Two Chaps Talking

Greetings, M’old Cock Sparrer,

Sorry to be a bit remiss in correspondence recently. I can only attribute it to what Hilaire Belloc memorably refers to as…

“…The new and dread,
Necessity of earning bread.”

This has not, however, kept me from my fearless quest to find something new to moan about every fortnight. Oh dear me, No.

You may feel, with some justification that the whole ‘Two nations divided by a common language’ trope is ground well-worked to the point of sterility. You may feel that the POTUS’s baroque mispronunciation and malapropism is the last word in verbal carnage; but, dear old chum, I propose to prove you wrong.

I speak of the most profoundly annoying epidemic to ever sweep an English speaking nation. Yes… Irritable Vowel Syndrome.

In the past months, for reasons too disheartening to restate, we have heard many American ‘commentators’ hold forth on foreign affairs. This, unfortunately for them and ultimately their listeners, often involves the use of foreign (or as Dubya pronounces it ‘Furn’) words.

Why is it, when Americans with any degree of sophistication at all attempt to pronounce foreign words, they strangle the vowels? Let me give you an example.

There is a city in the Northern part of Italy which the residents call ‘Milano’. It is famous for clothes, cars, and a certain unpretentiousness of ambience which has caused it to be compared with Wolverhampton. With admirable directness, the residents pronounce the name of their city much as it is spelt. ‘Milano’. If there is any embellishment it is perhaps a light stress on the second syllable and a flattening of the ‘o’. Nothing too disturbing.

The English, fond of northern Italy as watering hole and holiday destination since the days of the Grand Tour, have, in their brusque and simple way, anglicised this by the removal of the characteristic Italian ‘o’ to produce ‘Milan’ - pronounced, naturally enough, ‘Milan’.

There are Americans well travelled enough to know of Italy as something other than the home of the pizza; there are a few who are aware that there is fashion beyond the boundaries of the J C Penney’s spreading empire; there are even some who understand that there are cars more elegant than the grotesque and bloated domestic SUV. If such an American knows of the city, he will, without fail, call it ….

‘M’Lon’ or ‘M’Lonno’.

Why?

Pasta, with two equal, balanced short ‘a’s is good enough for the Italians and the English. Why must Americans order ‘Paaasta’ or even, God help us, in the most egregious of cases ‘Posta’?

I’m searching my keyboard for a symbol ugly enough to express the sound. It’s a kind of elongated nasal honking. Here’s one ‘Ø’. Let’s call it a ‘Hank’, which we, perhaps should pronounce ‘honk’ and therefore spell ‘HØnk’.

Tremendous. What a service we have done to the literate English speaking world. Now we have the hØnk, we can happily travel to MilØn for a steaming bowl of pØsta. We could perhaps have it dressed with a cilØntro beurre blØnc - just to prove that this isn’t some kind of insidious anti-Italian predjudice and that we won’t let the Mexicans or French off lightly either. Marvellous. Now we’ve dined, we can get on with the more serious business of ruining PrØgue by overrunning it with dreary, honking undergraduates on a year off from some half-baked ‘University’ in a blighted Mid-western sump and maybe, once that’s done we can invade IrØn.

Of course, the world’s greatest superpower is aware of this inadequacy and, now I have gone to the dark side and entered the world of spin and PR I can tell you exactly how they are mounting their defence.

Look at this article, found in today’s Telegraph and, God help us, on the BBC website

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/health/3235934.stm

Headlined ‘Stroke gives American Woman British Accent’ the story tells how a Mrs Tiffany Roberts (61) suffered a stroke four years ago and has since spoken in a strange mixture of ‘English Cockney and West Country’.

Need I add that Mrs Roberts is ‘Born and bred in Indiana’ and is pictured in a baseball cap.

Fortunately a ‘Dr Jack Ryalls of the University of Central Florida’
Was on hand to identify ‘Foreign Language Syndrome’. (Praise a bountiful God that he has blessed us with academics of such casually innovative brilliance).

