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One of the lesser-known sides of broadcasting life in the Belfast and Derry newsrooms during the Troubles involved “mentoring” English reporters to advise them on the pronunciation of awkward placenames. These visiting “firemen” as they were called, were flown in from London for big stories, part of a veritable army that included editors, producers, cameramen and fixers.
Local hacks were responsible for shepherding them through the political flashpoints and helping them make sense of maps with large splashes of orange or green. Their job also included sorting out the complex linguistic minefield to avoid mispronunciation gaffes of towns and villages on radio or television.
When a mistake was made on the airwaves, it led to embarrassing moments, a gnashing of molars among the bosses, and a deluge of complaints from enraged listeners and viewers whose ears had been “assaulted.”
Many of the reporters came with plummy estuary English accents – more Oxbridge than Toomebridge – and were unfamiliar with local names and where the correct stress lay. Although streetwise, they were unaware of the distinctive nomenclature, the innocent appearance of some names which concealed a trap, and local dialect variants. Frequently, they were tripped up in their measured tones by places along the Border such as the south Armagh village Meigh (Mike) or Rosslea (Ross-lay) in Fermanagh. Along with Armagh, these two counties invariably attracted an additional “r” tacked on to the end, so they sounded like Fermanner and Arm-aar (but nothing like Our-ma). Omagh was another challenge, generally pronounced with the emphasis wrongly on “magh”.
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Ulster towns with the letters “gh” led to particular difficulties and were often pronounced with a “k” sound. Unwitting amusement was caused with Ahoghill, Aghadowey and Aughnacloy, while Maghaberry, Magheralin and Magherafelt all led to treacherous on-air mistakes. The chances of any of these reporters saying Marrafelt were slender and no amount of elocution coaching made any difference. Donaghadee was always destined to be Donack-adee.
Occasionally, Craigavon was broadcast to sound like Stratford-upon-Avon, and a network television news presenter once bizarrely pronounced Coalisland as Kollis-land. Tyrone was rendered Ty-rone rather than Tirrone, Donegal was Dawn-a-gal, Monaghan sounded like Monakan, Drogheda metamorphosed into Drok-heeda, and Dún Laoghaire once became Dun Lough Airey. The story is told with relish of an English newsreader who caused one of the greatest wince-factors by memorably renaming Athenry in Co Galway as At Henry; this was almost on a par with the reference to Uprichard Park in Belfast, mispronounced as Up Richard Park.
The silent “l” also caused a problem, with Dun-dalk and Belvoir (Beaver) two regular contenders. Even the simplest of names could catch the unwary. The river Lagan, ebbing and flowing through Belfast, turned into Lagg-aan, Strabane sounded like Stra-bane to rhyme with rain, instead of Stra-ban, Dunadry became Dun-a-dri, Millisle in Co Down Mill-istle (rhyming with thistle), Cultra never sounded like Kul-traw, Boho in Fermanagh was more boo-hoo than Bo, and Fahan in the Inishowen peninsula was a long way from the correct Fawn. A leading reporter once received a phonological lesson on Augher, Clogher, Fivemiletown, and when the live broadcast moment arrived he managed to make it through Awk-er and Clock-er but stumbled in silty tones at the final hurdle which came out as Fi-miltn.
Local journalists and listeners felt that mispronunciation of proper names showed a lack of care. Although they would direct the visiting reporters to the BBC Pronouncing Dictionary of British Names there was rarely time, with deadlines approaching, to consult it, or to contact the office of the pronunciation unit in London where a small team of orthoepists (professional pronouncers) dealt with queries. Sometimes locals simply gave up since it was much more fun to hear Portglenone pronounced Portglen-one rather than Portglen-own to rhyme with the Swiss chocolate Toblerone.
One hoary old editor was fond of saying, “He’s a wonderful reporter but he could do with some electrocution [sic] lessons.”
The English too, for their part, can point to numerous placenames that bear no resemblance to their spelling. On a rare quiet news day, a visiting correspondent once scribbled a list to see how the clever locals would get their tongues around the following enigmatic English placenames: Bicester (bister), Ruthven (rivven), Prideaux (pridducks), Hautbois (hobbiss), Meopham (meppam), Leominster (lemster), Beaudesert (belzer) and the delightful-sounding Kentish town, Dent-de-Lion, pronounced dandili-on.
The ultimate pronunciation test of Irish townland names involved reading a verse – without hesitation – of WF Marshall’s ballads, and listening to the home counties accents doing battle with the lilt, rhythms and cadences of “Tyrone Jigs”.
“There’s Altmacossy and Croshballinree,
There’s bonnie Dunmullan and Edintiloan,
And Tullyodonell and Tanderagee
With Tattynagole and Derrykintone.
There’s Termonamongan and Tullynashane
And — merry as ever and light on the toe
Here they come dancing in rhythm entrancing — Fernaghandrum and Sanaghanroe.”