It’s English Jim, but not as we know it... by Jamie

Wren and I took a short road trip to Bastrop, about forty five minutes south east of Austin, just because it was there, they have a great farmers market and the town looks lovely. We also wanted to try the burgers at the Roadhouse Café, which claimed to be “One of the 50 best burgers in Texas!”. I also wanted to go play on the arcade games in the bowling alley…. Well, the farmers market was a charm, we came away with 7 bars of posh soap (5 dollars) and a huge piece of sirloin (4 dollars). As per usual, I had the “I love your accent” conversation, which mostly serves me well while I live in Texas. Mostly…. But I’ll get to that bit later.

So, off we went to Bastrop town, where we parked up, and immediately found a pie shop, which got me all excited at the possibility of getting a steak and kidney, or pork pie or a nice big meat n tater to put in our cooler, and take home. It was shut. For good. Ah well. Wren has explained to me, on many an occasion, that British pie and American Pie are very different things quite often. When a Brit thinks of pie, it is usually a savory meat filling, often accompanied with vegetables, gravy, and usually, some variety of offal. Or pork. American pies, are usually sweet, apple, cherry, peach, or some kind of delicious chocolaty goop topped with thick whipped cream, and drizzled with some kind of syrupy, sugary and delicious sauce. Definitely not pork. But anyway, the point is, I get all hopeful whenever I see a pie shop in Texas. Not that I’m ever disappointed with pecan, or pumpkin pie… But anyway, I am rambling.

We sat by the Colorado river for an hour, with coffee for me, and green tea for Wren, just taking in the birdsong, and the sound of water. It was lovely. We walked around the charming town and main street, till we got hungry and headed off to the Roadhouse Café, for one of the famous burgers. http://www.roadhousebastrop.com/  We got there at Three O’clock, and it was packed which is a very good sign. They weren’t lying about the burgers…. Wow. Best I’ve ever had. And the milkshake? Oh my actual god….. Chocolate and peanut butter. Together. With milk. In a glass. Cold Guinness doesn’t even taste this good. The waitresses didn’t bother to ask anyone if their food was ok. They didn’t have to. They knew it was excellent.  We looked around at the other diners. Every single person there was having burgers. I didn’t blame them one bit….. Texas takes its meat and its BBQ sauce VERY seriously, and the Roadhouse in Bastrop, TX comes very close to tops in my book… Anyway, I’m rambling about food again…

The arcade games were a bit rubbish, so we headed off home. We stopped at a petrol station to get our lottery tickets for Saturdays draw. I headed in to a Chevron shop, and asked the lady if they did lottery tickets. “No Lotteria, Shell Station” she replied in Spanish, pointing across the road.  So, in I went, and asked the man at the counter “Do you do lottery?”. “What?” came the man’s reply. “Can I get lottery tickets here?” I said again, in the clearest voice I could manage with a Yorkshire accent. “What?” said the man. “Lottery. Lott-er-ree. Lottery tickets. For tonight.” I said once more, feeling that sinking feeling I get when no one can understand my accent. “What? Lobster? Huh?” said the man, shaking his head. I sighed and shook my head in reply. I looked over the counter, located the lottery ticket machine, pointed at it, said “Lottery. Three please” holding up three fingers, just in case he thought three sounded like tractor or something. We got there in the end, with the cunning use of sign language.  What’s funny, is the Hispanic lady in the Chevron shop understood me perfectly well, even with my broad Thirsk accent, and replied in Spanish, which I had no problem with. The man in the Shell station had no idea, and he spoke English. Why on Earth would I go up to a counter at a petrol station and ask for lobster? Eeeh, I ask you…

This brings me to the main point of this blog… Living in America, and having a British Accent.

Firstly, I don’t live in America, I live in Texas. There is a difference, in the same way that I don’t have a British accent, I have a Yorkshire accent. Were funny like that.

Secondly, and I must point this out, most of the people I have met in Texas couldn’t care less about my accent. It raises no eyebrows, or merits any reaction, which is fine. Some folk are intrigued, some folk engage me in conversation, and tell me they love my accent, even if they haven’t got a clue what I am on about half the time. This mostly happens with middle aged ladies in shops, and I could just as well be reading the phone book to them and they wouldn’t mind a bit, as long as I kept talking.

Very often, folk ask me where I am from, to which I usually reply ‘A small town in the North of England that you probably never heard of” The reply I usually get is ‘Huh?” or “What?” to which I make it easy for the poor listener, and just say “England”. Sometimes folk will say “You’re Australian, right?”. Nope. Not even close. About 9000 miles off. Perhaps if I said “G’day mate”, they might say “Hey, are you from Thirsk?” I’ve started telling people I’m from Oklahoma, just to see the reaction I get. Usually none, as they didn’t have a clue what I said anyway. But the clever ones laugh….

