Talking the Talk

In pursuit (I presume) of "diversity" and the ears of the young – not to mention fending off accusations of broadcasting exclusively for and by a "metropolitan elite" – BBC Radio 4 has been introducing more and more variations on accent and pronunciation – fine – but also intelligibility: not so fine. With the result that, without naming names, we now have a morning news presenter who gabbles like an over-excited teenager, a continuity person whose fruity bass rumble rattles the tea-cups but who badly needs remedial sessions with the Pronunciation Unit (sorry, there really is no such thing as the "Bayou Tapestry"), along with an assortment of croakers, growlers, and monotone mutterers, many of whom also haitch their aitches and throttle their glottals, because, like, it's what we do, you know, where I come from, so why should I change?

Superficially, I suppose, this might seem to be about social class. After all, what isn't? And why should anybody be required to change their native way of speaking? I set out my stall on the question of British accents and their relationship to class in the post Waterloo 2.0, back in the days when it was Brexit rather than COVID-19 that was monopolising the UK headlines. Nothing has happened since to change my mind on the subject of "posh" pronunciation (a dialect as distinct as, say, Geordie) and the way it is used to fudge the supposed links between high social class, ability, and "natural leadership"; Boris Johnson is something of a type specimen in that regard. But, despite my egalitarian instincts, I'm finding that the increased difficulty in understanding what some distinctly un-posh voices on the radio are actually saying is a problem for me. I concede that I have tinnitus and some hearing loss, it's true, but I have never had a problem understanding Paul Mason or Winifred Robinson, both of whose BBC careers have allegedly been affected by snobbery about their "regional" accents in the past (although the former's politics and the latter's kind nature may have been factors, too).

In a previous post, I mentioned an old work colleague who, like Winifred, was a proud Liverpudlian. Geoff was an educated and intelligent man, and for many years headed the University Library's archives and special collections. Like increasing numbers of people who came from "provincial" backgrounds in the post-War years, he had refused to play along with the presumption of institutions like universities and broadcasters that an educated person in a professional role ought to adopt the southern so-called "received pronunciation". Instead, he spoke with a distinctive but clear and easily understood accent we might describe as Degaussed Scouse. There was no doubt where he was from, but also no doubt about what he was saying.

It's easy to think of similar cases. Public figures like John Arlott, Harold Wilson, Melvyn Bragg, or Michael Parkinson all retained distinctive elements of their native speech – mainly the vowels – but took care to enunciate clearly the all-important consonants, to respect the spaces between words, and to speak in carefully weighted sentences. They also cultivated a pleasing and often idiosyncratic rhythm and musicality to their speech so that, as public voices, they would both be a memorable "brand" and a pleasure to listen to, not to mention prime material for impressionists and satirists.

Now, I might be accused of being a member of that reviled metropolitan elite myself these days, but I have never attempted to hide my tribal origins: I'm proud to be a product of the first and best New Town, a state-school, council-house, full-grant graduate of Britain at its best. I still speak with a smoothed-off version of the voice I grew up with, although I can shift registers when necessary: I'm a good mimic, and my parents and teachers always emphasised the importance of being able to "speak well" when required. That said, my mother had been a telephone switchboard operator in her youth, and was required to do that hilarious 1940s receptionist's voice ("Hellay, ken I hep you?"), and it embarrassed me deeply when she put it on for the benefit of teachers at school parents' evenings. But however carefully I speak – as I felt obliged to do when I used to give PowerPoint presentations or speak at conferences, for example – it's always pretty obvious that I'm faking it and, as I don't have a particularly attractive voice to start with, I'm pretty sure I would not enjoy listening to myself on the radio.

But here's the thing: it never once occurred to me to set my sights on a career in public broadcasting. Nobody ends up regularly on air on the BBC by accident or mistake, or without the deployment of sharp elbows and even the occasional sharper implement, slipped between the metaphorical ribs of real rivals. That so many people are now landing plum broadcasting jobs with the vocal equivalent of "a good face for radio" (a good voice for newsprint?) is baffling to me, given the fierceness of the competition. It's almost as if the possession of a suitable vocal talent is one of the least considerations on the interview panel's checklist. I must admit I cringe when I hear some prolier-than-thou reporter refer to the "Haitch Ah Department", or insert an over-emphatic glottal stop into the words "community" or "political". Most of all, though, I resent not being able to follow the argument of analysts who gabble and mispronounce and use annoyingly repetitive speech patterns. I keep finding my attention is being diverted onto the medium, not the message, by constant little flashes of annoyance.

