Onwards!

So, as most people will have seen by now, my Series of Escalating Dares endeavour has sadly been cancelled. My dad is having surgery in the middle of that very week, and I both want and need to be at home with him and Ma. I'm disappointed of course, but there will be plenty of other opportunities to raise money in the future, and in the meantime, potential sponsorship can be directed elsewhere! My housemate Ross is running the BUPA 10k for UNICEF, and you can sponsor him here, and my (very brave!) friend Tom is doing both the London Marathon and the Three Peaks Challenge in aid of the Bobby Moore Fund, which donates to colon cancer research, and can be sponsored here. Brilliant guys, amazing causes.

Elsewhere in my life, I am hurling myself headlong into other projects, and am thus hijacking my own blog to pimp out my newest project. Myself and Dr Chris Montgomery at the University of Sheffield will be presenting a paper at the i-Mean Language and Identity conference in April (eee!), looking at accent and identity in the Potteries/Stoke-on-Trent accent.

That's where you (might) come in! We need as many Stoke folk to take this accent survey as possible - it only last about five minutes, and is completely anonymous. If you're a local, please do give it a go, and if you could share it with friends and family too, that would be amazing.

Thanking you kindly!

End of year 2012 -- feelings and joy

So, 2012, in many ways, has been an absolute shitter. Like, the worst. 2012 can basically go and fuck itself, all told. HOWEVER, I really don't want the crappy parts of the year to be the things that stay with me, as there was a huge amount of joy too, and I'm still incredibly lucky. I learned a lot, had some brilliant adventures, and generally enthused about a lot of stuff. And so, to finish the year in the only way I know how: a sentimental blog post about the things that were great about 2012.

My family
For obvious reasons, it's been a really tough year for the Leaches. But it's important to take good things from bad situations, and if there's anything I've learnt from all this shite, it's how to properly appreciate my incredible family. I know they say you can't choose your family, but even if I could, I would absolutely pick mine again and again. They strong and smart and fun, supportive and sweet and ridiculous, and the most wonderful stone cold pack of weirdos I could ever hope to ever share my DNA with. It shouldn't take family disasters to make you realise how much your parents and siblings mean to you, but I'll take it.

Pop music
I don't have a particularly 'cool' taste in music and never have, but 2012 was the year I finally, properly said 'balls to that' and decided that I don't give a shit any more. There's a longer, more ridiculous blog post in the offing on this topic, but in short, I could not care less that I love pop music. McFly are one of my favourite bands. Call Me Maybe is one of the best songs of the year*. One Direction's album is pretty damn excellent. Stuff it all - I'm a teenie bopper for life and I care naught for judgement. (Ohhh, you just wait for my soundtrack of the year. Consider yourselves warned.)

One thing pop music is good for is remembering that somewhere inside us is the potential for unvanquishable joy." — John Darnielle

The Olympic and Paralympic Games
I didn't really have anything above normal Olympics-based excitement before it all kicked off, but as soon as I watched that magnificent, barmy showstopper of an opening ceremony I was hooked, and swept away on a tidal wave of sexy patriotism and crying over medal ceremonies. The celebration of working class Britain, the of endless dedication to a cause, of sportspeople not swathed in scandal and corruption. Wiggo's sideburns, Rutherford's fingers, Farah's Mobot and a veritable army of fierce, fantastic ladies doing themselves, their families, and the nation proud. It was a summer of staggering world achievement, Britain in the spotlight and a kind of enthusiasm and community spirit that's been in decline lately.

image source

I'm going to attempt a brief top-five Olympics highlights, but it's really just five brilliant Olympics moments off the top of my head and there are probably a million I've forgotten. But anyway:

1. PAPA LE CLOS
2. Tom Daley's medal celebration
3. Epke Zonderland's bonkers-incredible high bar routine
4. Mo Farah doing the lightning bolt, and Usain Bolt doing the Mobot
5. Obama and McKayla Maroney doing the 'not impressed' face

Also, the Olympics brought us the joys of Ryan Lochte's twitter and general existence, which I will never not find entirely hilarious. WAKE UP AND SMELL THE GARDENS.

Stoke-based epiphanies
Better explained in this waffly business here, it's been wonderful to find a kind of purpose for my academic future. I want to analyse the shit out of Stokie speakers, their accents, how their speech is entwined with their cultural history, and I want to do it forever and ever amen.

Thinking about things
As has been evidenced in a fair few ranty blog posts, this year has been one for me having feelings about things and issues and serious business stuff. Well, I always have feelings about things, but 2012 has been a year for paying attention to what people are saying and writing, learning from them and trying to take it on board, as well as trying to speak up when I feel the need. The Internet is full of informed, sensible, tolerant and smart people, and I can't even begin to list the articles which have made a difference to my opinons about a wide range of topics. I hope 2013 continues the trend of reading everything, evaluating my beliefs and opinions, and trying not to be a dick.

