You Say Potato Read online

  CONTENTS

  Prologue: At Home With the Crystals

  Introduction: The Sound of Blue

  Question: What is an Accent?

  PART ONE: ACCENT PASSIONS

  Accent Buddies

  What Went Wrong in Birmingham?

  The Rough and the Smooth

  Why Do the Bad Guys Talk Posh?

  PART TWO: ACCENTS PRESENT

  Mapping Accents

  Accent Detectives

  Casting for Accents

  The BBC and the ‘Posh’ RP

  Can you tell – in England?

  A Scottish Player

  Can you tell – in the Celtic fringe?

  Scones, Biscuits, and Star Wars

  Can you tell – abroad?

  PART THREE: ACCENTS PAST

  Where It All Began

  The Shakespeare Sound

  The Shibboleth of Staunton

  PART FOUR: ACCENTS FUTURE

  What Went Wrong in Betelgeuse?

  Accents Living

  Accents Dying

  Ben’s Ep-ee-log

  David’s Ep-i-log

  And About Our Title . . .

  Index

  For Emma P, Jon B, and Cathryn S, without whom . . . And for Momma C/Hilary

  PROLOGUE: AT HOME WITH THE CRYSTALS

  BEN I must have been around sixteen years old when I walked into the house I grew up in and unwittingly dropped a linguistic bombshell.

  As I strolled into the kitchen, slung my school bag down and began to make a cup of tea, my father immediately stopped what he was doing, looked up, and raised his (not inconsiderable) eyebrows.

  I checked about me. There was no original copy of Johnson’s Dictionary on my person, nor did I have one of the fabulously rare original Shakespeare First Folios in my satchel. I was not wearing my To split, or not to split, that is the infinitive . . . T-shirt; I hadn’t left the milk out, or the tea-bag in.

  Clearly, then, I must have said something interesting.

  Dad frowned, like a baffled but not unkindly owl, eyebrows still hovering a few inches above his spectacles. He leaned forward excitedly, as an entomologist might if a beetle had suddenly rolled over onto its back and held aloft a tiny sign which read ‘tickle my tummy’.

  D – What did you say, Ben?

  I shifted uncomfortably as I tried to recall what I’d muttered that had piqued his interest. This, it should be noted, was not a new phenomenon. Over the previous couple of years, I had, it seemed, returned to the house with an assortment of linguistic fascinations, sweetmeats, and chew-toys for my father.

  Wicked – meaning ‘fantastic’ – dominated one family meal. Dark – as a negative happening – compassed an entire weekend. An experiment (when I was twelve) over Sunday lunch with a word whose meaning I wasn’t entirely sure of (‘git’) quickly brought me to the realization that, whatever it meant, it was not complimentary.

  I thought back to what I’d said when I walked in the door, and ran over it again in my head. I couldn’t think what it might be. So I mumbled the whole phrase once more, and, of course, foolishly fell down the rabbit hole.

  – I said, I hate my new school schedule. It’s all doubles, and Frau Schmidt, if that’s her real name, which I doubt—

  D – Schedule?

  I blinked.

  – Yeah. My new schedule.

  D – Schedule?

  – Yeah. Schedule.

  D – Schedule.

  – Daaaad. Schedule.

  This was like taking some sort of lie-detector test, or being grilled by Scientologists. The repetitiveness was beginning to numb my brain.

  D – You mean . . .

  And here the shark showed its teeth.

  D – Shhhhedule?

  – Yeah . . . I said cautiously, aware of the ground starting to slip under my feet. ’S what I said. Schedule, I mumbled.

  D – Ah no, ha, you said skedule.

  – Yeah. Skedule, shedule, Shrewsberry, Shrowsberry, sconn, scown. What’s the diff?

  D – The diff, my boy, he said, getting up to pour me a rather adult-looking glass of wine, is America.

  And then I sat down, and we began talking about why.

