Have A Banana
Editor’s note: The article you are about to read was originally written by my mum, the person who inspired me to write all those years ago. Today would have been her birthday, so, to celebrate, we are publishing this article, originally written in 2008-ish. Mum was the best person in the entire world, and it pains me that she is no longer with us. I hope you enjoy this snippet of my mum’s insanity.
Up the apples and pairs, how’s your father, love a duck etc. Anyone who has experienced the delights of actually speaking to me will probably have noticed that the way I speak bears absolutely no relation to the way I write.
Dare I venture that my written word gives the impression of a reasonably well educated, middle class type with a reasonably large vocabulary and a fairly sound, if a little haphazard ability to spell correctly? (For future reference, it is not my spelling, but my typing that lets me down). No? Well, in that case, my carefully spun web of lies has been unraveled and I have been rumbled as the Estuary English speaking, Cockerney type that I most certainly am. Cor blimey, guv’nor.
I have tried on occasion to put on a posh voice for the benefit of good business and so forth, but I always come unstuck in the end when I let slip by saying “Awright, luv” or some other quaint East End exclamation that pretty much does away with any pretense that I am a graduate of Roedean.
The problem with a London accent is that it is so infectious. If, when receiving your Knighthood from the Queen, you should indulge in a little light conversion you can be fairly certain that you will leave such an impression on her, that she will spend the rest of the morning speaking like a horrifying mixture of both Chas and Dave. I can vouch to this effect from personal experience. I have a business acquaintance who is quite posh and plummy but can be guaranteed after just 5 minutes on the phone with me, to start dropping their t’s and h’s and saying things like “blimey” and “pukka”.
Oh, the humanity.
It is like being the carrier of a deadly virus who, having already been infected at a young age, is immune to further Cockneyfication and who just passes it on to unsuspecting toffs.
“He was fine the morning doctor, but now he just sits there asking for something called a ‘pint of mild’ and shouting ‘Gertcha’”
I may be over-dramatising my Dick Van Dyke affliction slightly, but perhaps not. We all form opinions about people, usually during the first 5 seconds or so of meeting them. What does my accent say about me? If I had a doctorate in, say, Political Science and could expound knowledgably about all aspects of proportional representation or devolution, would my qualifications suddenly be thrown into doubt as soon as I opened my mouth? Possibly. If I looked like Angelina Jolie would all men, as soon as I start to speak, subsequently go limp in my presence? Probably. Natural assumptions derived from my accent alone could include:
- obviously from London
- probably swears a lot
- potentially a fan of EastEnders
- possibly a bit thick.
Of course this is all conjecture on my part, as I unfortunately do not have the ability to read peoples minds or know precisely what they are thinking, but to counter any misconceptions – for the first, well, yes – that is pretty much a given. For the second, well, yes, but because I choose to and not because it has been pre-determined by the location of my birth (don’t tell me that the Queen hasn’t ever let slip the odd shit or bollocks). For the third, let me state for the record that I would rather stick needles in my eyes that watch another second – no, nanosecond – of that turgid, depressing excuse for a TV show. It gives us Cockneys – ‘cor blimey – a bad name. In a nutshell, I don’t like EastEnders. For the fourth, I studied fine art and English literature. Furthermore I gained further academic qualifications in the form of a degree at the school of hard knocks and a Ba. at the University of Life.
It’s not all doom and gloom, however and please don’t mistake my comments thus far as a damning tirade against all things common. Forget Dali, Picasso and Pollock and, more recently, any number of ridiculous and frankly rubbish Turner Prize winners who are desperately trying to appear avant-garde and cutting edge in their wackiness. They will never in their wildest dreams achieve the magnificent heights of nonsense, weirdness and abstract thinking that is Cockney rhyming slang. How, you might ask, did the expression “Apples and Pears” have any relation to the word ‘stairs’ apart from that they rhyme? And how about “Barnet Fair” being synonymous with ‘hair’? How are your eyes in any way related to “mince pies”? Well, they’re not in any way, shape or form, but that is to entirely miss the point. It is a glorious stream of subversive and radical language designed to baffle and bemuse the non-Cockney, and it was all achieved without the use of hard drugs. Unlike modern art. Cockneys truly are visionaries and revolutionaries of the spoken word.
And it doesn’t end there. Cockney rhyming slang has been updated for a new generation to baffle and bemuse as they go about their daily life. When things do occasionally go awry, we can say “it’s all gone a bit Pete Tong” which means we still get to indulge our cockney whims, but at the same time appear to be hip and happenin’, dude. (Although it is worth noting that Pete Tong is pushing, if not past, 40 so how ‘hip and happenin’ this actually is may be a matter or opinion).
It doesn’t even matter if you are not descended from prime London stock – you can still speak Cockney and are probably doing it without even noticing. Have you ever exclaimed that you were just popping off to have a butcher’s in that shop window? Ah ha! That is rhyming slang in all its ‘h’ dropping glory at work in your subconscious – silently and inexorably infiltrating the public mind from Lands End to John O’Groats with subversive gibberish.
I am considering a revival of all things Cockney. Not in the way of the cheesy Pearly Kings and Queens, or – shudder – Del Boy, but something new and radical such as an underground movement or secret society, like the Bader Meinhoff gang – except that we would be armed not with guns and bombs but with glottal stops, bad elocution and audibly dropped consonants.
So I fully intend to use my loaf and proudly declare that my native tongue is not a load of old pony thus enabling us to pass this gift on to all our future generations of saucepan lids. Veeva La Reverlewshun! While we’re at it, can you lend me an Ayrton?