Still More Adventures In English As A Second Language

During my church volunteer stint recently, I was chatting with the pastoral assistant (she does much more than that, including serving as the chief caretaker for Greg, but we'll just go with her title for now) about her duties as chaplain at a nearby Catholic girls' high school. She mentioned one of her duties was coordinating the school's "peer mentoring" program.

With her non-rhotic accent, however, I had a terrible time understanding what she was talking about. To my rhotic ears, I heard her saying one of two things initially: "pee mentoring" (a strange proposition, since most high schoolers ought to be potty trained) or "P.M. entering" (again, a strange proposition since most high schoolers are ready for all-day school).

On her third repetition, I finally understood what she was talking about.

That's Pants

Yes, a British English expression for something that's really bad, or your underwear. Annie Mole, as usual, has spotlighted the Pants Day, a version of the No Pants days on mass transit in several American cities. As Annie notes, going without "pants" in Britain can get you arrested, hence the name variation.

The Further Continuing Adventures Of English As A Second Language

Crimbo.

Saying "Merry Crimbo" just doesn't sound right.

Familiarity Breeds Contempt, Part 2

Forgot to mention:

Don't get all snarky if I refer to the game you call "football" as "soccer." You also call it "soccer." I am now watching a TV show on a sports channel called "Soccer a.m."

Things I Miss

The word dude.

Yes, the multi-expressive dude.

Familiarity Breeds Contempt

I know that's the adage, and it's true in my case, at least lately. I've been struggling on occasion in my relations with British people, and it's an attitude problem. I think it's that I've wearied a bit with the "first and best" attitude held by some when it comes to their contact with Americans.

I can trace my attitude change to an incident at a party held by a colleague of Mrs. Werbenmanjensen a month or so ago, when I was about to get the "why-do-you-call-it-the-World-Series-when-it's-only-teams-from-America?" lecture, as if this had never occurred to me nor had anybody ever mentioned it to me. I finally had to ask him if an English cricketer would rather win the World Cup, a contest among all the cricketing nations of the world, or The Ashes, a contest with just one other country (PS: It's The Ashes). He didn't think that a fair comparison, but he did point out in the same vein that the Six Nations is technically only a contest between four nations.

This conversation was the first of several incidents I've found at least a little irritating lately. Perhaps the whole thing was accelerated during the Olympics period when the British press was picking a fight over medal tallies. (No, it wasn't just so Americans look good this Olympiad. We've always done it that way. It's you who choose to denigrate silver and bronze by failing to count them.)

So to any native who might be reading this: I've lived here two and a half years. So please understand:

1. The "British" Open was the first of the major golf championships in the world and should therefore be called "the Open Championship." I know this, so please don't lecture me about it.
1a. No, really, Americans don't take the Ryder Cup that seriously, no matter how much you try to convince yourself otherwise. Golf ain't a team sport.
2. There are various claims about inventions attributed to Americans that may have been British. History is written by the winners.
2a. We could get into a long debate about who exactly invented the first computer. Suffice it to say: IBM and Apple are not British companies.
2b. You are way ahead of the US when it comes to broadband, digital television innovation and mobile phones. I said it. Leave me alone.
3. You spell honor with a "u", check with a "que" and summarize with an "s". I work for Americans. Therefore it would cause some difficulty if I got in the practise of spelling like you.
4. (Courtesy of Mrs. W) When I say things like "VY-ta-min D" there's no point in you saying back to me "VIT-a-min D." I know we pronounce it differently. I'm not going to change, and neither are you.
5. I'm not saying things like "brilliant" and "bugger all" to make fun of you. It's things I've actually picked up.
6. "High-fives" are not something British people do or are that comfortable with. But I'm going to do them when I'm excited anyway.

Talk Like A Pirate Day!

Aye, it's Capn Smitty here to remind ye it's Talk Like A Pirate Day, which be a holiday in the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster. Celebrate or I'll keelhaul ye! Ye mateys can start by singing this shanty.

