There’s a fascinating new book, Hitler’s British Traitors, by Tim Tate. Subtitled The Secret History of Spies, Saboteurs and Fifth Columnists and out in September, it details the very many British Nazi fellow travellers, from the aristocracy downwards, or indeed upwards.
One such was a self-described author called James Lonsdale-Bryans, who on two occasions tried to meet Hitler directly. MI5 considered him to be guilty of a serious offence, yet one Foreign Office mandarin saw it otherwise. “I should very much like to see Mr Lonsdale-Bryans detained, but the position is very delicate and it is I think certain that were he detained he would peach on the Foreign Office and his story would be all over the country.”
I don’t think I’ve heard peach - to inform on an accomplice – since long ago last century, yet it is such a good word that I would be glad if it were to re-enter the language. After all, we lose so many good words: “scurryfunge” (“a hasty tidying of the house between the time you see a neighbour coming and the time she knocks on the door”); “shivviness” (“the uncomfortable feeling of wearing new underwear”); “jingle-boy” (a rich man or someone who has enough coins in their pocket to jingle as they walk). And all they are replaced by are ghastly weasel words – issues, endgames, journeys, behaviours, heads up, values – you know the sort of thing.
Meanwhile, I see that Facebook is still running its full page ads in the papers, with the slogan: “Fake news is not our friend.” That has all the worth and impact of the phrase used by older people chiding recalcitrant children with “We’re not at home to Mr Grumpy”, which has probably now fallen into desuetude. And has desuetude itself gone for a burton?
• Jonathan Bouquet is an Observer columnist
