Boxing Day Make It Easy

Although the official language of this country is English, the bit of England that I have made my home has one of the most impenetrable accents combined with a medieval dialect which betrays the heritage of language's Angle, Saxon and Jute principal verb: to be. I am, for example might be rendered: I bist, but in the next townlet a few miles down the road it might be I bay. Just add to confusion I am not would be rendered I bay and I bain't respectively. Confused? You aren't alone. By such means we grow to understand that a degree of lateral thinking is needed when a dialogue begins ... even between natives of the same town!

A few years ago I was helping out at a community centre when the following farcical conversation occurred. At the time the EU had decided to demolish its surplus butter and beef mountains by distributions to pensioners and people on welfare benefits. Butter was given out one week and the cans of beef were to be distributed later. So there we were standing at a table loaded with cases of butter — just inside the centre's front door — and an elderly afro-caribbean gent comes in and, spotting us at the table, he approaches.

"I've, um," he said. "Come for me mate."

"It's the butter this week, chick," said the lady in charge.

"Erm," said the old black guy, a look of puzzled confusion on his face. "I just wan'edder pick up me mate though."

"We only 'ave the butter today, though. We won't be doin' the mate till nex' week." By now I had twigged what was going on ....

I stood by and watched in mazement as the verbal rally continued confusedly thru a further couple of rounds of volley and backhand slice return before it dawned upon my companion that they were at cross purposes. The man had obviously arrived to collect a friend. My companion had assumed that mate was meat, which — of course — it is, except when it means mate as in pal, chum, companion.

To make matters more confusing not all speakers use all of the modified vowels and verb. So hills, that are mostly referred to as banks — often but not exclusively pronounced bonk &mdash might have a financial institution at the top: a bank, which is always pronounced bank.

I think my favorite Black Country dialect joke is the Enoch and Eli story ....

Enoch and Eli (pronounced Ay-nock and Ay-Lie) take a holiday by the sea where they see a surfing dude carry his board down the beach.

"'Ere, Aynock," says Eli. "What's that 'e's carrying?"

"That's one of them surfboards, Ayli."

For the next few minutes they watch as the surfer works his way out to where the waves are building. They stare intently as he paddles like crazy to get under way with a big wave. They goggle with amazement as the daring young man struggles to get to his feet while the wave begins to break beneath him. Their faces remain frozen in shock as the surfer loses it and tumbles off. The board flips over and smashes the young guy in the face pulping his nose causing the white surf around him to turn pink with blood. After what seems an age the young man is deposited bloodied and bruised on the beach.

"Wot did you say that thing was?" Eli said.

"A surfboard," said Enoch. "Why?"

"Well, it don't look very safe to me!" Depending on the teller's specific dialect the 'don't' might be rendered as day, doe or even bay.

I spent a long chunk of yesterday unpacking a lot of cardboard boxes. I am about halfway thru unpacking now which is, I admit, not exactly rapid progress, but I am not planning on going anywhere. This morning I suspended my planned activities to make some alterations out in the garden after Little Mad expressed some serious reservations concerning the route taken by a local tabby tom cat on his bi-weekly state tour of his domain. The ensuing cat-fight was short but savage and Tom retreated the way he had come, making a temporary redoubt in the tangle of stick-dry, leafless undergrowth that comprises the far end of my garden. I repaired the hole on the fence panel that otherwise hides the unsightly tangle from view (there are number of items of discarded garbage there, including a rusted sprung sofa). If Tom wants in via that route from now on he will have to teeter-totter on the brink of the knife thin ricketty fence with a savagely gleeful killer waiting in hiding somewhere below. Toms may be led by their glands but they're not completely insane ... beside Little Mad ain't giving out any signals!