See what I mean? Classic CIA PsyOps technique. See how the story is spun to indicate that only the brain damaged could possibly speak with a British accent? A blinding piece of logic that would naturally mean that George W. Bush would sound like a Bertie Wooster introducing a Requiem Mass for a minor Royal on Radio 3.

We know the truth of course. When I lived in the Outer Banks of North Carolina, where we originally landed, I was thrilled to find the residents speaking an almost untainted C17th English; obviously the natural mother tongue. Over the years, Americans have evolved a growth around the speech centres of the brain. This takes the form of a large, pulsating, cauliflower shaped lump, tanned to leathery toughness by cathode rays. It is this, allied to the deleterious effects of toxic burger fat on the muscles of the tongue and of air conditioning on the larynx that causes the characteristic quacking, whining drawl.

This lucky woman has clearly had her growth damaged by the stroke and is in the fortunate position of returning to a natural way of speaking. I, for one, would be in favour of offering her citizenship if only we could find somewhere to park her trailer.

Well, as they say over there… Whatever.

T

Posted by T at 09:11 PM | Permalink

Mon vieux,

We won, I gather. Not having stayed conscious beyond four in many years I was unable to enjoy the action live and direct so it was via the World Service that I got the news the following morning. Furthermore I'm told it was all done with courtesy and respect both on and off the pitch. But then it is famously a hooligans game played by gentlemen, as opposed to footie which is different.

And the I-i-C's sightseeing tour involving empty streets and paid 'locals' passed off without incident. Not even his storm-troopers managed to ruin the party by having a pop at passing innocents. Thank heavens they weren't allowed to bring the tank they wanted. I think the protest employed by veterans of the Second Little Unpleasantness during a recent visit was perhaps the way forward. Fill the streets with your brothers, shoulder to shoulder stand to attention, and when the offender passes simply turn your backs. Dignified and unequivocal.

With crowds of Englishmen so much on the wireless I am reminded of an incident from my murky past where I'm afraid to say I might have misjudged the lumpen proletariat.

Resplendent in quiet grey herringbone and black kid gloves, surrounded by acres of Connolly hide, Axminster and walnut, I was guiding my old '68 four seater through the narrow and winding streets of Mayfair when what do you know? The lovely old thing decided to have a rest and ceased to function in any useful way. Hilariously we were of course in a narrow but extremely popular street and, need I add, in the cross hairs of a super junction.

Unused to physical exertion, not since retiring prematurely from the rugger pitch anyway, I sat still and considered my options;
i) Get out and make an effort to push via the open driver's door (fine for a Mini but something of a strain in a two-ton midnight blue Sovereign).
ii) Get out and try to look approachable in the hope that a ganger and his lads would take pity and give me a shove.
iii) Allow my rarely more than half-open eyes to close gently and join the motor in a much-needed snooze.
iv) Run.

Horns were being honked, fists were being shaken, white vans were being revved. Things weren't looking good and I was on the point of choosing a rapid exit strategy when would you Adam it, four hundred footer hooligans emerged from a nearby alleyway and swarmed across the street.

Ah well, at least attention would be diverted and perhaps during the ensuing riot I could make good my escape thence to issue a wonderfully creative invoice to Lloyds of London to replace the concours condition vintage pearl that would by then be a smoking pile of twisted metal.

Unless they took it upon themselves to give me a thrashing. Oo-er. Was I wearing anything that might suggest allegiance to the opposition? Had I the right cut of jib? Could I claim hooligan credibility for my head-kicking brogues?

I wound down the window to asses the situation, much like Sir Percy probably did when spiriting away damsels in distress. A break in the throng appeared. Now. Now. Run. I opened the door. But the gap had allowed them to get a good look at my situ.

'Look,' said one of their many-headed number, pointing at me with his sharp implement.

Oh god, now I was for the high jump. Turning my motorised gentleman's club over would be a challenge, but one they were well known for rising to.

'It's Inspector Morse. Huh huh huh. Look. Inspector Morse.'

Oh ha ha. Very droll. I smirked to myself, shot my cuffs and dropped my eyelids the fraction that indicates mild friendly insouciance rather than punchable condescension. So now in addition to my ignominious retreat I would be subjected to cat calls and base mockery.

