Growing up in Kettering, I never realised I had an accent. I spoke the same way other people spoke and it sounded perfectly normal to me. Then I left home and went away and things changed. Firstly, the way I said certain words, like Baaaarnet, was commented upon. Then I started noticing it myself, on my return trips. I hadn’t changed, I was still true to my Kettering roots. But on hearing, within 5 seconds of entering the ground, the following exchange:
“Owaaaaryuh me ol’ booty?”
“Kent cumplane me duck”
I thought, good heavens, what rustic types! (told you I was still true to my roots).
Every trip on the Travel Club bus provided enough linguistic source material to fill a book. The local accent got thicker the further you went down the aisle. By the time you reached the back seats, where Dave Tailby held court, you could stand a spoon up in it. Even the agricultural wing of the Brigstock & Thrapston Reds occasionally looked blank when DT coined another phrase in a voice that was halfway between Norfolk and Somerset (in other words Broughton).
But if DT is the Kettering accent turned up to 11 you can’t blame him for trying. The gravitational pull of Eastenders is threatening to make everyone south of Bedford sound alike, so we should hang on to a local twang while we still can. When I say twang, it's more of a quack. Or a bray. Take your pick of farmyard verbs. Moo?
Listening to a couple of Poppies old timers chuntering away with minimal use of the jaw is one of life's pleasures. On Saturday, a hugely wayward York effort was described by the old boy behind me as “almost tekking out the floodloight poilon”. DT would have been proud.
Anyway, shelladdergewnow.
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