The accents and the dug

I have long been interested in accents; perhaps because I’ve lived in lots of different places. Why, for example, does someone from Strabane have a slightly different accent from someone in Omagh, despite the two places being separated by only a paltry total of about 20 miles?

Why is the Scottish accent to drastically dissimilar compared to the Northern Irish accent?

And what the hell are people from Cork even saying?

The answer to these questions are many and complicated although to sum things up, differing accents in a single language can be determined by culture, population separation and even the climate. As to the Cork question, I remain in the dark.

However, being interested in accents, I have also gained a bit of a knack for imitating said accents. My Scottish accent is perfect, I can do an impeccable English and I even have a passable Australian. Then there’s my French accent, which is perhaps a natural by-product of once being fluent.

I also think that a person’s ability to mimic another’s accent is highly enhanced if a person lives among those with a different accent. Thus, having living in Dublin for several years, my Dublin is also quite good, if a little exaggerated and unintentionally comedic.

To give you an example of the power of accents, get a load of this…

Some weeks ago the Devlin clan were in a café in Derry and were sat next to a family from Galway. I suspected this Galway connection as one of the kids was wearing a Galway top but when I heard them speak, my suspicions were confirmed. Quite genially, after the family members had exchanged a few words, my youngest daughter, Anna, nudged me and suggested, “Those are real Irish people over there.”

“What do you mean, ‘real’ Irish people?” I scoffed. “Sure, we’re real Irish people.”

“No,” she insisted. “Listen to them: They’re the real ones.”

This induced much chuckling over the remainder of that afternoon’s lunch. However, I was given another salutary lesson about the power of accents on a different occasion when reclining in the comfort of my own living room.

As is our wont of a Sunday evening, the telly is illuminated and we gather round to watch whatever so-called prime time show is being broadcast. On this evening in question, watching Gogglebox there was a Scotchman, an Irishman and an Englishman on the box (much like the classic jokes), featuring at different intervals. Beginning by copying the Scot, I repeated what the man said and then added on a few embellishments of my own, regarding national stereotypes. Laughing at my own joke (as is also my wont), I noticed Waffle turn his head to look at me.

I passed no remarks, as people from this neck of the woods would say and shortly after, I repeated what an Irishman was saying, only using my best Northside Dub. Again, Waffle turned to look at me, staring for a long moment.

Still, I passed no remarks and it was only after I repeated a phrase in Eastend English that the pattern fully emerged. Every time I used a different accent, Waffle’s head would snap around and he would stare at me for a protracted time, no doubt wondering if the pater familias had finally lost what little marbles he had left.

I then tested out my theory that Waffle recognises and moreover, appears perturbed by my using a different accent. I tried out my French, my Australian and even my terrible German brogue and without fail, Waffle snapped to attention as if plugged in. This, as you can imagine, amused me to no end, although, I was finally forced to quit my mimicry when Waffle started to become annoyed.

I think I was laughing in a Scottish accent at the time saying, “Oh, yer such a silly wee dug, aren’t ye wee Waffle?” When wee Waffle started growling.

At first this amused me even more and I laughed all the harder in my Scottish accent. “Oh, yer a silly wee bugger of a dug.”

However, this only seemed to enrage His Hairyness even more, to the extent that his growl intensified and he clambered to his feet.

“Are ye comin’ o’er to bite me on ma bum, dug?” I asked him, still in accent. And then he started to bark.

My amusement vanished like a haggis on Burns’s Night.

“Shut your face, dawg!” I barked back at him, finally relinquishing my hold on the accent. It had all been good fun until someone took it too seriously.

But Waffle growled again, still seemingly perturbed at my changeable persona.

“Shut it, hound!” I shouted.

“Stop roaring at the dog,” Herself chided.

“He was the one barking at me.”

“You started it by taunting him.”

“I wasn’t taunting him. I was exercising my accents.”

“Exercising your accents?” She rolled her eyes. “Well, he doesn’t like it. If you want to exercise your accents, do it outside. We’re trying to watch the TV.”

That was me told.

But being the big wean that I am, I had to have the last word.

I waited until all was quiet again and all attention had returned to the TV, then I took a deep breath and –

“Don’t even!” Herself cut in.

I managed to have the last word after all, all right.

Except it was merely, “OK, so.”