You’re in Pret and someone asks if they can “grab a coconut Flat White.” Or queuing at Greggs and you overhear a teen squeal, “lovin’ this whole sausage-roll situation.”
It’s especially common among younger generations who have grown-up with YouTube and US streaming sites. Can’t blame knackered parents plonking their kids down with an iPad to keep them quiet. But the steady diet of American vloggers and television is having an influence on our language.
According to a new survey, more than half of primary-school teachers have heard pupils say trash or garbage instead of rubbish, and about 65% reported hearing candy instead of sweets.
Worst of all, some even say the little ones slip into an American accent on occasion. I’m no parent, but if I were I’d honestly rather my child swore like a docker than talk with that upward-inflected nasal twang. Genuinely, I would prefer it if they barked: “Oi mum I ain’t ga’n bed, you fackin’ muppet, ” than whine “Moooommy, I, like, literally cannot even sleep right now.
But why is it that Americanisms irritate so much? Our language is a glorious, rich tapestry woven from centuries of trade, empire, migration, and multiculturalism.
No one shudders hearing Frenchisms like boutique or croissant; Italianisms like espresso and graffiti; Germanisms like schadenfreude, zeitgeist; or Indian imports like bungalow, pyjamas and shampoo. English is an extraordinarily porous language – that’s partly why roughly 1.5 billion people speak it.
Generation by generation, it evolves whether we like it or not. If it didn’t, we’d be texting in Old English and our Whatsapp would look like this:
– “By my trouthe, this train doth crawl as slowe as a snail stuck in treacle’s thrall!. Ther be leaves upon the lyne AND the sygnal hath y-failed. The devil hath cursèd me!!!”
– “Lo, I have y-bought a M&S Gastropubbe chicken Kiev with mashe for sopper. How longe wendest thou? Shal I sette the oven yit?!”
– “It is al y-crammèd and it stinketh foule here! Y-wis, I shal, by God’s grace, be hoom in tyme for thy Celebritie Traitours semi-fynal to-nyght. #AlanCarrtowynne”
So next time you hear someone call it a television “season” instead of a “series” resist the urge to wallop them on the head with the unabridged Oxford English Dictionary. Just nod, sip your builder’s tea, and remember Canute could not hold back the tide and nor can you, buddy.
So, the new John Lewis Christmas advert has landed and it’s the usual sentimental guff. A surly teenager gifts his dad a ‘90s vinyl and it makes for some feelgood father and son festive bonding. Alison Limerick’s club classic Where Love Lives provides the soundtrack, but obvs, a slowed-down version. Ever so predictable. Yawn. Which is why I’ve written my own Christmas commercial.
It opens on a mum with a screaming toddler. She’s trying to do the Christmas shopping, but in every scene the kid is throwing himself on the floor, pulling products off shelves, refusing to be in or out of the pushchair. Queues are crazy, there’s nowhere to park, it’s freezing cold, and the little red-faced terror doesn’t stop wailing till he’s given some chocolate coins. There’s a moment of calm before he drops one and starts screaming again. The soundtrack is a gentle cover of Anarchy in the UK by The Sex Pistols. Soft piano, jingle bells, breathy-vocal: “I am an Antichrist. I am an anarchist. Don’t know what I want, but I know how to get it…”
Next shot, it’s Christmas day, there’s wrapping paper everywhere, the kitchen is a bombsite, the tot is hammering on a toy piano. Dad slips a present to the weary mum. It’s a small jewellery box. There’s surprise and delight. She opens it, and looks lovingly at him, tears in her eyes. Then we see what it is. Not diamond earrings… a solitaire Valium. Merry Christmas, peace on earth.