I’m classifying this travesty of an accent as a hate crime, America. If he were dead the blessed Mike Neville would be turning in his grave; as it is, he’s probably just tutting mildly, or maybe he’s just pottering about in the garden and has no idea about this little viral news story, that seems more Mike’s style, bless him.
But for the rest of us, Jesus Christ that’s awful. And never mind the accent, or the insulting premise that he’d be taking an ESL class, or that the character is so cognitively impaired that it never occurs to him to just alter his word choice so he can be better understood, no, the most unrealistic aspect is expecting me to believe that a middle-aged bloke from Newcastle would be wearing a coat in winter.
America, we need to talk about your casual disregard for the sanctity of the croissant. It’s not a sandwich bread to be stuffed with chicken salad or sausage like some tawdry, half-stale silce of Mighty White; you can’t pump it full of grease and fried egg like silicone into an aging starlet – its simplicity is its beauty. Just look at this thing, this McMuffinized bastardization that I picked up at SFO this morning! I’m faintly revulsed by it, and myself for eating it*. We might as well have spat in the face of a Frenchman or booed buring La Marseillaise.
* In mitigation, I simply ordered the breakfast sandwich and didn’t notice that it came served in a croissant.
A woman complimented me on my Australian accent today and so I ended up bluffing my way through a five minute conversation about Sydney – it just seemed less awkward than correcting her.