her gentle-titler. Another, her sugar-plum, her kingo, her old rowley. her touch-trap, her flap dowdle. Another again, her brand of coral, her placket-racket, her Cyprian sceptre, her tit-bit, her bob-lady. And some of the other women would give these names, my Roger, my cockatoo, my nimble-wimble, bush-beater, claw-buttock, evesdropper, pick-lock, pioneer, bully-ruffin, smell-smock, trouble-gusset, my lusty live sausage, my crimson chitterlin, rump-splitter, shove-devil, down right to it, stiff and stout, in and to, at her again, my coney-borrow-ferret. wily-beguiley, my pretty rogue.’

 

Looking at his choice of images, one sees many that would recur in slang’s treatment of the penis: the colour of pink flesh (brand of coral, crimson chitterlin), the idea of consumption whether by vagina or mouth (the crimson chitterlin again, the sugar-plum, live sausage or tit-bit), the idea of the penis as attacking the woman (fiddle-diddle – the fiddle, aside from suggesting interference, is also something upon which the lover ‘plays’), tickle-gizzard, touch-trap, bush-beater, claw-buttock, rump-splitter ) or simply rummaging in her garments  (placket-racket, smell-smock, trouble-gusset – racket, smock and gusset all doubling as garments and genitals in a variety of slang terms); it can come from hell (old rowley, shove-devil, bully-ruffin; whether the sailors who nicknamed the 19th century warship HMS Bellepheron the ‘Bully-Ruffian’ were aware of this is unknown); it can show its shape (Cyprian sceptre, staff of love, stiff and stout), it can be cunning (picklock, pioneer, coney-borrow-ferret, wily-beguiley, my pretty rogue) and simply metonymize the rampant male (down right to it, in and to, at her again). And of course none, none at all actually use the word in question.

 

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The Translation: a 19th century edition with illustrations by Doré

 

It is a wonderful list – and Rabelais/Urquhart produce many similar, and often in the context of the pleasures of sex or food. As noted, a couple of culinary images feature in the penis-list. What Urquhart termed a live sausage, was, and remains in French, an andouille, and he took what Rabelais termed a couille bredouille (literally ‘an empty-handed testicle’), and translated it as a chitterling, properly an animal intestine, another meaty delight and a staple of soul food. Sausages also take centre stage in Book Four of the epic, where over eight chapters the author presents the fantastical history of the satirical War of the Andouilles, in which the army of tripe-stuffed sausages, worshippers of a flying pig, and its allies the ‘savage Blood Sausages and the Mountain Sausages’, combined its literal, gustatory meaning with its penile one, and offered the mix as an attack on Protestantism.

 

Urquhart’s translation was both literal – some of its words already existed – and inventive, a far larger number were his coinages; it was a skill that he had already demonstrated in his Trissotetras, or, A most exquisite table for resolving all manner of triangles (1645) in which of the 200 words he used to ‘simplify’ Pythagoras’ theorem (which had required only 23), the bulk were of his own making.

 

On the level of pure imagery Urquhart’s coinages are not especially exceptional. But in many cases they represent themes that would embed themselves (and in some cases were already embedded) in slang. Meanwhile the subject of his list – the male member, no more, no less, and synonymized to such variegated degrees – was certainly still unique. No slang dictionary – or more properly glossary, since no dictionary of slang proper would appear for another 45 years – had yet approached sex so freely. The 16th century whores and villains whose careers had been itemised in the canting lists obviously had sex, but as regards the bits and bobs, the human giblets required to get the job done, then the canting crew, at least in print, were often as puritan as the establishment they defied. There was jockum for penis and wap for have sex, but little else. That Urquhart was one of that establishment, a member of the Scottish landed gentry and intimate of King Charles I, merely underlines an irony. That Rabelais, the fount of Urquhart’s creativity, was French went without saying: the belief that one had to cross the Channel if one wanted to get that ‘dirty’ stuff uncensored was a truism (if not a truth) that appealed to 17th century Britons as effectively as its always has to their successors.

 

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