In my Wordplay article last December, I mentioned Gustave Flaubert's Dictionnaire des Ides Reues, which consisted of definitions of hackneyed expressions and thoughts (such as Weather, eternal topic of conversation').

Flaubert was not the first person to use the dictionary format to express his personal opinions about prevailing ideas.

Samuel Johnson famously betrayed his prejudices in some of the definitions he wrote for his Dictionary (1755). The best-known is probably Oats, a grain, which in England is generally given to horses, but in Scotland supports the people.' Other notorious Johnsonian definitions include Lexicographer, a writer of dictionaries, a harmless drudge' and Patron, commonly a wretch who supports with insolence and is paid with flattery.' The American satirist Ambrose Bierce compiled The Devil's Dictionary, which contains many such ironical definitions. He defines patriotism as Combustible rubbish ready for the torch of anyone ambitious to illumine his name,' and patience as a minor form of despair, disguised as a virtue.' Irony is an invaluable ingredient in concocting new definitions, as in Bernard Rosenberg's Dictionary for the Disenchanted (1972), which defines credibility gap as The growing suspicion that once in a while the Administration may not be lying' and foreign aid as Taxing poor people in rich countries for the benefit of rich people in poor countries.' Beachcomber (alias J. B. Morton) suggested these new definitions: Arctic conditions, a cold day in England' and No exit, a sign indicating the most convenient way out of a building.' The literary competitions in such magazines as the New Statesman and the Spectator often challenge readers to devise new definitions for existing words. One such competition asked readers to supply definitions of sports, which produced: Golf: a pitch n' sink drama.

Boxing: the sport of dukes.

Whippet racing: the curse of the working classes.

Weight-lifting: careless rupture.

These redefinitions of existing words and phrases are often known as Daft Definitions' or Daffy Definitions' (or Daffynitions), and they frequently depend upon puns. Here are some of my favourites: Travelogue: a dug-out canoe.

Hamlet: a baby pig.

Stalemate: your spouse.

Champagne: malingering.

Servile: a nasty knight.

Boomerang: what you say to frighten a meringue.

The Radio 4 series I'm Sorry I Haven't a Clue has come up with such definitions as these: Gripe: what Australians make wine from.

MacAdam: the first Scotsman.

Stucco: hitherto unknown Marx Brother.

Carpentry: a way in for ornamental fish.

When I noticed the Nursing Times was printing punning definitions of medical terms (eg Dilate, to live long), I sent them these suggestions: Anaesthetic: Oscar Wilde.

Gallstone: it annoys Tony.

Vaseline: an inscription on a Greek vase.

Testicle: an exploratory tickle.

The most impressive definitions are those that cleverly sum up a word, such as Journalist, a pitiable wretch who writes with his editor's tongue in his cheek' and Pessimist, one who, being told that we live in the best of all possible worlds, fears that is true.' A more punchy definition of pessimist is someone who fears the best,' reminding us that the best new definitions are often the most concise. Ambrose Bierce hit the target with Twice, once too often.' Such aphoristic definitions are often salted by witty punning, as in Cold storage, a handkerchief' and Incense, holy smoke.' Why not create your own new definitions? One possibility is to try defining the names of trades or professions, giving results like: Statistician: someone who counts for a lot.

Milkman: one who crates a disturbance.

Dentist: someone who is often down in the mouth.

Feminist: a woman who never fails to hit the male on the head.

Childminder: someone who doesn't mind children.

The most wonderful new definitions are probably those that are downright perverse or totally daffy, like Bricklayer, confused chicken' and Height, depth upside down.' When I was a youngster, I loved the ramblings of a contributor to the Saturday Evening Post who called himself Colonel Stoopnagle. His weird explanations included A clock is something they have in an office, so you can tell how late you wish you weren't in the morning, what time to go out to lunch before and come back after, and how long before you can start stopping work by stalling along until.' Perhaps Colonel Stoopnagle's masterpiece was his dissertation on a circle: No wonder they call it a circle it is so round! Notice how the inside comes precisely to the line and not one whit farther. And how the outside can't possibly get in. No corners is one of the principal things about a circle. An oval has no corners, too, but they are not nearly as no corners as a circle has. Circles are nice because we can go around in them. Hardly anybody ever goes around in squares. Every single place on the outside of a circle is the same distance from the centre as every other place. You can't say that about a parallelopiped.'

Tony Augarde is the author of The Oxford Guide to Word Games (OUP, £14.99) and The Oxford A to Z of Word Games (OUP, £4.99).