If you decided to tune into the election debates this week, you might find the etymology of the word “arena” rather appropriate. The word comes directly from the Latin for “sand”, thanks to the need for copious amounts of the stuff in Roman amphitheatres to soak up the blood of the gladiators.
Modern political arenas may be shiny and sand-free, but their contests can be savage, and the result is still a thumbs-up or thumbs-down from the crowd if not the emperor. Beyond the bafflegab and the bombast, the rhetoric of elections tells us that campaigning has never been for the faint-hearted.
That word “campaign” was also born in martial times. For the Romans, campania represented the open countryside, where armies would practise their military manoeuvres. The most famous was the Campus Martius, or Field of Mars, in Rome. It may be a far cry from the studios of Salford and London, but the intention of enemy annihilation is just the same.
Thankfully, modern campaigns stick to the raising of voices rather than swords, and platforms are all important. In the absence of TikTok and Instagram, the ancestors of today’s politicians got on their soap boxes by finding a literal crate to stand on.
Equally, a politician “on the stump” would improvise by standing on the stump of a tree. A cynic might liken such makeshift podiums to those of the “mountebanks” at medieval markets, who would mount a “bank” or bench to display their fake potions to the throng.
Similarly shady is the practice of “gerrymandering“, the manipulation of electoral boundaries that is traditionally associated with US politics, but which has now spread its wings to the UK. Semi-literally, in fact, because half of “gerrymandering” belongs to a fantastical creature that was half-man, half-lizard, with fangs and wings added for good measure.
The term was coined when Elbridge Gerry, governor of Massachusetts in 1812, created a new voting district that appeared to favour his party. Since the shape of this new district vaguely resembled the outline of a salamander, a satirical map appeared in a newspaper with the caption The Gerry-Mander. (Should you fancy another amphibious metaphor, going to the “polls” involves, linguistically, an old word for “scalp” – it is a literal headcount, one that shares its story with the “tadpole”, literally a “toad-head”.)
It’s tempting to assume that such antics are a relatively recent phenomenon, but here again the historical dictionary can be instructive. Our political “candidates” rest on the Latin word candidus, “white”, because those running for public office would whiten their togas with chalk to imply purity of heart. Even the word “ambition” was born in politics: those same hopefuls would walk around (the Latin ambire) and press as many citizens’ hands as possible in order to secure their vote.
Elsewhere, the vocabulary of electioneering is a little more whimsical. Borrowings from the stateside lexicon include “pork-barrelling“, the use of government funds for projects designed to win votes. The simple idea is of a barrel used to keep back a reserve supply of meat. As opposed to going the whole hog, presumably, though that might seem more fitting as one party vies to out-promise the other every minute.
We might also consider filching from our transatlantic cousins the word “boondoggle”, defined in the dictionary as “an unnecessary, wasteful, or fraudulent project”. In a speech from 1936, President Theodore Roosevelt offered the nation a surprising strategy for the toughest of economic times: “If we can ‘boondoggle’ ourselves out of this depression, that word is going to be enshrined in the hearts of the American people for years to come.”
Roosevelt’s dream focused on the positive side of small things that collectively made a difference: the first “boondoggles” were strips of leather worn as Boy Scouts’ neckerchiefs. If only it were that easy. Inevitably, it didn’t take long before boondoggling turned into an enormous sinkhole and something that a politician must always detect in the opposition and never in themselves. Strangely, the word has yet to make distinct inroads in the UK, even though the Big Brexit Boondoggle has a certain ring to it.
Of course, our linguistic tastes are nothing if not changeable. It can be hard to predict which labels will stick and which will slide down the political wall. And not all are equal. While Boris and bike proved to be a successful coupling, their namesake might not be quite so pleased with continuing references to the Brexit bus. (While we’re at it, a “circumbendibus” usefully describes something that goes round and round without ever getting to the point).
As a result of events this week, “£2,000 tax” is fast becoming an unexpected takeaway, alongside endless memes from The Thick of It, Rishi Sunak’s tour of the Titanic Quarter (arguably even damper than election announcement day) and Ed Davey’s outdoor pursuits.
But if language teaches us anything, it is that everything is circular. When the stumps and soap boxes are put away and the winners step up to the proper rostrum, they will once again be looking over their shoulders at ancient Rome.
“Rostrum” comes from the Latin for “beak”, since the platforms for public speakers in the Forum were decorated with the beakheads of captured warships. Whatever spoils of victory are gathered on 4 July, the chances are the emperor may finally be wearing new clothes.
Susie Dent is a lexicographer and etymologist. She has appeared in Dictionary Corner on Countdown since 1992, and co-hosts with Gyles Brandreth the podcast Something Rhymes with Purple