Where have all the bin lids gone? An Irishman’s Diary on Belfast English

I am a bit worried about my language. Not the Irish one – though that is a constant source of concern. No, rather, I am worried about that other language in Ireland – the English one. I know! I know! It is indeed hard to credit that an Irish speaker would worry about the Japanese knotweed of a language that is gradually choking the native one to death. However, believe it or not, some of my best friends are English speakers and, being from Belfast, and a learner of Irish, my ear still welcomes and searches out the distinctive English of my home city.

Not surprisingly, Belfast English has changed over my life time and the English of my teenage years is being gradually eroded away by “American” – unique little adjectives and phrases are being replaced by Hollywood slang.

I belong to that generation of Belfast people who had three television channels – BBC1, BBC2 and UTV. I grew up watching cricket in the summer (there was nothing else on), Morecambe and Wise (so funny they must have had an Irish connection!), westerns and, of course, British war films, which were a staple of Saturday afternoon on BBC2.

Hurricane

Indeed, I would put good money on it that there is no Irish speaker on the planet with such a minute knowledge of fighter aircraft of the second World War than mé féin. Show me a picture and I will identify Hurricane, Spitfire, Me109, Thunderbolt, Lightning. That sad anorak knowledge even extends to tanks. I cannot for the life of me watch the

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with any enjoyment, knowing that the Germans are actually attacking the Americans in American tanks!

Nein! Nein! Nein!

(In fact, it may be true that someone – who shall remain nameless – might have watched so many war films of a Saturday afternoon that he ended up going around the streets of West Belfast greeting every unexpected event with a hardy John Mills-like "Strewth!". Thankfully, I – I mean "he" – did not start shouting "Achtung Engländer" at passing British army foot patrols.)

Pictures

Of course, American had an influence on Belfast English before the advent of television. The pictures – as we called the cinema – were big in Belfast and the old cinemas, long gone, were popular with all. The westerns of old certainly had an effect on Belfast English. It used to be very common in Belfast parlance to refer to someone as being “a right Comanche”. It was not, by the way, a slur on the Comanche. It simply meant that someone was a bit wild, well, very wild.

I am not sure why Belfast people adopted the Comanche as short hand for being fierce. I do not know why the other tribes were ignored. No one was ever a bit of an Arapaho or a Cheyenne or a Crow. The Commanche reigned supreme in the bad lands of Belfast, it seemed. I do not think that, in these politically correct days, anyone will ever say “Your man is a bit of a Native American” with any great conviction.

Astounding

Still, the pictures was one thing, the television another. As the cinema declined, it was the box in the corner that brought American to a new generation in the city. My younger sisters’ generation — a good 10-plus years younger than me — began to learn American at an astounding rate. (They know absolutely nothing about fighter planes, by the way, and could not distinguish a Beaufighter from a Tiger tank.)

I am not sure if it was Mork and Mindy, Happy Days or Hollywood 90201 that was responsible but downtown Andytown began to sound like California. All of sudden, there were "dorks" and "dweebs" in Belfast where once there had only been tubes, head-the-balls and bin lids. Worse, even the local, deep-rooted adjectives changed. Things became "gross" when once they had always been "minging". What had been "dead on" or "sound" became "cool".

The slide continues. “Gross” and “cool” have now gone out with the ark. My teenage daughters look aghast at their aunties’ old-fashioned American. The trendy words are “legend” and “slick” now. “You’re looking slick, dad,” is a compliment they occasionally throw my way when I manage – in my middle-aged dotage – to throw on some clothes that don’t make me look like a tube or dork.

You have probably noticed the same linguistic erosion in your own local dialect. A female friend from Limerick once described another woman she knew as being “a bit of a wagon”. I have to say that we did not have “wagons” in Belfast and I don’t know what she meant other than, I suspect, it was not a compliment. Do they still have “wagons” or “eejits” or “galoots” down South or have they too been rolled away by all-conquering American?

Ochón, ochón and a big ochón.

The old English is as dead as Hector, so it is, so it is.