by Tamar Wilner
What do the French refer to as crème anglaise?
Who sang the '80s hit "Big in Japan"?
What are the top six teams in the Scottish football premiership?
What was Marilyn Monroe's first feature film?
How many countries border Germany?
If you think the English pub experience is just about fizz-less beer, fried cod and chips, think again.
Once a week, the decibel level of many pubs goes from mess hall to monastery as patrons in various degrees of sobriety scribble down names, dates and places, whispering to each other and darting apprehensive glances at the next table over. After the first 20 or 30 questions, there's usually a break to stretch your legs, grab another pint, and catch up with your mates. But once the quizmaster takes up the mike, silence is key.
So when a gaggle of bullhorn-voiced Americans took up a station in our corner of Oxford's famed Eagle and Child pub, none of us quiz-takers were particularly amused. There must have been 15 of them, all crowded round a single tiny table in the pub's back room; still more positioned themselves closer to the centre of the pub, where the quizmaster read his questions.
"What London neighbourhood..." the quizmaster began, before his voice was overwhelmed.
"I can't understand a word that he's saying!" shouted a woman in silk blouse and pearls, as she perched herself upon a high stool.
"Is that English?" yelled another, in a distinctly Southern accent. I shuddered, and thought about how hard it's been to convince Brits that Knoxville is a nice place to live.
"Is that the picture?" A woman with severe gray hair and shrew-like face shoved her nose between me and my (American) friend Joyce. On our table lay a Xeroxed photograph of a cruise ship.
"Uh, no... They haven't read the photo question yet," we mumbled.
The Shrew withdrew her nose and returned abruptly to her table's ongoing chat, which rose to airliner volume before being quelled by the next round of "shh"s. The quizmaster read another question. "What seed was useful to Ali Baba?"
"Open sesame!" some of the Americans chortled.
Our steel-haired confidant leaned over to our table and stage-whispered knowingly. "Sesame," she intoned, hand cupped over mouth, proud to share this exclusive information with us. Joyce grimaced and looked down to her paper, where she'd already written the correct answer down.
In that moment, I felt myself one with the British people, united in resentment of the Ugly American—conveniently forgetting, of course, that I myself am American. I grew up 10 miles from the White House; I call aluMIN-Ium "aLUminum" and say "acclimate" rather than acclimatise. What business did I have being ashamed of my countrymen?
The Quizbusters' behavior certainly wasn't the most inconsiderate I've seen, and giving unsolicited answers isn't the worst crime someone could commit. Not knowing the conventions of a quiz night, they can be forgiven for bringing into the pub a large crowd intent on conversation rather than trivia. But as I glowered at them, I couldn't help thinking they should try harder not to be what all Americans are stereotyped as being: loud.
Undoubtedly, part of that stereotype has to do with British aversion to the American accent. To their ears, our "r"s sounds unnecessarily harsh and aggressive. The "a"s of "Mary" or "plan" sound nasal and staccato. I know this because after several extended stays in the United Kingdom, that's how my voice sounds to me.
The bad news is, Southern accents are regarded with even more disdain. To a limey, folks from Georgia, Arkansas, North Carolina and Tennessee all sound about the same: like Yankees, but even harsher and more nasal. Even worse, they can't much tell the difference between a true Southerner and a Texan, which means a Knoxville accent is likely to conjure up images of our chimp-eared president, his vowels pinched in stern resolve as he orders troops into Iraq. Here, as in the U.S., Bush has long been a subject of derision, for his malapropisms as well as his questionable ascent into power.
As Knoxvillians know all too well, outsiders often interpret the Southern accent as a signpost for ignorance, stupidity or worse. Bush Jr. has only cemented such prejudice with gems like "Is our children being educated?" and "Put food on your family." Top that with the British majority's opposition to the new war, and you've got one seriously ridiculed commander-in-chief. So when some of the Loud Americans spoke with Southern accents, I wasn't surprised to note particularly vicious stares from quiz-takers.
Some Brits even take on a Forrest Gump accent anytime they try to imitate Americans. Joyce reports that one man she met at a party mocked her by referring to Grand Central Station as "Gray-ind Centraaaahhl." Clearly, for him, the Southern accent is the lowest variety of low English.
Of course, if the British really want to make fun of some bizarre accents, they only have to turn to each other. Former Eagle and Child regular J.R.R. Tolkien started the work that would become The Linguistic Atlas of England; that project found differences of dialect within the space of eight miles. So whether from Newcastle, Sheffield, Bristol, Birmingham or London, most Britons are pretty ripe for ribbing.
But with the State Department warning Americans abroad to keep a "low profile," I couldn't help thinking, nasal or not, those pub visitors just needed to keep their voices down. And if they boned up on Scottish football, that wouldn't hurt.
April 3, 2003 * Vol. 13, No. 14
© 2003 Metro Pulse
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