 Some folk, as soon as I open my mouth, a look of what can only be described as mild confusion and extreme terror takes over their face, and that’s the end of that conversation, especially when my simple request sounds like gibberish to Texan ears. Like, for example, in the shell station while attempting to buy lottery tickets. Also, when I first came to Austin in late 2008, and I was looking to play a couple of gigs in some local coffee houses, I went into this coffee house called Flipnotics, (now called Kick Butt Coffee.). I had one of my demo’s on CD, and I asked the barista who I should speak to about getting some gigs. “Pardon?” said the barista. “Who do I speak to, about getting a gig in here?” I said again, a little clearer. “Sorry, Pardon sir?” said the barista. I put on my clearest Queens English telephone voice, and said “Who do I speak to, about getting a gig in here?”. “Sorry sir, did you just ask for a single or a double latte?” said the barista. Honestly, you couldn’t make this up….. I did that embarrassing thing that English speakers do when they talk to people with non-English accents, and spoke slowly and deliberately in that horrid patronizing way. “I. Play. Guitar. And. Sing. I. Would. Like. To. Play. A. Show. In. Here. Please. Mate.” It was rude of me, but what else could I do? That poor chap at the coffee house…. We got there in the end. I never got a call back about a gig. Oh well.

One problem I often have, albeit an amusing problem, is my name. My name is Jamie. Say it. Go on… Jamie. Jay-mee. Simple, yes? Not in Texas….  When I introduce myself, the person I am introducing myself to will say “Nice to meet you Jeremy!”  It’s not like I was misheard, they don’t say “Jeremy?”, but “Jeremy! Hi!” I used to say “No no, Jamie.”, but that would only result in that look of confusion and terror, so now I say “Sure. Jeremy. Close enough”. I really don’t mind, it has become a source of private amusement for Wren and me. Whenever it happens (which is most of the time), I simply give Wren the look, and she tries really hard not to laugh out loud.  But get this.. Folk even spell it wrong, even after it has been written down! The amount of times I get ‘Jaime’ is unbelievable. Pay slips, job replies, you name it.   I’m just grateful they got it correct on my green card…

 On extremely rare occasions, folk are rude, insulting and bordering on downright racist, but thankfully this has only happened once. There is this bloke who goes to the same gym as Wren and me. I know him only as ‘Tosser John’. He first came to my attention when I was on the treadmill, and I noticed Tosser John, who was not doing very much working out at all. That’s fine, people can do what they like at the gym, as long as I can get on with my workout in relative peace. Anyway, Tosser John would do two or three reps on a weight machine, then stand around posing, checking himself out in the mirror, strutting around like a peacock, and generally looking like a Tosser John. It was vaguely amusing, but I didn’t think too much of it, till one morning, after my workout. It was about two days after Spain won the World Cup, so there was still some football fever in the air, especially after the USA had played so well. Football (not soccer, thank you) was a new craze for a time here in the U.S.A. and was all over the sports channels, even the British games (except for the Leeds U.T.D. games, but we wont go into that…) So, anyway, I was just leaving the changing rooms of the gym, and checking out a bit of footie on the telly (they have a telly in the changing rooms at my gym). Tosser John walks in, looks at me, looks at the telly and says “ Aint that all over now that the World Cup has finished?” A fair point.. “I suppose so, for a lot of people yes. We love it back at home though!” Tosser John’s face darkened. “Where you from anyway?” he says. “England mate” I reply. “Ok. So when you goin back?” says Tosser John. My face darkens at this dubious comment. “I’m not ‘going back’, I live here.” Tosser John tuts, rolls his eyes and curls his lip at me. “Got tired of your socialist government and ran away then, huh?” I see where this is going, and decide not to point out that Britain had recently elected a conservative government, and go for the slightly less offensive reply of “No, I married an American lady, and now I live and work here.” . “So, you’re not Australian or South African then?” says Tosser John. “No mate, definitely English.”, Says I. “I cant tell the difference , y’all guys are all fucked up anyway. You call that English speaking? I cant understand a word y’all guys are tryin to say. Y’all are fucked up.”, says Tosser John. I refrain from pointing out that I speak English a damn sight better than he can, grab my gym back and leave. Fortunately, Tosser John has had the courtesy not to bother talking to me at all since that incident, for which I am entirely grateful. And besides, if he did, I might well be tempted to reply with “What? Huh? Sorry, I only speak English….”

Now, I am not trying to belittle the American people here, nor am I making inflammatory comments towards them. If anything, this is about my own shortcomings and stumbling blocks that I have had to overcome so that I can communicate properly in Shell stations and supermarkets. Please, don’t start making rude and throwaway comments about what you think you know about the American people by using information that you have either got from the telly, or made up. The Brits are quick to do that, I have noticed, even the ‘liberal thinking’ ones.  And besides, if you make any nasty comments, my wife and her country will invade. They are very good at that, those crazy Yanks…