  DAVID I have to say it did surprise me when I first heard Ben say ‘skedule’. And I was also surprised to realize that he didn’t realize where his pronunciation had come from. It wasn’t like the two pronunciations of scone or the two of Shrewsbury. They have histories arising out of the way different accents have developed in Britain. No, this was, indeed, one of the first signs that American English pronunciation was beginning to have a long-term impact on British English accents. Because it wasn’t just Ben who was saying this. All his friends were too.

  And, eventually, the rest of my four children. There was an interesting transitional period, somewhere in the early 1990s, when the two eldest ones (a decade older than Ben) were saying ‘shedule’, and the two youngest ones were saying ‘skedule’. But they all say ‘skedule’ now.

  As do I – when I’m talking to them. And when I’m not, I continue to say ‘shedule’, on the whole. So I have two pronunciations of this word in my repertoire these days. My personal speech is a sign of transitional times: the Old Pronunciation World meeting the New.

  Why the early 1990s? In fact, people had begun to use the American pronunciation of this word earlier, but it was sporadic and idiosyncratic, reflecting individual encounters with American English. Any Brits who had spent some time in the US, and who enjoyed the experience, would probably come back with their accent modified in some way. But Ben had never been to the US, and was illustrating something that was affecting a whole generation. What caused that?

  In a word, TV. And especially sitcom TV. Just think of the way in which American sitcoms arrived on British television from the 1950s onwards. The oldest readers of this book will remember I Love Lucy, first aired in 1951. Slightly less old readers will have happy memories of The Munsters, The Monkees, and The Addams Family, all from the sixties. Then the sitcom numbers rapidly grew. Among the most popular in the seventies were The Brady Bunch and M*A*S*H. In the eighties, The Cosby Show and Cheers. As Ben became a teenager, he watched several of these. It was the TV era. The Internet was still a decade away. And then, at the very end of the eighties, the Really Big One: The Simpsons.

  But actually, Ben’s ‘skedule’ couldn’t have come from The Simpsons, as – if the online scripts are to be trusted – none of the characters use that particular word at all in the episodes aired in the first few years of the show. But it does turn up in other series that he was watching at the beginning of the 1990s, such as Northern Exposure. The pilot episode in 1990 sees Joel, a New York doctor newly arrived in a town in Alaska, wanting to leave by bus. Ruth-Ann asks him, ‘Would you like a schedule?’ And we hear the word again a few seconds later when Joel tries to escape from his waiting patients: ‘I have a bus schedule,’ he says. Sked- both times.

  Schedule, of course, is just one of several American pronunciations that have spread around the English-speaking world. Think of anti- rhyming with tie rather than tea, or ate rhyming with late rather than let. Think of the second syllable of tomato sounding like mate rather than maht, or the first syllable of progress with a short ‘o’ (as in hot) rather than a long one (as in oh). Then there are all those words where the stress has shifted from the second syllable to the first, as with address, magazine and research, or the first to the second, as with garage and frontier (as in ‘Space – the Final Frontier’).

  With Star Trek, Friends,1 Frasier, Seinfeld, and many other hugely successful shows following, the spread of American usages among young people was inevitable. But America doesn’t explain the whole story of modern English pronunciation.
In fact, by the time you get to the end of this book, you’ll see that it accounts for only a small part of the extraordinary soundscape that we call ‘English accents’.

  INTRODUCTION: THE SOUND OF BLUE

  BEN Flash forward ten years. This is how it is when you’re recording a voice-over for a TV or radio commercial: you sit in a small, soundproofed booth. There’s water, sometimes a hot drink. A selection of branded pens and pencils. A script, a microphone, perhaps some ambient lighting. A book stand. And a window.

  Through the window, there are lots of people. Quite close to the window is the engineer, who usually remains silent during the session, trying not to roll his eyes. Behind the engineer, on couches, chairs, or just stalking around, are the clients, the marketing department, the director, exec producers, and the advertising company project leaders (all surrounded by magazines, fruit, biscuits, or a ‘quirky’ jar of sweets, and legion empty caffeine delivery devices).

