Although the UK is a place of diverse accents, I think that the Birmingham or Black Country accents are the most maligned. (Footnote: people from the Black Country will have you believe that their accent is distinct from Brummie. They – we – can get quite offended at the suggestion they sound similar. The uneducated would not recognize the difference). As both Birmingham and the Black Country reside in the same county, I’ll lump both accents together here and refer to them in general terms as the ‘West Midlands‘ accent.
It’s a drawling accent, spoken with emphasis on the vowels. And, because it’s riddled with dialect, it’s not easily understood by those from outside the area. To give you an idea, Ozzie Ozbourne is probably one of the clearer conversationalists to have emerged from the region. In the UK, if you want to portray a character as a little ‘slow’, you attach a West Midlands accent to them. For Canada, think Newfie. For the US, think deep south. It’s the accent of national ridicule. I was always conscious of this.
This could have resulted in an element of paranoia, and a lack of confidence. I always felt that I was at a disadvantage in the UK just because of my accent.
I have to say at this point that I love accents. They add colour to language. And, I particularly like the the one I grew up using. As I have become older and moved away, first to Derby (“Ey up mi duck”), then Sheffield (“Where’s tha bin”?), and finally Montreal (er…”Go Habs Go!”…?), my accent has evened out a little. But, it’s still obviously different from most I am surrounded by.
I have, on occasion been mistaken for Australian, South African, a New Zealander, Irish, and perish the thought, Scottish. Usually though, I get credited with being what I am – an English man, with a distinctly English accent. And, contrary to the perceived inhibition I felt in my homeland, I have found my exaggerated vowels and missed consonants to be quite advantageous in North America.
In North America, when I speak, it is an immediate conversation starter; “Where is that accent from?”, “I have family in the UK”, “Are you Scottish?” (shudder). It also buys some credibility. I have been told on more than one occasion that I can say anything and make it sound plausible. But the biggest advantage my accent has provided on this side of the pond? Well, I’m not particularly good looking, and I’m certainly not a wealthy man. But the mother of my child is a very attractive American. 😉
Egg, milk, flour. Mix it up. Pour it in a baking tray of some kind (one of those shallow ones with a bunch of little cylinders punched out to hold your mix). Stick it in a pre-heated oven for about 30 minutes at 375°F. Voila – Yorkshire Puddin’. If the English can cook it, anyone can. Can’t they?
Now, let’s pretend you’re an American, and pretty handy in the kitchen. Your man loves your food. It’s his birthday. You want to do something ‘nice’ for him. He’s English… proper English, from England, accent, loves football, bad teeth – the works. He often talks about Yorkshire Puddin’. In fact, he goes all misty-eyed when he recounts his favourite Yorkshire Puddin’ experiences. What better? You’re a good cook. How hard can it be?
So, you jump on the interweb thingy, Yahoogle “Yorkshire Puddin’ Recipes”, and as if by magic, you’re on your way to creating a masterpiece which will not only make your man a very happy year older, but it will also feed you both.
A word of caution here: if you are an American (or any other nationality for that matter), and you are trying to make a Yorkshire Puddin’ without having actually seen one before… (you know where I’m going with this don’t you?)… make sure the online recipe includes a picture of what it’s supposed to look like.
Fast forward a few hours. Your man arrives home after a hard day of drinking coffee and browsing the web at ‘work’. You greet him with a hug and a smile that looks like you’ve borrowed Jim Carey’s mouth for the day. Your excitement is obvious – and why shouldn’t you be excited? Your man is gonna LOVE this.
“What is it?” he enquires with a puzzled look. As you deflate faster than a whoopee cushion under a Sumo wrestler, you reply: “it… it’s… a… a…Yorkshire Puddin’… I made it for your birthday.” A moment of silence is pierced with a roar of laughter. Birds launch themselves from tree branches, rodents scramble underground, forest animals scatter.
My wife has since seen, and tasted Yorkshire Puddin’. I think she understands my mirth now. She hasn’t tried to make this fine British delicacy since. Five years later, I am finally allowed to share this:
Please share your Yorkshire Pudding disasters to help my wife feel better.