Colours!
It's an odd one, but those of you who know me will know I have the fashion sense of a colourblind clown, aka. ALL THE COLOURS ALL THE TIME. This has...escalated this year, and my cornea-burning fashion sense has gotten more and more ridiculous. And I love it. I honestly don't feel myself when I'm not wearing some kind of obscene colour combination. It's actually gotten to the point where excellent friends will tweet/text me when they're wearing a particularly colourful outfit and it's marvellous.

Enthusiasm
Seriously, the only thing that has got me through this monstrous year is being able to be enthusiastic about little things - a new episode of Doctor Who, a trip to the beach, a pub quiz. I'm so grateful for the fun stuff I get to do, for the opportunities I'm given, for the people I get to spend my time with. I'm a lucky bastard, all told. Thanking everyone individually would be time-consuming/self-serving/boring, so I will just go for a blanket THANK YOU to every single person in my life. I love you all. Yes, even you. And especially you.

Here's to 2013, all!

*This justification of why Call Me Maybe is the song of 2012 is absolutely brilliant. "This is what pop is for, right? A Canadian Idol refugee nobody ever heard of conquers the planet with a diabolically brilliant blast of teen lust"

On Stoke, and a change of heart

Here are two facts about me:

1. I grew up in Newcastle-under-Lyme, a small town right next to Stoke-on-Trent.
2. I used to be ashamed of this first fact.

And a third.

3. I'm no longer ashamed of the first fact, but I am ashamed of the second.

I'm from Stoke. I'm not really a Stokie, nor will I ever be, really, but I'm sick of being embarrassed by my hometown, and I'm angry with myself for having been so in the past. I've had what you might call a minor epiphany, of late, and have realised that a lot of the resentment I held towards Stoke as a city was wrapped up in my own, under-the-surface classism and prejudice, something I'm hoping to rid myself of in the future. Here's hoping this is the start of it.

To provide a bit of history/geography, Stoke-on-Trent is a city in the North West Midlands of the UK, approximately equidistant from Manchester in the North and Birmingham in the South, not far from Crewe and Alton Towers*. 

Look, there it is!

Notable Stokies include the novelist Arnold Bennett; Edward Smith, Captain of the Titanic; footballer Stanley Matthews; Slash from Guns n Roses (for the first five years of his life, anyway); and - of course - Robbie Williams**. It's quite unique in its construction, being a conurbation of six towns - Burslem, Tunstall, Hanley, Fenton, Longton and Stoke*** - which also means it has a complex identity and fragmented sense of self, juxtaposed with a strong sense of local pride.

Historically, it has always been an industrial centre, surrounded by moorlands. Its pottery, mining and steel industries were some of the best in the country, with Wedgewood pottery being its most prominent and impressive export. However, recession and the Conservative government of the 80s led to much of this being closed or downsized - a huge hit for the city's economy. It's never quite recovered.

Perhaps owing to a combination of its faltering industry, lack of 'historic' and stereotypically pleasant architecture and portrayal in the media (as well as other factors), Stoke is often used as a shorthand for non-affluence, dreariness and/or unpleasantness. For example, in Charlie Brooker's Gameswipe, he described a video game which depicted a post-apocalyptic landscape strewn with dead bodies and toxic waste, and likened it to 'living in Stoke'. The amount of times, when telling people I'm from Stoke, I've been greeted with sighs of patronising pity, is really quite ridiculous.

Thing is, I used to buy into it, too. I was embarrassed. Stoke isn't pretty - it's not York or Durham or Cambridge. And it's not a new, thriving urban centre like Manchester or Sheffield. It's stagnant, it's struggling, and it's deprived. It has poor levels of heathcare, a high number of families relying on benefits, and was recently listed as the eighth poorest place in the UK. Football-related violence and BNP support are rife and widely-reported**** in the area. But I've realised that doesn't make it a bad place and doesn't make its people any lesser, nor does it justify a) my being embarrassed by it, or b) people openly mocking it.

I don't claim to be working class - to say would be appropriative and stupid. I may have been mocked by my Southern friends for not trying pesto until I was 18, but I had a middle-class, comfortable upbringing, which is not the case for many people in Stoke. There is an inextricable link between working class origins and violence, low intelligence and laziness, a link perpetuated by the media, and by the inherent classism that many middle class people carry with them. This isn't the place to get into social disenchantment, but the coverage of the London riots displays it perfectly - a generation of people left stranded by their government driven to extremes, yet brushed off with statements about yob culture and poor familial discipline.