  You have four words printed on the script. You are the voice of a national and international advertising campaign. The four words are, ‘Say hello to tomorrow’.

  You are being paid to say these four words exactly as they sound in the heads of the twenty-two people staring at you on the other side of the glass. Your palms, trying not to sweat, lie flat in front of you on the green cloth3 table top.

  Over the last six months, perhaps a year, these four words have been whittled down from thousands, and They have chosen YOU to bring them to life for, despite being incredibly good at their individual jobs, they have little to no capacity to articulate the sound in their heads into words that are in any way, shape, or form, useful to another sentient being.

  But it’s not YOU, it’s ME, and now they are all beaming those words through the glass towards me, hoping they will fly out of my mouth, through the microphone, into the recording desk and back onto the screen, where the film they have feverishly sculpted waits patiently, each frame perfectly aligned to try to persuade the general public to spend the maximum amount of money on their particular product.

  Sometimes their lips move, the engineer having flicked a switch which stops the sound of their room from entering my headphones, and my knuckles whiten as I try not to let paranoia rise in my stomach: they’re not talking about recasting me, they’re just . . . no, they are probably trying to recast me.

  A click in my ear.

  Exec – Yeah, hi, er, Bill, sorry, Ben, ha, can you er . . . can you just forget it’s raining outside—

  – Raining?

  Exec – Yeah, you sound kinda . . . sad.

  – OK . . .

  Exec – And could you say it more, er, blue.

  – Blue. Like, the colour?

  Another click. Lips. Click.

  Exec – Yeah. Wait. Yeah! Aquamarine.

  – . . .

  Smile.

  – Sure thing. No problem.

  Engineer – Rolling. Take twelve.

  Click. I hear exhalation in the word twelve.

  The onscreen countdown starts, the film rolls, then the background sound finishes, and just before the logo pops up, I take a deep breath, and hold it – so the take doesn’t have the sound of my breath in it – and—

  Pause. Let me explain. There are two ways I can solve this particular problem of how, in the next four seconds, to turn the way that I said four words a minute ago into a completely different way for the twelfth time, while following the note of ‘Aquamarine’, while trying to figure out how on earth twenty-two opinions have coalesced into ‘More blue’. Thanks to the somewhat passive-aggressive mention of the weather outside, I’m pretty sure they don’t mean ‘depressed’, which worryingly means they want me to convey actual colour with the tone of my voice.

  I have two main options here – three, if you count hiding under the desk.4 The first is to vary the register, deepen my voice maybe, think of a happy seascape – azure by white sand, wooden tables sinking into dunes – close my eyes, smile . . .

  Or I could do the second, I could think of home, the coast of Wales, and bring a different colour5 or character into my voice. This naturally happens when I speak in the accent of my home, or my university county of Lancashire, or Somerset, or London, or any of the accents that, by this relatively early point in my acting career, I had mastered. I made a choice. Stuck with my natural RP accent.

  Say hello to tomorrow.

  I held my breath again.

  Lips.

  Click.

  Engineer – OK, you’re done.

  – Yeah, we’re done?

  Engineer – . . . Yep.

  – Great. I’ll come out.

  I’m so fired.

  Exec – Thank you so much, perfect. Got there in the end.

  – Aw! Thanks all!

  Yep. Definitely didn’t give them what they wanted. I did a blocky, solid wave to the room at large – I had not been introduced to anyone when I arrived, only told to go sit in the booth – so even this desultory, soundproofed farewell seemed futile, not that anyone was looking in my direction.

  For the whole of the previous year, my accent – the particular blend of place and experience that makes me – well, me – had been the sound of ‘tomorrow’. Whatever magic these people heard in my voice fitted their work and dreams perfectly – and then, just like that, the campaign no longer suited my type of ‘blue’, which is the simple, cold-hearted nature of showbiz, ladles and jelly spoons.

  So yeah. The next day, I totally did get fired from the gig. C’est la vie.

  Like scones and clotted cream in Devon, or wasps in a summer London pub, accents are all around us, everywhere we go. They’re among the most personal parts of ourselves that we show to the world, revealing our life history and experiences to date simply by the way we sound our speech.

