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in 1944, said: “I can’t understand how they have got into such dire straits”’ – The Mail on Sunday (2 April 1995).

      dirt See AGE BEFORE.

      dirty See DOM.

      dirty work at the crossroads Meaning ‘despicable behaviour; foul play’ (in any location), this is mostly a Hollywood idiom but not quite a cliché. The earliest film citation found is from Flying Down to Rio (US 1933), although P. G. Wodehouse had it in the book Man Upstairs in 1914 and Walter Melville, a 19th-century melodramist, is said to have had it in The Girl Who Took the Wrong Turning, or, No Wedding Bells for Him (no date). A Notes and Queries discussion of the phrase in 1917 threw up the view that it might have occurred in a music-hall sketch of the 1880s and that the chief allusion was to the activities of highwaymen. Brewer (1999) suggests that it might have something to do with the old custom of burying people at crossroads. ‘Why couch it in arcane, ridiculous questions? If you think there is dirty work at the crossroads, say so. Don’t shilly shally, don’t ask the minister concerned what information he possesses about what may have occurred at the crossroads on such and such a date’ – Peter McKay, Evening Standard (London) (13 July 1994); ‘Miss Downs’s withdrawal upset the congregation. “This was dirty work at the crossroads and gross discrimination of the worst kind,” a man who attended the service, but refused to take communion, said yesterday’ – The Independent (5 August 1994).

      (the) discreet charm of the bourgeoisie A tantalizing title devised by the writer/director Luis Buñuel (1900–83) for his France/Spain/Italy film (1972). In its original French: Le charme discret de la bourgeoisie. In his native Spanish: El discreto encanto de la burgesía.

      discumknockerating See HOW TICKLED I.

      (to) discuss Ugandan affairs To have sexual intercourse. In Private Eye No. 293 (9 March 1973), there appeared a gossip item that launched this euphemism: ‘I can reveal that the expression “Talking about Uganda” has acquired a new meaning. I first heard it myself at a fashionable party given recently by media-people Neal and Corinna Ascherson. As I was sipping my Campari on the ground floor I was informed by my charming hostess that I was missing out on a meaningful confrontation upstairs where a former cabinet colleague of President Obote was “talking about Uganda”. Eager, as ever, to learn the latest news from the Dark Continent I rushed upstairs to discover the dusky statesman “talking about Uganda” in a highly compromising manner to vivacious former features editor, Mary Kenny…I understand that “Long John” and Miss Kenny both rang up later to ascertain each other’s names.’ Later, references to ‘Ugandan practices’ or ‘Ugandan discussions’ came to be used – though probably not far beyond the readership of Private Eye. In a letter to The Times (13 September 1983), Corinna Ascherson (now signing herself Corinna Adam) identified the coiner of the phrase as the poet and critic James Fenton. Richard Ingrams (editor of Private Eye at the time) added the interesting footnote in The Observer (2 April 1989) that the original Ugandan was ‘a one-legged former Minister in President Obote’s Government. When the New Statesman found out that the Eye was going to refer to the incident, representations were made to the effect that the Minister, on the run from Obote, would be in danger if identified. The detail of the wooden leg was therefore omitted, but the expression passed into the language.’ As a further footnote, Nicholas Wollaston wrote to The Observer (9 April 1989) and pointed out that the one-legged performer wasn’t on the run from President Obote but ‘the much-loved chairman of the Uganda Electricity Board, also of the Uganda Red Cross, and an exile for seven years from the tyranny of Idi Amin. When he died in 1986,…a memorial service at St Martin-in-the-Fields was packed with his friends, among them several who remembered their discussions on Uganda with him, the artificial limb notwithstanding, with much pleasure.’

      diseases See DESPERATE.

      disgusted, Tunbridge Wells When it was announced in February 1978 that a Radio 4 programme was to be launched with the title Disgusted, Tunbridge Wells (providing a platform for listeners’ views on broadcasting), there was consternation in the Kent township (properly, Royal Tunbridge Wells). The title was intended to evoke the sort of letter fired off to the press between the wars when the writer did not want to give his/her name and so signed ‘Mother of Three’, ‘Angry Ratepayer’, ‘Serving Policeman’, etc. Tunbridge Wells has long been held as the source of reactionary, blimpish views. Derek Robinson, the presenter of the programme, while disliking its title, commented (1989): ‘Why Tunbridge Wells was considered to be stuffier than, say, Virginia Water or Maidenhead, I don’t know. It’s just one of those libels, like tight-fisted Aberdeen, that some places get lumbered with.’ The Kent Courier (24 February 1978) reported the ‘disgust’ that the ‘Disgusted’ label had stirred up in the town. Some people interviewed thought the tag had originated with Richard Murdoch in the BBC radio show Much Binding in the Marsh in which ‘he made much use of his connections with the town’ and was always mentioning it. Frank Muir confirmed, however, in 1997, that ‘Disgusted Tunbridge Wells’ was the name of a character played by Wallas Eaton – with an outraged tone of voice – in Take It from Here (1948–59). Can the phrase ever have been seriously used outside the confines of that programme? Earlier citations are lacking.

      dish See CAN DISH IT.

      ditchwater See DULL AS.

      diver See DON’T FORGET.

      divide and rule A way of overcoming opposition – by breaking it down and then conquering it. Originally expressed in Latin: divide et impera. Philip of Macedon and Louis XI of France are among the many who have subscribed to it, but Machiavelli is generally credited with having popularized the maxim.

      divine discontent Dissatisfaction with life as it is but which can give rise to hope. Most often used in a religious context and frequently attributed to St Augustine who does not, however, appear to have used the phrase, although at the start of his Confessions he did write: ‘Thou awakest us to delight in Thy praise; for Thou madest us for Thyself, and our heart is restless, until it repose in Thee.’ The earliest citation to hand is from Charles Kingsley in a pamphlet Health and Education (1874): ‘To be discontented with the divine discontent, and to be ashamed with the noble shame, is the very germ and first upgrowth of all virtue.’ There is a ‘divine despair’ in Tennyson’s The Princess (1847). ‘[Of Mole] Spring was moving in the air above and in the earth below and around him, penetrating even his dark and lowly little house with its spirit of divine discontent and longing’ – Kenneth Grahame, The Wind In the Willows, Chap. 1 (1908).

      dizzy heights Meaning, ‘a position of success’ (while hinting at its dangers). Date of origin unknown. A cliché by the mid-20th century. Sometimes used nonfiguratively: ‘Steel-erectors…walk along girders at dizzy heights as though they were strolling along Piccadilly’ – Radio Times (25 July 1958); ‘But with Saints on a roll, Ball dearly wants to climb even further from their dizzy heights of eighth spot, Everton will find it tough’ – Daily Mirror (8 October 1994); ‘Poor Kylie’s having a tough time. Her new single entered the charts at the dizzy heights of number 17, the Virgin 1215 poster campaign screaming “We’ve done something to improve Kylie’s songs. Banned them” started, and now she’s being sued over her last single “Confide In Me”’ – Daily Record (26 November 1994); ‘If the comparisons are extreme it is because England’s cricket has had so little to commend it, or to truly excite its audience, that the dizzy heights of Gough’s daring retaliation deserved exaggeration’ – The Daily Telegraph (3 January 1995).

      (to) do a Thomas à Becket This phrase is used to suggest a possible course of action, in a general sense, that is then interpreted by others more positively than might have been the speaker’s actual intention. King Henry II’s rhetorical question regarding Thomas à Becket, ‘Will no man rid me of this turbulent priest?’ (which was acted upon by the Archbishop’s murderers in 1170) is ascribed to ‘oral

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