It makes me quite disgusted with myself to admit this, but I think my rejection of being from Stoke has a lot to do with my need to detach myself from the city's poor reputation. While I don't think it's the 'working class'-ness specifically that I rejected, the stigma of being from Stoke always annoyed me, and I tried my hardest to disassociate myself. Going to University, the majority of people around you are new and excitingly middle-class, so any opportunity to have a quick laugh at my awful home town was embraced, without me realising that I was perpetuating the horrid stereotypes myself, and adding to the barrage of classism people face day-in, day-out.

Visiting recently has given me a much-needed punch in the face when it comes to my mocking of Stoke. Having read more on classism and prejudice, I realised how awful my own actions were, and how horribly haughty and stuck-up I'd been each time I'd looked down upon people who live in Stoke. I'm absolutely no better than anybody who lives there, and to think otherwise is to have a sense of my own self-importance that is beyond measure. Hideous.

I'm reminded of Jane Austen's Emma, where the eponymous hero mocks the 'tiresome' and lowly Mrs Bates, and is thoroughly chastised by Mr Knightley. 'She should secure your compassion, not your contempt!' Knightley angrily cries, admonishing Emma for thinking herself so above Mrs Bates, who is financially hard-done-by and considered ridiculous by higher society. That's precisely the case with me and Stoke. Stoke has had a bloody hard time of it, and continues to do so. It's not pretty, it's not affluent, and it's not the cultural capital of the country, but mocking it is cruel and unnecessary. It gets a hard enough time as it is - I should be defending it, helping somehow, not tearing it down even further. By speaking poorly of it on such a regular basis, particularly as a native, I'm only perpetuating the awful stereotypes it is associated with, and furthering its poor treatment by the public, a treatment wrapped up in classism and prejudice.

The accent

One of the most salient stigmas I distanced myself from was the accent. I remember being about seven and coming home from school, talking to my mum about a book. The general vowel for the 'oo' in book in the North of England is [ʊ], like the vowel in full; in Stoke, however, it's often pronounced as [u:] like the vowel in cool. When I told my mum about the bewk I'd read, she told me I wasn't to say it like that, that it was wrong, and that I should say buck, luck and cuck. I've said that ever since, and have often cringed when people did otherwise, and have looked down upon the Stoke accent, thinking it common or improper.

I was a fucking idiot, as I have later realised. Many years of linguistic study has made me realise that, no matter how many times people say that there is a correct way to speak (and believe me, people say it A LOT), no accent is intrinsically better than another. They are only judged as 'better' because of the arbitrary associations between location, accent and personal characteristics, and the rise of the Southern 'standard'. I repeat: NO ACCENT IS INTRINSICALLY BETTER AT THE JOB OF COMMUNICATING THAN ANY OTHER. It's that simple. People will say that some accents sound ugly, stupid, or wrong, and they are of course entitled to their opinion, but it's important to understand that such opinions come from years of ingraining prescriptivism into our collective consciousness.

That's why I'm hoping to study the Stoke accent in detail - for a variety with so much idiosyncrasy, connection to identity and stigma attached to it, there's been very little academic linguistic analysis going on. I'm looking at a specific feature for my MA dissertation, and - with a lot of luck and hard work - I hope to use my potential PhD to document, explore and understand the complex relationship between the city's accent, its residents, and the general public.

In my own, quite pathetic way, these projects are like my love letter to Stoke. They're not going to change the world, but I hope that, in a small way, I'll be able to contribute to softening some of the stereotypes people have about Stoke, and I can make amends with the city who, for better or worse, made me who I am.

You're damn right I do.

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*I add in these details because, notoriously, nobody knows where Stoke actually is, and I've had to use some or all of these descriptions when trying to explain its location in the past. It comes from being part of the forgotten, unspecified Midlands, I think, combined with not being a notable visiting/tourist destination. Most people's reaction tends to be 'yeah, I went through the there on the train.'

**Definitely our most famous alumnus, it was originally pretty cool to be associated with Robbie, and to be able to tell people I once served his mum in Boots (claim to fame!!1!). I think we tend to play down the association since 'Do The Rudebox' came out. You understand. I'm listening to Escapology as I finish this post -- why did you fire Guy Chambers, Rob? Whyyyy?

***Bennett's 'Anna of the Five Towns' comes from this - he decided to omit one, because it sounded better with five.

****While the tone of this article is often frustratingly patronising, it accurately sheds light on why the citizens of an ailing city, let down by Labour and staunchly anti-Conservative, often drift towards the far right.