Accents, Sexy or Not?

You Say Tom-ay-to, I Say Fruit of the Solanum Lycopersicum

Accents. We all have them, but what is it about them that can turn us from being sane, rational beings into weak-kneed, tongue-twisted, gibberingly dribbling, c’mere-you-and-let-me-ram-sammy-the-sausage-into-your-sexy-little-chuff bellowing goofballs in a heartbeat?

Absolutely fuck all, if you ask me. But obviously I am fairly unique in this capacity, though I must admit to working with a very attractive Swedish lass back in the nineties whose pronunciation of the phrase “big hairy bollocks” melted the stone in place of my heart to a liquefied mass of lust.  And she said that phrase A LOT.  It amused her.

Perhaps you guys will shed some light in the comments detailing just what it is about an accent that can instantly make a person more attractive. The soft purr of the French accent, maybe?  The staccato sharpness of the German one?  Perhaps the enthusiastic wide-vowel infused intonations of the Australians?  Answers on a postcard…

But anyway, accents…they generally don’t do it for me. I find myself neither turned on or off by them.  Perhaps this is because I have such low standards that I will shag any female with a pulse, let alone an accent, but that is for a future discussion, perhaps. I will, however, concede that for many they are a deal-maker/deal-breaker.  For me, the early/mid 1990’s proved that theory beyond any reasonable doubt, albeit in reverse.

And who were the parties behind this visitation that one deftly delivered line can lead to a sudden bed-sheet defacing, sweaty sexual encounter (or twelve)?

The Americans!

Random thought when composing this article number 1:

Despite the fact I am an Englishman, I can honestly say I have never felt the need to pour derision on our brothers and sisters across the pond. Yes, they do some dumb shit, but then don’t we all?

The thing I discovered about America, particularly on the first of my two three-week stints there, was that when Americans make up their mind to do something, they really go for it. No half-arsed attempts that are synonymous with my fellow lazy tea-chugging Brits, no sir!  America is big, brash and bold (and often so are the people, if those I met are anything to go by.) 

Portion control? That’s for WANKERS!

Small, economical cars? Haha, fuck that!

Subtle, understated buildings that blend into the horizon? Not a bit of it, old boy!

No, America does things BIG. And that would include, it appears, indulging in obsession over the English accent.  I hear they are quite fond of Irish and Scottish accents too, but as I do not hail from either of those countries, I cannot substantiate this personally. 

But all in all, I do have a soft spot for America. It is a veritable feast of experiences and a place where deeply ingrained cultures and traditions can happily co-exist with wonderfully shallow, ever-changing vogues a mere block away.

Picture a sun drenched Florida in the early 1990s. I was fifteen, a typically testosterone drunk young metal head, who got the itch whenever anything with tits happened to walk past.

This was Florida and it was HOT. We are not talking typical British oh-its-in-double-figures-time-to-break-out-the-shorts hot, this is sweaty-bollocks-and-arse-crack-the-moment-you-stepped-off-the-plane hot.  As a consequence, there were a lot of scantily clad young females and had mobile phone/cameras been around at the time, there would have been enough material in the wank bank to keep me going for the next fifty years.