I suspect my reaction is, as much as anything, an indicator of advancing age. Rather like my male work colleagues who began their careers in the 1950s and 60s and habitually wore a tie, both at work and at home and quite possibly in bed, it is inevitable that I have become a repository for attitudes and opinions that belong to my generation, seem a little antiquated now, and are no longer shared by the young. I am not writing this post on a phone or a tablet or even a laptop, for example, but on a proper desktop "tower" PC, with a separate screen, keyboard, and mouse, which dominates a large table populated by cabled accessories – printer, scanners, speakers, backup drives, etc. – in a cluttered room full of unmatched hand-me-down and junk-shop furniture, with piles of books and stacks of paper on every available surface, including the floor (it's no wonder we have silverfish), all calculated to trigger a panic attack in any style-conscious millennial. So, when it comes to the radio, I find I still want to hear broadcasters who have made the effort to craft their voice into a pleasing if idiosyncratic instrument of communication. I don't need it to be "posh", just pleasant to listen to; not so much an invisible servant to the content – who wants radio degree zero? – as its ideal companion. I also don't need to hear someone "relatable" (i.e. "just like me") to feel entitled to listen to a programme – is that really an issue for anyone? – and I definitely don't want to hear anyone pretending to be just like me.

Something of this generational divide pervades my reaction to art, too. I will never learn to love the sort of creative effort that foregrounds its lack of accomplishment as a hallmark of "authenticity", whether it be artless photography emulating a "snapshot" aesthetic, drawings that flaunt cack-handed draughtsmanship, paintings with zero paint-handling skill, or musicians with less than a full command of their instruments. Call me old-fashioned, but I admire skill, flair, and facility: as John Keats put it, "if poetry comes not as naturally as the leaves to a tree, it had better not come at all". The assertion that "everyone is an artist", however well-intentioned, is surely as misguided as claiming that "everyone is a mathematician". Well, yes – I can just about work out what I will make after a gallery has deducted 40% commission plus VAT at 20% on a sale – but then again, no...

Skill, flair, and facility are not the same thing as "slick", though. I'm usually turned off by the sort of crowd-pleasing, easy-to-consume stuff that is merely a rehash of well-established conventions: the over-processed landscape photograph, for example, or the formulaic pop hit. If I've seen or heard it many times before, I really don't need to see or hear it yet again, just with added gloss and better packaging. It can be a thin line, though: Eddie Mair's confident patter, verging on the slick, was so much better to listen to on the afternoon news magazine programme PM than the stop-start wittering of Evan "um, er" Davis, despite the latter's superior authority in economic and political matters. I know, I know: it's hopeless, really, trying to satisfy both egalitarian and elitist ideals simultaneously. But that's the core dilemma of "meritocracy", isn't it? Which is a whole different subject, and probably best left to the likes of Michael Sandel.

So please, BBC, when recruiting new faces and voices, give some thought to why someone like David Attenborough is a living national treasure, and has been for over half a century. Is it because he is an ultra-posh toff with a commanding manner? No. Or is it because he is a salt-of-the-earth type, who likes to use demotic locutions, and is happy to f-bomb his commentaries ("Fuck me! Check the fevvers on that fuckin' parrot! Gorgeous, or what?")? Certainly not. Maybe it's because he is so relatable, someone "just like us", a really ordinary guy? Hardly. No, it is surely because, as senior ambassador for the natural world, he is transparently sincere, authoritative, and benign, and his entire personality embodies these qualities. But it is also not irrelevant that we can understand every word he says, and can enjoy (and even enjoy parodying) the unique way he has of saying them; it really does make all the difference. But again, "unique" is not the same thing as "weird": see Robert Peston or Jon Ronson [1].

So, look, why not bump "outstanding vocal talent" back up the person-specification interview checklist into the "mandatory" category, especially for talk radio? Regional accents are fine, but no more croakers, growlers, or mutterers, please... Oh, and whatever did happen to the Pronunciation Unit? Assuming it still exists, do you think we could get them to rule on and enforce the pronunciation of – just to pick a example at random – the name of the country that used to be known as Burma? Just a thought.

Tall tales of big feathers

1. Apologies to my non-British readers for all these names which probably mean nothing to you. I'm sure you can substitute your own examples, though.