'Ere Baz, Maz, Taz and Laz,' the word spread through the M-H, 'Get up the back and give the Inspector a push.'

Coventry's Finest miraculously began to advance and continued until we were safely ensconced in a pub car-park entirely out of harm's way.

'There you go Inspector. Say 'ullo to Lewis. Huh huh huh.'

I actively considered distributing fivers with largesse but the mob had moved on and I was left alone. A narrow escape one would think. Such occasions can often go extremely pear-shaped. The motor in which I so enjoyed spending time could have become my final resting place. Not the worst place to go but you want at least to be doing a ton over the White Cliffs with an enemy spy in the boot thus saving the nation.

But no. I had mis-judged the mob. They had been courteous, helpful and mildly amusing. I rang the Royal Automobile Club to summon their foremost team of oily grease monkeys.

As much as I praise the efforts of these chaps who motor out to fix your two-or-four-seater in rain or shine I must say that their tendency to explain what's wrong is baffling. Do I now or have I ever struck you as someone to whom the engine of a motor car is anything of interest? Can you make a drink of it? Can you wear it in polite company? Would it be appropriate decoration for one's study? Nay, nay and thrice nay.

So there I was some hours later nodding sagely at the rear-end of the man from the Royal Automobile Club as from under the bonnet he explained that my diff wasn't sprocketing the main under-cog, or something. I was on the point of doing a bunk and leaving him to it when the inn erupted and the many-headed began to spew forth, fully charged and ready for gladiatorial action. Seeing their approach and apparent interest in our plight the man from the RAC hastily went round the back and stuck his head in the boot, there to conceal himself and poke around usefully.

I on the other hand crossed my arms and leaned casually against the front of the car for unlike the combat-jumpered-and-bereted mechanic I knew the drill. The rules clearly state that having been offered help previously I was now under the mob's protection. I smiled indulgently and chose a point in the middle distance on which to rest my benevolent gaze.

But we weren't in the clear yet.

'Ere mate,' said a wag seeing the RAC man's derriere protruding from the capacious boot.

'The engine's in the front. Huh huh huh.'

The rolling guffaws echoed round the car park and stayed with us long after the hooligans were chasing their opposite numbers up the high street with murderous intent.

So you see old love, surprised at the crowds behaviour in London and in Sydney I was not. As you yourself pointed out, there is surely some good in any man who wears a Crombie and shaves his head.

Once more unto the throng,

S.

Posted by S at 10:34 PM | Permalink

Dear Fellow,

Fortunately I am an adept of the dark arts technological and am able to prescribe the solution in a trice.

1. Ensure that the machine is unplugged and fully powered down.

2. Insert CD marked ‘Faure’s Requiem’ in nearest slot and raise volume to comfortable level.

3. Use ‘Explore’ function to find your most comfortable chair.

4. Run ‘Improving Book’ software. You might also want to boot up a Martini.

5. Many people find that a correctly chilled Martini glass can leave rings on polished walnut; this need not bother you as the strategically placed carcass of your Fujimaka Lapmaster 8000 will make a capital coaster.

And now on to weightier matters. Christmas is nearly upon us with all its attendant awfulnesses. Chief among these is the feculent herd of provincials that clog our streets in their annual feeding frenzy. Having spent the year earning a pittance in regional offices of paper product and pet food companies they feel an atavistic tug toward Oxford Street where they can be robbed of every penny in exchange for obsolescent tat and gargantuan soft toys with needle for eyes.

But the danger is far more than a simple aesthetic outrage of the cultured eye. I ask you to take another pull at that agreeable malt and to allow your mind to drift back to an asbestos Nissen hut just below the Junior Playground. Close your eyes, breathe deeply through the nose and imagine, if you will, a cold spring morning and a double period with R.D.F. Williams for I must speak of physics.

