Pronunciation.

                                              BILLY CONNOLLY
 

I have put this up before, some years ago, but I came across it and wanted to put it up again:

I remember in the wonderful tributes to Seamus Heaney, his pronunciation of the wh words; whale, wheat, why, when and the wonderful while or whilst etc.

Seamus pronounced 'why' correctly, as most of the Irish do as hwahy – try it!

The aitch is on the breath of the double-u as the lips pucker themselves together for the double-u plunge – fun isn't it?

By the way, as we are at it, aitch is pronounced aitch – not haitch as I have heard a lot these days.

The other place where it's pronounced correctly is Inverness in Scotland; in fact it is said that the best pronunciations of English are in Dublin and Inverness.

Wouldn't believe that would you?

But that spreads to the rest of Ireland and Scotland; thick accents notwithstanding.

The leader of Sinn Féin was on the radio with a vocabulary to die for and using it like a beautiful tool to confound, mesmerize and confuse English journalists into hypnotic states.

When people like Noah Webster come along and try to change the spelling of the words to make things simple for the Americans they are obliterating the origin of words. I mean why did he take the 'u' out of colour; the 'u' tells us where it came from – 1250–1300; Middle English col ( o ) ur Anglo-French ( French couleur ) Latin colōr- (stem of color ) – I mean why didn't he leave things as they were? It was a pain in the arse, when I lived there, that I eventually ended up confusing the two.

Someone said to me at a party one night that the 'U' was only put in to words by the English to be flashy or pedantic; I didn't comment on that at the time and I won't now.

When I said 'people like Noah Webster come along' I mean what I say 'come' along, present tense, as they still do; I knew a teacher there who wanted to see Americans spell catalogue as catalog – now what looks better on the page in this day and age of shortening everything, BTW, the former or the latter?

Yes, BTW, my little joke – or joak, to use a private family joke!

My daughter was talking to one of the school mistresses at her son's school, the other day, and she asked her about the basketball court and the school mistress said - don't you mean the multi-sports hall?

Give me a break!!

Seamus Heaney also pronounced Drogheda the way it's spelt without the 'g' but the very posh English say Droyida – they also pronounce Daventry as Dayentry and a town in the north east of England in a funny way too but I think they do that as a test for 'pretenders.'

Do people in other languages have this kind of trouble? I mean do the Mexicans have Mexican Spanish and the people from Quebec and various African countries have their own French spellings? Are they allowed to say actress in their languages unlike us; The Guardian always refer to females as actors – I know a lot of women don't like the word actress but it isn't exactly a word like poetess or authoress is it? It always seemed silly to me, when old dames die like Dame Wendy Hiller, being described as the actor Wendy Hiller. It seems okay for someone like Germaine Greer or even Vanessa Redgrave but Wendy Hiller?

I was listening to Billy Connelly on the radio and he, as a Scotsman, pronounced his 'wh' properly; the big Yin is not too great at the moment with his prostate cancer and his Parkinsons but soon responded when Michael Parkinson, an old chum of his, said that the big Yin wasn't compos mentis.

Ironic isn't it, and he would point it out, that he shot to fame on the Michael Parkinson Show in the 70s. 

He came on to that show, the first time, and told one very famous joke and that joke, that one solitary joke, made him a star.

When he got back to Glasgow, after the broadcast, he was spotted at the airport and a crowd of people saw him and started to clap; there were only about 4 TV stations in Britain at the time and he hadn't quite reckoned how many people were watching and how he would affect people. 

I remember thinking he was the funniest person I had ever seen and when I went to see him live in the theatre he was even funnier; he wasn't restricted by language and he could say anything he liked and that's the problem with censorship – it's for the narrow minded; I mean what's the matter with a word? What harm can it do? If we welcomed words, rejoiced in their original spelling and meaning, things would be easier for everybody; there is not one name you can call me which would cause me offence. I know I'm white, reluctantly middle class, medium height to short, regular looks but I've been called lots of things in my life. When I first started on the post office the old sweats would ask me if I was going on my holidays – they were referring to the bags under my eyes and I hadn't quite worked out what they meant.

Then I was called the Mekon (I have a big head), the green man (I was usually pale) and the incredible hulk. I didn't figure out the last one till fairly recently; apparently I looked like the guy who played him on TV in the 70s – the David Banner side to him.

I do feel it for Billy Connelly as my mother had Parkinsons and I do realise that the Americans, with their lack of patience for foreign accents, have never seen him at his best but I have and I'm not putting that joke down here – you can look it up.

Why - part 2; Moi.

 

There I am – up there at the top; a little boy then, I was, probably totally confused with a Dublin accent and living in Birmingham. 

I can't remember where the actual hard copy is now, but I think it said on the back that I was a little more than three years old – but it looks like a school photo so why would I be wearing a tie?

