This week, we traverse the lexicon landscape of the Second World War, unearthing the hidden treasures of word origins. Join us as Susie & Gyles unveil the remarkable tales behind wartime vocabulary, and reveal the extraordinary evolution of words shaped by the tumultuous era.



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Enjoy Susie’s Trio for the week: 



Niminy piminy: Feeble

Scringe: To screw up the face

Slapsauce: A glutton



Gyles' poem this week was 'Slough' by John Betjeman



Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough!

It isn't fit for humans now,

There isn't grass to graze a cow.

Swarm over, Death!

Come, bombs and blow to smithereens

Those air -conditioned, bright canteens,

Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans,

Tinned minds, tinned breath.



Mess up the mess they call a town-

A house for ninety-seven down

And once a week a half a crown

For twenty years.



And get that man with double chin

Who'll always cheat and always win,

Who washes his repulsive skin

In women's tears:



And smash his desk of polished oak

And smash his hands so used to stroke

And stop his boring dirty joke

And make him yell.



But spare the bald young clerks who add

The profits of the stinking cad;

It's not their fault that they are mad,

They've tasted Hell.



It's not their fault they do not know

The birdsong from the radio,

It's not their fault they often go

To Maidenhead



And talk of sport and makes of cars

In various bogus-Tudor bars

And daren't look up and see the stars

But belch instead.



In labour-saving homes, with care

Their wives frizz out peroxide hair

And dry it in synthetic air

And paint their nails.



Come, friendly bombs and fall on Slough

To get it ready for the plough.

The cabbages are coming now;

The earth exhales.



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