English As A Second Language, Cont'd

Words I thought were cute English expressions until I moved here and found out they were rude:

Bloody
Wanker
Tosser
Sod
Bollocks

English As A Second Language: A Strange Preposition

This is something that's been kicking around my head for awhile. While I was prepared for the different usages that everybody who knows anything about Britain is familiar with (lorry vs. truck, lift vs. elevator, boot vs. trunk), one of the usages that surprised me was the different prepositions. This is, I suppose, just another one of those things that emerges when people speaking a similar language are divided by an ocean for a few centuries. I find myself unable to adjust to these usages in my own speech. For example:

American usage vs. British usage

At 5 p.m. vs. From 5 p.m.
On Fleet Street vs. In Fleet Street
During, over, or this weekend vs. At the weekend
(Not a preposition, but ...)
Take a decision vs. Make a decision
Take exercise vs. uhhhh, exercise

These are hardly a big deal, I suppose, but I can't get used to them, even after two years.

English2American: The Dead Tree Version

The author of the English2American dictionary, blogrolled on the right, sends an email to the various beer-buyers on his list:

Some time in the last ten years you emailed me with suggestions about “The English-to-American Dictionary”, my dictionary of British slang. Perhaps we exchanged several emails. Perhaps you bought me a drink. In any event, at some point I sent you a mail saying that you were to appear in the honour roll on my contributors list, and there your name resides to this day.

For about half of these ten long years I've been dribbling on about how I'm going to turn the web site into a book, become wealthy and famous and leave this dirty town for good. That'll show them. Well, in the last year or so I've managed to get my act together somewhat on this, and within the next few months it should be available at Lulu.com - it's not a real publisher, it's one of those places that will just print a copy and send it if anyone orders one. I may be in this dirty town for the foreseeable future.

If you want to be notified when the real book comes out, go here.

English As A Second Language: Dead Man's Chest

Wafty.

I guessed its meaning from the context of an occasional Radio 6 feature, "Wicked or Wafty?" in which they play a song and ask listeners to text in their judgment.

English As A Second Language, The Signage Edition

KathyF over at What Do I Know has a delightful post about English language usage on public signs. Her post says more than I can. Actually, the photo says more than I can.

I'd like to add that the following English sign (photo taken almost two years ago now) remains one of my favorites:


What does that mean? I simply don't know.

English As A Second Language: At World's End

Minging: Ugly. It can be used, impolitely, to describe a person or, more politely, conditions.

You might refer to somebody who tried to pick you up at a pub as a "minger," such as these, or you might refer to the conditions on, let's say, Monday night as "minging."

Irish As A First Language

Beyond the Pale: Well, it's not Irish-specific, but it applies in reference to the Dublin Pale, the area of settlement surrounding Dublin. To live "beyond the pale" was to be a long way away. Also, if you were bad, you could be tossed out of the pale, hence your behavior was "beyond the pale."

(I learned this from an Irishman whose hometown was just inside the pale.)

Friday Catblogging

I'm feeling a bit bored with my own collection, so I think I might nick something from The Daily Kitten.

Cultural Exchange

And if you haven't had enough of me writing about sports this week ... this Sunday is the first regular NFL game outside of North America, in Wembley Stadium, which Mrs. Werbenmanjensen and I will be attending. (One of Mrs. W's English colleagues said to her, "So it's rugby for wimps?") The Guardian, which yesterday informed us of acceptable elocution in the House of Commons, including the use of scatological terms, noted without comment that while fans of the Miami Dolphins call their team the "Fish," dolphins are actually mammals.

And If Hanguns Were Legal Here, They'd Have To Make The Stripes Two Football Pitches Apart

The things you learn from reading a newspaper (warning: word offensive to some is used below):

The two red stripes in the House of Commons carpet are to remind MPs not to lose their rag with rivals. They are two sword lengths apart and MPs may not cross them when speaking. MPs may not use a raft of provocative words either. Accumulated over centuries of rulings non-words include: blackguard, coward, git, guttersnipe, hooligan, ignoramus, liar, rat, swine, stool pigeon, and traitor. Shit is apparently OK when used as a noun rather than a bodily function. But euphemisms for lying are also frowned on. Hence the Tory roars of "Withdraw" yesterday when Gordon Brown accused David Cameron of "misleading people". But after checking the record the speaker Michael Martin told MPs the prime minister had not used unparliamentary language because he had not accused the Tory leader of misleading fellow MPs - only people. Mr Brown was either smart or lucky.

