I'm going to University. Yeah, hark at me aye, all grown up and going into the big world of paying extortionate amounts in pounds sterling for an education and living away from Mummy and Daddy. I'll be in the mature World of paying for a TV license, gas bills, rent and buying Milk from Asda after shuffling around looking for food. All this while attempting to successfully pass a three-year joint-honours degree. And where am I going to University I hear you forgetting to care about? The University of East London. Yeah, not exactly one of the great classics such as Oxford or Cambridge, but you know, a degree is a degree.
My degree and my place of study don't seem to really match each other. When people ask (and they're asking a lot, repeatedly) 'Where you going and what you doing?' I have to tell them that a) I'm going to 'The University of East London', which, let's be honest, isn't the grandest and most inspirational of names; and I then have to tell them that b) I'm studying 'Journalism Studies with Creative and Professional Writing', which, let's be honest, is a pompous name and I feel guilty every single time I say the name of my course. I love it and I'm so excited and I'm itching and scratching wanting to start it now, but I always feel like I'm saying it like a statement that implies 'I'm better than you'. Why I feel that, I have absolutely no idea. I just feel that where ever I spread the knowledge of my degree, I'm leaving a trail of resentment, annoyance and snobbishness. But hey, at least I'm not Philosophy!
I've now made two trips to the area now, and, well, let's just say it doesn't resemble the cast of Oliver!, but the Olympics haven't brought a higher class of people to the area. I am yet to hear someone speak the native tongue of East London: Cockney. I am yet to hear someone say: "Awright geeezzaa! Hello an' welcome. Nice tit for tat yew got there! Sorted mate!"; which in plain English would mean "Hello and welcome. Nice hat you have there!" The language now is still sort of Cockney, but, like English, the young generation have played about with it. Every sentence will, undoubtedly, contain the words "D'yew ge' me?", "Like" and "D'yew know wot I'm sayin'?" It has the elements of cockney, but I don't recognise it as cockney. You feel like turning around and saying 'YES, I do understand you! Gaaaaawd blimey; yer 'avin' a giraffe!"
My last journey into East London consisted of me parking in a Morrisons. I was sat by my car when a group of teenagers walked past and then hung around near me and my car. Unfortunately, I could hear their conversation, which consisted a lot of "D'yew ge' me?", "Like" and "D'yew know wot I'm sayin'?", with nouns chucked in to form something as reminiscent as a sentence. Surprisingly, it hasn't deterred me from attending there local University. I mean, it just gives me something to moan about, and God knows I love a good rant about society. Anyway, I am now going to share a rough transcript of the conversation. You can imagine it being performed as a sketch. You know, a Catherine Tate-like figure who repeatedly answers "D'yew know wot I'm sayin'?" to every question. If it helps.
Girl One: (whilst sobbing) I don' wanna talk to 'im, yew know? 'e really upset me like. 'e was like, really mean.
Girl Two: Awww, why you cryin'? Don' cry, 'e ain't worth it. 'e was really nasty dough!
Girl One: (While finishing sobbing) I know, like. 'e was really out of order, yew know what I'm sayin'?
Girl Three: Ar' yer, tot'lly.
Girl One: (With conviction) Yew two, like, gonna 'ave to choose between me an' 'im.
Girl Three: We choose yew 'course
Girl Two: Yer, we gotta stick together.
Girl One: 'e really upset me dough, I like, like this scarf an' I can't believe 'e wood dis it like dat. It cost me like two nin'y nine from Primark, D'yew get me, like?
Girl Two: Yer, tot'lly. I really like dat scarf.
Boy: Wot yew chattin'?
Girl Two: We ain't talking to yew!
Boy: (Huffs) I like, di'n't say dat I di'n't like it, d'yew ge' me? I jus' said she shuldn' wear it in summer. Yew know, it's hot like, d'yew know what I'm sayin'?
Girl One: Nar, yew said yew hated it. It cost me like two nin'y nine from Primark.
Boy: What!? D'yew ge' me? It nice scarf yer, but like, yew don' wear it in summer, yer? D'yew know what I'm sayin'?
It's just a load fickle rubbish they kept spewing out. They carried on late into mid-afternoon like that, but I didn't hear the rest of it because the long, open road home was awaiting me.
Anyway, I'll be going to live there in a few months, and I don't think I will be able to properly understand a single word which anyone says to me. I was hoping that maybe there was a Rosetta Stone CD that would teach me modern cockney, but there isn't. Anyway, so maybe Rosetta stone should consider making one. I mean, I'd buy one, and I'm sure I can't be the only one. My current languages consist of English, Sarcasm, a few little hints of French, and I would love to add fluent Cockney to that list. Not this new fangled Cockney because it’s just solely "D'yew ge' me?", "Like" and "D'yew know wot I'm sayin'?", but I want to be able to successfully use Cockney Rhyming Slang. A lot of people know 'Apples and pears' means 'stairs', ‘phone’ is ‘dog and bone’, and everyone knows 'Giraffe' is 'laugh'. Anyway, so I'll have three years to learn the lingo, then, I will write a blog consisted of only Rhyming slang for my East London hommies! (Don't hold me to that though)
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| Two of the best-known Cockney's: Chas and Dave |
I'm not worried about picking up the accent and the slang however, because I'm very hard to influence. I'm quite an outcast from the 'Teenage Stereotype' from my local area. Every Friday and Monday, for example, a lot of people flock to one of the clubs in the local city, Canterbury. I don't. I'm 19, and I'm proud to say, I still not set foot in one. I have legally been able to enter one for 13 months now; I'm yet to do so. I have no plans to do so either. I have no problems with pubs; pubs are great. Some of my favourite conversations have occurred in pubs over a pint of larger and a shot, but, I don't like people enough for the clubbing scene. I don't like being with large groups of people, so why would I want to spend a few hours with drunk, sweaty and horny people with loud, banging music which I very much doubt is my type of music. I've listened to club remixes; they ruin perfectly good songs! Plus, a lot of 'Canterburians' use slang, and I've not picked them up. Well, I only use it to mock. Anyway, if I can survive that with little influence, I'm sure a few years in London's East End will be doddle.
And if not? Well, like I said, I’ll just have to moan and blog about it. However, you do have permission to either slap me incredibly hard or shoot me in the liver should I start using the lingo regularly and finish every sentence with 'D'yew get me, like?" It's what I would have wanted before the disease overpowered my immune system…
Now, you're in for a treat! Remember that transcript above? I've performed it as a skit. I know; lucky right! Anyway, I've joined the YouTube generation of 'vlogging' now. And here, is the, video! Enjoy!
http://youtu.be/eNKVHaOGKC4
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