The brain, as we know from much research, is an organ that develops or atrophies according to use: ‘use it or lose it’ in the current parlance. With this as our starting point we can begin to infer the state of the provincial brain. Let us take, for example, a forty-year-old male subject from Yeovil or Sunderland. A cursory perusal of his appearance tells us he is untroubled by thoughts of fashionable dress or appearance. The fact that he is consulting an A to Z, upside down, shows that he has no knowledge of the topography of the city and the appearance and demeanour of his wife indicates that he is little troubled by thoughts of beauty or, indeed, any pride.

Following this inexorable chain of logic we must conclude that the provincial brain is, in fact caverned with voids. As his skull is of normal proportions, RDF points out, we must assume that his brain is…?

Less dense, Sir?

Correct, Boy.

In fact, if one were to open his skull one would expect to find a tobacco pickled organ, grown septic from watching soaps and reality TV, and of the structure of Emmenthal or cheap, aerated, white bread.

Consider now, the Metropolitan - and here we may use ourselves as subjects. To survive in our chosen environments we maintain a huge store of vital knowledge: where to get a cab at chucking out time, the correct way to dress, the recipe and method for a selection of cocktails, a firm notion of what constitutes a good looking individual, an extensive and well maintained collection of prejudices, where not to buy coffee, property prices by zip code, the numbers of a dozen dealers, how to avoid getting beaten up on public transport - the list is vast. There is no room for holes. Even if we allow that we don’t need space for knowledge of football. And, opines RDF, as our skulls are only a little larger and nobler of brow than our previous subject, we must conclude…?

That our brains are more dense, Sir?

Correct! Admirable boy.

In point of fact, our cerebella are of a fine-grained, weighty quality, most akin to freshly poached foie gras and notwithstanding a small, crystalline cavern directly behind the nasal passages, entirely solid.

Now, to continue with the physics lesson.

Let us imagine we are on Oxford Street. Our first subject, let us call him Alpha, is striding purposefully along. He is tall, with much of his weight distributed around his large, dense brain and broad shoulders. He knows exactly where he is going and is moving at the accelerated clip common to Londoners. A hundred yards ahead of him is our second subject, we shall call him Epsilon Semi-Moron (ES-M). He is moving more slowly and is engaged in a prolonged argument with his wife about dog racing or beating his children. He is built lower to the ground with a light brain and much of his weight distributed around his beer-gut and sagging posteriors. He prods uselessly at the A to Z with his blunt, soiled fingers but is clearly lost.

Subject Alpha has a high center of gravity, ES-M’s is low.

Subject Alpha is now closing on him at speed and, as he sees the approaching hazard, he effortlessly adjusts course to pass.

Suddenly and entirely without warning the ES-M’s attention is seized by a glittery plastic object in a shop window. He is so overcome with acquisitive lust for the ‘Genuine ‘Goldette’™ Rolax Chronometer’ and its amazingly competitive price (emblazoned twelve feet high across the window) that he STOPS. Dead. In the middle of the pavement. On Oxford Street. In November.

Subject Alpha collides with him at only a slightly reduced speed. The heavier brain, moving at higher speed gives him greater...what, Boy?

Momentum, Sir.

Rem acu tetigisti. And his higher center of gravity would tend to make him…?

Fall over Sir?

Correct.

I suppose it is our own fault. If we fill our shop windows with glittery bait, they’re bound to come in droves. You don’t get this problem in Jermyn Street. There’s nothing in the warm glow of burnished leather or the subtle curves of a well cut revere to appeal.

I understand that the government is committed to regional assemblies and provincial autonomy. I can hardly wait. Frankly, I think we should sell Oxford Street to Liverpool and tow it up there for them.

Adeste Fideles

T

Posted by T at 07:46 PM | Permalink

Mon vieux,

You know it’s amazing how one gets to rely on certain things without realising it. I mean it’s obvious that a chap couldn’t get by without Evelyn Waugh’s Noonday Reviver particularly if he’d dined rather well the night before. And there’s his James Smith and Sons English apple wood fox frame brolly, when barely a day goes by without a sprinkle of some kind he’d be a drowned rat sans parapluie. But who’d’ve thought a Japanese children’s toy could prove so ruddy invaluable?