I hadn't learned to read, I don't think, and I couldn't see the notice on the corner of Vincent Street and Moseley Road; a post card in a window which was offering rooms to rent: no blacks, no dogs and no Irish. Very famous now, I know. I certainly saw it when I learned to read and at the time of the photo I probably thought we were in Ireland. 

We lived in Birmingham and sometimes we would go to Sussex on our holidays, to my dad's brother Danny and his family, and the kids there would say 'where do you live' and I would say 'England' – always used to say that when we were in Ireland – but in Sussex they said 'this is England' which totally confused me.

I was only a little fella there, and maybe I was getting used to the fact that the little fella gets all the fuss, the extra piece of cake, first in the queue behind the bar, although I didn't go into many bars in those days; but who knows. 

I was always a bit on the small side but I grew to the height of my heroes, Paul Newman, so I was, and always, have been, more than satisfied with how close I was to the sky. 

I remember distinctly my first day at school because I didn't want to go and never liked it – I've said this before. Miss Jones, my poor teacher, carried me in and I was kicking and screaming – this lasted right up till the age of 16 when Miss Jones had enough – my little joke, sorry. She became Mrs Wailing and, I have only just noticed, that the name described me at the time.

My mother was a seamstress in Dublin – in Ringsend – and she made some clothes for me – probably the braces above – and I remember showing one of the teachers my new jerkin she had made for me, and the strange look on the teacher's face as she looked at me as if I was showing her a piece of wet fish I had found in the playground. The hard tarmac playground.

We did a play, 'The Golden Goose,' and most days there was a rehearsal. I say 'we did the play' but I wasn't in it.

But I loved it.

I would sit in my seat every day to watch the rehearsal and knew every word of every character. The three girls I liked would enter and the first one would say 'Oh! A golden goose, please let me have a feather.' And she would rush forward and grab a feather getting stuck to it; as it said in the script. In a flash the other two girls came in: number two 'me too, me too' and the third 'and me.'

And they were all stuck.

Every day I watched. And every day I loved it from my seat.

On the night of the play, someone dropped out. I didn't give it a thought – but I do now.

One of the boys – Robert Mapp – was asked to play the vacant role, and he said 'but I have this costume on' – I can't remember the top but he was wearing yellow trousers.

'You can do a quick change' said the teacher – and he had plenty of time.

Sitting in the audience I watched with them; I knew all the lines still, I knew what was going to happen next – 'please let me have one, me too me too, and me.'

Robert Mapp took his exit and I waited for him to come on with his quick change and on he came – still in the same yellow trousers from his previous character.

I will never forget it and if any of his relations are reading this – no offence.

I only thought of the teacher, recently – she saw me, every day, sitting in my seat, lapping up the play, knowing every role and movement and I now wonder why she didn't send me on. Maybe because I probably didn't speak right, maybe I was too small.

I did find a photo of some other play we did where I was a ruffian and I was standing with two big boys, threatening the guy behind the stall. On the photo I could see my little fist up, threateningly, behind them.

Size not being everything I remember when I went to the secondary school at the age of eleven.

That was a boys' school and I went for a trial for the football team. They asked me what position I wanted and I said centre forward. 

Someone said 'No. Roger Munday will get that' but I went for it in any case.

I touched the ball once; it came to me when I was around the half way line. I stopped it and was about to kick it over my head and it hit me in the chin.

When I came off the same guy who told me about Roger Mundy said 'you only touched the ball once and it hit you in the chin.'

It must have been funny to see me when a corner was being taken. Standing in the penalty area with all the big kids as the ball came over, half the size of the others, trying to figure where the ball was going to land so I could head it into the goal, not realising that if the ball came and hit me on the head, the greasy leather case ball would probably knock me out.

Why?

 Do you know I often wonder why I write this blog; someone, once said to me, don't wander too much you'll get lost – but I digress. 

I have always felt the need to write all the time. Once in a while I would be out with my pals – I called them mates, in those days – and I would bring my pen out and a piece of paper and write something.

Two things here: number one ' called them mates in those days the reason I changed to calling them pals, is when we lived in America, and I was there for 17 years, I would use the word 'mate' and some people would think I was referring to my wife and number two – I would bring my pen out – nothing significant there but have you noticed the Americans usually say 'pencil.' I remember Shelly Berman, in one of his famous sketches said 'hold on I'll get a pencil.' In America people would ask that as opposed to 'do you have a pen?'

Now where was I?

Yes the reason for writing this blog. 

Well it's not for brownie points, some kind of kudos or status. It's just a need; I never plan anything, I suppose it's probably what they call stream of consciousness – by the way, again: for some reason the Americans pronounce kudos as Keudoze as if it's plural. It's Greek so it's KudoSS.