  In my work as an actor, voice-over artist, or producer of Shakespeare, accents come up a lot – and with a linguist father and speech-therapist mother, when I head home to North Wales it’s often a tea-time conversation.6 How are they used? Why do we have them?

  Accents lie at the heart of what makes us human. We can use make-up or get plastic surgery to look different, and our choice of clothes sends an incredibly strong signal about how we’d like everyone else to perceive us. When I wear a suit, I’m businesslike; I wear jeans and a hoodie in a cafe on a Wednesday afternoon, I’m a creative; sandals and a smile on the beach (trunks too – it’s not that sort of beach) show I’m comfortable with my body. A burqa, a kilt, tattoos, or glasses – they all tell different stories of our lives.

  But an accent is a personality flag that we all fly with brighter colours than any garment, and most of us can do little to hide it. They make us who we are, and can influence the way we think – something advertising account managers, listening out for exactly the right shade of blue, know all too well.

  The technical term for my base accent – the one I use without thinking – is ‘modified RP’, a slightly rougher version of Received Pronunciation, the classic ‘BBC’ English accent that we’ll meet properly later in this book. I was born in Ascot, raised near Reading, and grew up in North Wales.7Then I went to Lancaster University, so I also have their short ‘a’ in my accent (I say bath as often as I say baaaath).

  Then Lahndan to train as an actuh, so there’s a bit o’ the ol’ Cockney in me pipes too. And I travel a fair bit, with a bunch of friends in the States, so my accent has a bit of a transadlandic quality to it, as I ‘flap’ my ts making them sound like ds. I often tell my dawg to seddle down while I boil the keddle. So my modified RP is very much a mongrel accent, which will randomly slip its leash and head off into a different part of the world.

  Despite my accent being somewhat autonomous, it’s mine and I’m fiercely protective of it. It’s me. Once – and only once – I made the foolish mistake of correcting someone, a girl, my girlfriend, on the way she pronounced something8 – it’s as personal a comment as any I know.

  I remember it beginning to change into this accent mishmash. I’m awa
re that at some point in my twenties I started saying conCRETE, instead of the British CONcrete, and sometimes, yes, even adverTISEment instead of adVERtisement – a litmus test if ever there was one of which side of the Atlantic you were raised, sorry, brought up.

  Back in the nineteenth century it was the absolute norm to talk about the thing Juliet looks out from, and Romeo tries to climb, as a

  bal-COH-ny

  and some people hated the fact that there were IDIOTS who would pronounce it

  BAL-con-y

  but eventually the standard pronunciation changed. Such knee-jerk judgements of others form a big part of what this book is about. These vocal-melodic shifts or changes in stress patterns occur all the time. As groups of people splinter and travel to different land masses, a change slowly rumbles to the surface of common usage as they attempt to demonstrate their individuality from their country of origin. Judgement of how they sound is a natural follow-on.

  But while this book looks at what our accents say about us – and what they say about others – it is also a geographical tour through the English-speaking world, and a journey back in time to learn more about why we speak the way we do.

  We’ll look at what accents have to say about social status, and the rise of ‘Received Pronunciation’ – the ‘posh’, stereotypically British accent.

  We’ll look at how Shakespeare might have actually pronounced the lines from his own plays, and share some of the excitement of producing his work in OP – Original Pronunciation – for the first time in centuries.

  And we’ll also look at the increasing dominance of American English, and the question of whether our beloved local accents will eventually die out.

  But before we get there, we need to confront the elephant in the room and set down what an accent actually is. And for that, I need m’father, Professor David Crystal. This book is about accents, and while accents do form a large part of my art, this is Dad’s craft.

  Over to you, Pops.

  QUESTION: WHAT IS AN ACCENT?

  DAVID As Ben’s suggested, the heart of the answer is the notion that accents express our identity – who we are, which part of the country we come from, or where we belong socially or professionally. And identity is a very emotional issue.