.png)
6 hours ago
2
It’s curious, what escapes people’s idea of rudeness. For instance: pointing out someone’s weight is a unanimous no-go, but height – surely even more arbitrary – continues to be fair game. Ditto commenting derogatorily on where someone’s from – at least, as long as it’s Birmingham, England’s second city and first punchline for jokes about idiotic accents and general urban bleakness.
As an unusually tall woman who grew up in that much-maligned metropolis, I have direct experience of both, and can confirm that while they’re equally annoying, the latter is much more pernicious. It is extraordinary what comes out of generally polite people’s mouths when I tell them I’m from Birmingham – from hilarious faux condolences to variations on, “Oh, I hear it’s horrible.”
By far the most common reaction, though, is a caricature echo – “Biiirrrmmingum!” – the joke being that the accent is awful as well as the city (so, so funny!). All this, even though I never picked up the twang myself; not intentional, though I’m sure my lack of discernible Brummie accent has been protective, socially and professionally.
When Kate Adie revealed the BBC’s (unofficial and historic) league table of the country’s least favourite accents, no one was surprised to see who came out worst – poor, picked-on Birmingham. Asked why he never used his native accent in reporting, Brummie journalist Michael Buerk apparently replied: “I didn’t want death threats.” And in a study from 2008, researchers found that people who spoke with a Birmingham accent were more likely to be perceived as stupid than those who didn’t open their mouths at all. Yikes.
Imagine if someone told you they were pregnant, and you said, “Oh what a shame, I hate children.” Or that they were a singer, and you said, “Music is so boring.” That unmediated negativity might sound ridiculous – but while I haven’t lived in Birmingham since I was 18, in the intervening years I don’t remember hearing one positive reaction after mentioning that I grew up there.
Actually, that’s not strictly true – sharing my Birmingham origins did serve me well once, at a house party where a trio of Old Etonians somehow materialised, as in a fever dream. When I told them where I was from, their concern for my presumable lifetime of Dickensian deprivation was delicious to behold. One of them said: “Gosh, I hear it’s frightfully urban.”
To be clear, I don’t expect anyone to reply “Wow! I love Birmingham!” when I say I’m from there – just to respond with the nonchalance that any other answer would elicit. I doubt anyone from Norwich or Exeter has encountered the baffling hostility that someone from Birmingham grows used to, but maybe we should turn the tables so they know how it feels. Chichester? Oh, you poor thing! York? A tragedy!
What’s more, Brumphobia’s bizarre brazenness is only amplified by the realisation that none of its sufferers seem to have actually visited. It’s not that I’m encountering a parade of people who have travelled to my home town, been somehow traumatised and vowed never to return – on the contrary, they hate it blindly, with an astounding self-confidence normally reserved for bona fide bigots. It’s almost funny, except when it isn’t.
When I first moved cities, the overwhelming anti-Birmingham sentiment led me to (briefly) fudge my own life story. Cast your mind back to the hell of freshers’ week and maybe you can forgive me. Newly independent and navigating crippling social pressure, I alternated between claiming London, where I was born, or Sydney, where my mum is from, for my origins. Look, there’s only so many “Biiirrrmmingum”s a teenager can take – but ultimately, neither cover story felt true, and I began to own my roots.
Today, I declare them with relish, steeling myself for the inevitable ”Biiirrrmmingum!” bait. “That’s so funny, no one’s ever said that before,” I reply, doing everything in my power to stop my eyes rolling out of my head. “Ever been?”
If you haven’t, you should. Birmingham is great. The city is dynamic, diverse, open-hearted, and one of the friendliest places in the UK. We’ve apparently got more miles of canal than Venice, and everyone knows that what makes a canal beautiful is how long it is. And as for the accent, it’s near enough Shakespeare’s, for God’s sake!
Admittedly, 2025 is not our finest moment – the council is effectively bankrupt and the ongoing bin strike means the city is full of cat-sized rats – but it’ll take more than that to sink the good ship Brum. Ironically, years of derision have made it impervious to outside criticism, and the accent will always feel like home to me. Its speakers don’t sound stupid, but after years of fielding their jibes, I can confirm that the people who mock them certainly do. Pay them no mind, bab.
-
Emily Watkins is a freelance writer based in London