Jersey As A Second Language

Overheard at the Grounds for Sculpture, a conversation about the piece pictured above, titled "Eye on the Ball."

"Dis one's cwalled 'Oye on the Bwahl.'"
"'Oye on the Bwahl' or 'Oye on the Bwowl?'"
"'Oye on the Bwahl!'"

The Continuing Adventures Of English As The Best Bureaucracy A Second Language Can Buy

This is a combination of two of our favorite features at Americans Amuck, English As A Second Language and The Best Bureaucracy Money Can Buy:

Last week I had to report to the Job Centre in Camden Town. Long story short: In order to file my taxes properly as a self-employed individual, I need a National Insurance number (equivalent of Social Security number in the United States). For many of the same reasons as Social Security must be vigilant against fraud, so too must National Insurance. So I had to go through an "interview" at which I presented documentation indicating that I was running a bona fide business. I show up for my 14:30 interview at about 14:25 to a somewhat squat office building a few blocks from where the goths and punks of Camden Town tend to congregate to buy Doc Martens, piercings and black apparel. It was, and this won't surprise you, a somewhat shabby building: Too many coats of paint trying to disguise age, decaying dropped ceilings, broken lift, modular furniture in my waiting area that would have looked more comfortable on the set of Laugh-In.

I was eventually called to my interview with Barbara. The "interview" consisted of me presenting passport and visa, along with documents demonstrating the existence of my business, and her filling in the forms and asking for more documents that I wasn't actually asked to bring in the letter that confirmed my appointment. There were long silences between the questions as she filled out my application or as she disappeared to make photocopies of my documents. I entertained myself by listening to an interview with a Romanian man whose friend was translating for him:

"Ask him if he has a wife."
"Something in Romanian."
"Something in Romanian."
"Yes."
"Ask him if she's with him."
"Something in Romanian."
"Something in Romanian."
"Yes."
"Ask him for how long."
"Something in Romanian."
"Something in Romanian."
"For about six months."

Barbara asked me if we banked in the United Kingdom and, of course, we do, at Vogon Galactic. Of course, I didn't bring a checkbook with me, but would have had I known that they would be asking my account number, so then she asked which branch. I shrugged and said, "It's some branch downtown."

At this, Barbara smiled. "I liked how you said that: Downtown."
I sheepishly said, "Oh yeah, of course I mean, the City."

(Dang it, I don't care if "downtown" is an Americanism, Petula Clark belongs to Britain, not America.)

A Tale of Two Taxis, or, the Wives of Cab Drivers

I had two very different taxi experiences today, and thought I'd share them:

This morning, my hotel was loading luggage by the score (that's 20 to you young'uns) into a giant truck, and so I had trouble getting a cab. When I did get one, I explained in my rubbish Spanish that I needed him to take me to the hotel where my colleagues were staying, and then take me to the conference center. Immediately, he launches into a long explanation (in Catalan-accented Spanish, no less) about why he can't take me to the conference center. I managed to gather that it had something to do with his wife, because he kept saying "la senora" and making a gesture with his ring finger (though there was no ring on it. Hmm.).

This afternoon, upon leaving the conference center, the caballero who picked us up misunderstood our Spanglish instructions and had to backtrack to my friends' hotel. Once he and I were alone in the cab, he tried to have a conversation with me after I apologized for the mix-up. (One thing you have to admire about Spanish cabbies is their persistence: They will continue talking long after you've stopped understanding them.) But he was actually making an effort, and between the two of us speaking bits of each other's tongues, I managed to tell him what kind of conference I was attending, when it ended, and so on. Unfortunately, my attempt at the word "journalist" got misunderstood as "cardiologist" so he was telling me how well he ate, that he was a runner, and that he had stopped smoking a year ago. He credited his wife, said she was "la generale de la casa" (pardon my grammar). I said I was at my house too (after an awkward pause in which I struggled to remember my first person pronouns). He asked if I had children (there was a precious hand gesture for this, a rounded tummy!) and I said no, sadly. When we got to my hotel, he told me it had been a pleasure and he shook my hand! Quite the charming fellow, the complete opposite of the first cabbie.

Of course, I tipped generously... And now I need to hit the cash machine before dining here.