Divided by a common tongue

What is it about class and culture that marks us apart from, or together with, our fellow humans? Language.

Today I need to cut the grass in my back yard (garden) - if you could hear the voice in my head you'd know I was saying "grass" with a hard 'a' - not "graahss" with a soft 'a'. 

I live close to the beautiful city of Bath, in the historic county of Somerset - that's "Bath", of course, not "Baaath". When I lived in London, I bought a flat. Funnily enough, posh Brits wouldn't say "flaaaht", they'd probably say "apartment" like our American cousins.

Professional sport is riven by class and culture. In the UK rugby historically had two codes - working class rugby league (northern) and upper class rugby union (southern). Cricket also evolved two classes - gentlemen and professionals. Gentlemen, of course, didn't need salaries, they often had private means of indulging their sporty passions.

Today class boundaries may be blurred but scratch away at the surface and you'll find them.

My youth was dedicated to following the round ball - association football to use the official name. Soccer if you're a posh Brit or from the States. 

Football to my cousins across the Atlantic is, of course, the gridiron variation - American Football to us Brits.

I tried this sport in my thirties. A local newspaper advert called all like-minded fans of Channel 4 TV's coverage to gather in the local park and form a team. Dozens turned up. When we realised that one among us was a yank, we made him the quarterback (whether he liked it or not) while the rest of us indulged in that strangely compelling British tradition of knocking the living crap out of each other. No equipment, but a lot of balls.

Over the next couple of years we first made our protective gear then raised the money to buy 60 helmets, shipping them in from the States - I collected them from Manchester in my bosses' new Range Rover, storing them overnight in Auntie Bettie's house because we were worried about them being stolen from the car. 

Although I have no direct experience I'm sure this kind of sports fanaticism is mirrored on both sides of the Atlantic. Logic, reason and tolerance are left behind when your team take the field. The male refuge of pub (bar) and friends (mates, pals, guys, lads) used to be sacrosanct. And the stories, the legends, the laughs, the craic as the Irish might say - they deserve to be shared.

Which is why I'm starting this blog. Share your tales of daft actions and mistakes - sport or language related. 

I've never forgotten the look on the barman's face in Canada when I needed a cigarette and asked for a fag.