Well so it is at the mo’ chez-moi. You know the inter-web thingy? It’s like the best bits of one’s preferred chip rags and numerous offers to enlarge one’s todger all on a fold-up telly.

Well last Crimbo the Trouble, amongst other sundry baubles and trifles, saw fit to furnish me with one of these that has, wait for it, dispensed with the need for the trusty Remington. I know. Sounds ridiculous doesn’t it? That’s what I thought and I went on to remind the Fragrant One of my inherent mistrust of all things created after Messrs. Rolls and Royce stopped building motor cars by hand.

With nought but a well placed glance she corrected this mis-impression and so it was that I was introduced to the web thingy. I might add that up until that point I was under the impression that it was only good for getting the tyres off your bike to patch your inner tube thus saving your mum’s forks. But this came from Will Self so it was just as likely a fish.

Anyway once the OB&C had fully corrected and instructed me I was able to listen to the shipping forecast, seek out arcane but vital cocktail ingredients and knock off the odd couplet of romantic verse all at the same time, or at least I could’ve if I’d managed to stay awake long enough.

Now it came to pass that after long days and nights of ardent endeavour (Ringpiece note: ‘minutes of idle tinkering’) one became something of a dab hand at this inter-thingy, hence the occasional missive to you old love via little wires under the Atlantic rather than the traditional laid vellum and broad-nibbed fountain.

Ah, I hear you say, that’s why the Mem’s fold up telly only ever has writing on it and never Pop Idol. That’s right. Have her show you how it works sometime.

Or rather don’t.

For, on this glorious day, the Fourth of November in the year of our Lord Two Thousand and Three, one day before Guy Fawkes is once more to be burned at the stake, when trying to instruct the jumped-up digital watch to honour me with the dulcet tones of Radio Four I was instead informed that the buggery plastic excrescence was on strike and required re-booting.

Fair enough, said I, I’ve not booted you yet but we both knew it was only a matter of time. I set about strapping on my stoutest Trickers to give the bastard what-for.

Now I won’t tell you the exact words she used to enlighten me for fear of us both blushing but She Who Must Be Obeyed was most forthcoming on how swift and bloody would be the retribution if I set about her lovingly chosen X-mas gift as intended. Suffice it to say that if I’d stomped the thing into the ground and danced on its remains it would’ve got off lighter than me.

Boots back in the cupboard I tried staring the bastard down like a wild tiger, just as that silver haired panto dame should have done in Las Vegas. Alas I had no more luck than he and the twinkly-screened upstart continued to refuse my advances.

And so here you find me. Suddenly bereft of a trinket for which I thought I cared not. Never mind, goes the chorus around the world, remember the Luddites and their glorious heritage. Smash all machines and long live King Ludd.

Absolutely bloody right.

The damnable thing can go to hell in a hand basket and I’m quite content with my old Mum’s Duofold, a bottle of Royal Blue and a sheaf of Smythsons. Even better one can escape the confines of one’s study and venture forth in search of adventure and intrigue.

All of which brings me to where I sit as I write old chum. Fifty feet below a beaux-arts nineteenth century intricately carved wood ceiling featuring cherubim and fauna galore along with three colossal murals in the style of the classics (recently done so I suppose we’re lucky they don’t advertise bottles of pop or fags). A full two blocks from wall to wall (about the size of Selfridges in old money), through the vast arched windows I can see Manhattan’s sky line and storm clouds coming in from the Atlantic. As Reading Rooms go it’s not the British Museum, but the New York Public Library isn’t half bad for the colonies. Sorry ex-colonies, keep forgetting.

So now, dozing lightly, I shall listen to the rustle of ancient parchment and the tinkle of tiny raindrops. One might almost be in Albion.

England’s Dreaming,

S

P.S. Chap just suggested relocating to SH for the afternoon. Not on, I had to tell him. The brogues are fine in a mere deluge of torrential rain but soggy carpets’ll ruin the carefully cultivated country patina I brought back from Wiltshire.

Posted by S at 07:34 PM | Permalink