A Love Letter to CouchSurfing in NGT

1395332406000-Afternoon-tea-051Despite having been an active CouchSurfer for almost seven years, I’ve only ever written about the hospitality site for niche publications. So I’m delighted that I have finally had a feature-length love letter to CouchSurfing published in the great National Geographic Traveller.

‘Sleeping with Strangers’ features in the May issue of the magazine, which is now available in UK newsagents – and on the NGT website.

Here’s the opening paragraph of the article to whet your appetite…

“I am folded in half. My knees are tucked up to my chin; my chin tucked into my chest. I can’t even feel my feet. In fact, my only sensation is a sharp jabbing below my shoulder blade, where the spout of the tap has found its home. I pull a rough, damp towel across my midriff, and resign myself to the sleepless night ahead.

Thankfully, this doesn’t represent a standard ‘surfing’ experience…”

Cheryl Cole: Geordie Martyr?

There are many perfectly good reasons to sack Cheryl Cole, but her Newcastle accent shouldn’t be one of them

Three weeks. That’s all it took. Three measly weeks for Cheryl Cole’s role as chief mollycoddler of the musically mental to be savagely snatched away. Word has it, she was axed for her accent.

Of course, that may just have been a convenient motive to get shot of her: perhaps, behind the scenes, Fox execs were really sweating over her lack of profile Stateside; or at her dull, nodding-dog-style screen presence. But if we believe the News of the World (and why shouldn’t we?), it all came down to the way she speaks. In the 21st century, when television should celebrate and embrace diversity, that’s surely a damning indictment of America’s tolerance of English accents. Continue reading

Alrite R’kid? Why I Love the Manc Accent

oasis_narrowweb__300x367,2[ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED ON 28TH JANUARY 2010 BY RED C MAGAZINE]

When I was growing up in a quiet little town in the south of England, I was always jealous of people with accents. Wouldn’t it be wonderful, I thought, to be able to ask for jellied eels, or a sausage barm, without sounding like a ponce. Wouldn’t it be bloody brilliant if the sound of my voice alone communicated a deep-rooted link to the precise location of my upbringing.

I do, of course, have vocal indicators that identify me as southern English. Many can even place my accent in the south east. But am I from Basildon or from Basingstoke; from Berkshire or from Kent? My part-BBC, part-Estuary English style of speech gives few pointers to a precise location. The fact is, millions of people across a large part of the country speak in much the same boring way as I do. My voice is a poor compass. It’s hardly surprising, then, that I dreamt of having a real accent. Continue reading