In which I try, and fail to beat Pygmalion

Before I moved to England, I was able to do a pretty impressive Scottish accent. And a not too shabby Irish one.

But then I stepped off the plane and arrived in Old Blighty and realised that what I thought was pretty amusing – wasn’t. And that also – England is a land of absurdly complex and varied accents, which can’t be generalised under the main headers of “posh toff” or “cockney herbert”.

In the early days, when I still behaved like a tourist, and did silly things like going and getting really drunk at The Church – or worse, getting really drunk at somewhere NOT The Church because The Church was full, and we didn’t get in – I often got into arguements with people who were insulted that I didn’t recognise their accent.

Invariably, these people were – almost without fail – Welsh.

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