If I had an English accent, well, you couldn’t resist me.
I would be intelligent and cultured and thoughtful and have the greatest manners and be trustworthy and honest and debonaire and have quite a witty sense of humor that combined my knowledge of history with my knowledge of teas and classic 16th century literature. I would stand up straight and I would eat with the right fork and I would have American women swooning at the simple mention of the words “cheers”, “bullocks” and “right-o”.
I could be the biggest, most annoying, idiotic man in the world, but because of my English accent — well, you would embrace me with all your heart.
As just a normal American guy, there are just some things I can’t pull off. If I were to walk into a bar, spot a girl on the other side of the room, approach her and say, “You are quite fetching, so much so that I could just eat you up!” you would throw a drink in my face. But with an English accent? You would want to have my children. As just a normal American guy, if I were to offer to walk you across the street you would sack me in the face with your designer Kate Spade — but with an English accent? You would accept and then call all your friends to tell them the story about the debonaire English chap who proved to you that chivalry was indeed, not dead.
I have tried to fake the accent in the past.
At a particuarly loud party, I informed a particular woman that I was from England — we talked for what seemed like hours about driving on the wrong side of the road, bangers and mash, the loo, the queue at the loo, the tube, driving on the wrong side of the road, the Queen (god save her) and six pence (although I don’t know why). She wondered if I had ever met the Rolling Stones (which I had) and the Beatles (which I had seen but never met) and if I ever saw Monty Python (which I had, on TV). She queried me about Scotland (“really green”) and Germany (“very German”) and driving on the wrong side of the road (“just crazy!”) and how I felt about Sir Elton John (“gay but happy”). We talked and talked and talked and she was so excited that she had met an English guy HERE IN LOS ANGELES. I mean, what are the chances (“many, apparently”).
That was, until she heard me talking to a friend a few minutes later (“dude, can you believe she believed I was from England”) and I realized the jig was up.
Still, when solicitors call, I throw on my proper attitude and cultured face and talk talk talk talk talk in my really bad English accent. And you know what? Yeah, no one believes me.
Still – if I had an English accent for real, that was good and legitimate… Life would be so much easier. I would be treated with the respect that which the British Monarchy gets on a daily basis. And sure, I might be treated like a figurehead — but I would be looked up to as the most cultured chap on the face of the Earth.
Of that, dear readers, I am bloody sure.