Getting back to the thrust – hey I don't know what's coming so don't ask – in the beginning I wrote a novel – well that was years and years ago and it was called The Killing of Mister Wilshire – I suppose there must be a copy somewhere but I remember at the end of most of the chapters it said 'fowl play was not suspected – 'three chickens were released after questioning.'

It was my little joke, of course, but thinking about it I would like to take a look one day and see some kind of surreal adventure in silliness – I think I remember writing a line like 'I would look at him as he told me off – my big bully of a boss – and then I would look at the side of his forehead and see where I would hit him with the stapler I was holding, the stapler of which he was laying into me for not refilling and . . bla bla bla.

The novel I actually did write, later on, when I had Graves Disease in Los Angeles, took me a few years to write and then some. There are many drafts one writes and each time it has to be proof read. Then another draft and, even though I am a big fan of Tom Hanks (who must sign his autograph thanks and I have to ask myself is he the new John Wayne or Pat Boone) he is now a novelist. I mean he is, obviously not a polymath, but he didn't get any rejections for his novel. He realises that this is unfair when, at the same time, young writers don't even get their novels read by a literary agent.

It seemed like a brick wall when I wrote my first one and then Amazon published it. They do a great deal for writers even though they are criticised but it's really only one step above self publishing  . . . lots of great writers, in the past, self published their first novels. It cost them a lot of money, having to get a certain quota printed. Amazon have a policy of P.O.D. Print On Demand.

So here I am down here on the page and I haven't even started to say what I wanted yet.

In 1971 decimalisation came to the United Kingdom – some time in February, and on that day the post office was on strike. I can't remember if it was the whole post office or just the postmen – I suppose they are post persons these days – and on that magical day in that February long ago no postage stamps were franked with the historic date – no first day covers – it must have been a bit of a pisser for philatelists. 

I didn't mind the change to money but when the UK joined the Common Market, as it was called then, Valued Added Tax came to be – VAT.

Everything had to be changed as decimalisation meant things had to be counted in tens. 

We are not in a world of tens. There are 24 hours in a day. 60 minutes to the hour. 60 seconds to the minute and so on. Our heart beats at that pace like music. 4 beats to the bar, the 'middle 8' in pop music. 

When CDs came into our lives the beat was constant exactly every time you played the song. When Carl Perkins wrote Blue Suede Shoes he changed between 80 beats to the minute to 100 and down to 60. 

Add to that, vinyl records were not constant; 45 revolutions per minute, 33 or 16, didn't always hit the mark and after a while it became clear to cardiologists that the constant beat interfered with the heart beat of the listener.

I am not writing an official paper or report so you'll just have to believe me.

I remember saying to my wife, that if the powers that be could have their way, they would decimalise time and then I found out today. that they did – in 1792 (in Paris) – they, the magic 'they' - invented the decimal watch: 100 minutes to the hour, 10 hours to the day and how long did it last? 

Not ten, but two years.

That's enough, isn't it, so I'll quit before something else comes to me.

The Coronation

It seems a lot of Guardian journalists are writing anti-monarchy articles which makes me wonder if it's Guardian policy. A Canadian friend of mine circulated a Guardian story by Stephen Marche (in London and Toronto, no less) with a so called view from Canada it reads 'Viewed from Canada, the coronation is especially absurd;'

I did write to his readers and I got a positive response to this:

I'm not a royalist who collects all the bits of gossip about the royal family, still moans the dark forces that killed Diana, but I like and understand the monarchy, particularly when you think of the alternative - if you are interested here's what I said:

That is a cynical item from a really good newspaper who have decided to take this view over the last few months with their new woke editor. I knew the worms would come crawling out from the skirting boards as soon as the Queen died, but Charles is a good bloke - a hero king who has spent his life taking care of others, launching the Prince's Trust which helped - and helps - millions of kids, has been 'green' since before climate change was even mentioned and is probably the cleverest and most experienced monarch this country has ever known. He was a jet pilot, helicopter rescue pilot (like his son) international polo player and a ladies' man, to boot.

The money he is supposed to have is not available to him to spend as he wishes - this is not the USA or some banana republic.

If the cost of the coronation was divided between the population we would all get .50p - half a pound equivalent to 50c in American money. If they were to scrap the monarchy to save money it would contribute .002% to the economy in other words nobody would notice it.

When I came back to London after experiencing the elections of George W. Bush, saw how a crazy lawyer went after Bill Clinton and, from a distance, the election of Trump, I now recommend a monarchy.

They have been there for a thousand years, they are steady, they cannot spend their own money and are viewed rather like a real life Truman Show.

Millions turn out to see them, everywhere they go and, as Billy Bragg said the other day, we don't want some superannuated old politician launching the ships.'

That it what I said but I ask you to look at the turn out today; try and book a room in a London hotel and just see how much the coronation adds to the economy of London.