SILLY BALLS Owed to Max Harris
This is not just a mumble about enunciation; there’s corruption in the Office of Pronunciation. Even financial parlance has lost its gloss, since Treasurer Keating conjured gross from dross. I’m disinterested, says the sec ker tree, I’ll be in the lie bree temp er rarer lee. The Director Himself says par tic u ly. No one finds it odd, sing u ly. Just as we still get a buzz from greasy, so syllabic elision is nice n easy. Lithe cricketers from the West Indies are given the rasbry as flatulent Windies. In one fowl swoop chickens lose their ken, and as Peter grows harder, he’s Peder by ten. Should we continue on with d? Or discontinue off with soft t? How long before his ego becomes Pee doe, as streamlined as speedos at the Lido? On-camra or sound-booth reporters are jist as vunnerable talking pitchers, intoning their words in broken units. They lean towards Blue TITS, not BLUE tits, West MINSTER, rather than WEST minster, Pry MINISTER, instead of PRIME Minister. Governed by the rhythm of the autocue, they mangle meaning in mindless mew.