The New British Invasion
Kipper is the hat trick. He makes the British invasion of my home complete.
Kipper is an animated dog graced with a well-meaning terrier of a best friend, Tiger, and a blessedly mellow jazz soundtrack. (Any parent who has listened to a Barney video several times in a row knows the importance of a tolerable soundtrack.) He also has a British accent — the kind that makes American women a little weak in the knees.
But I’m not the one who has fallen for Kipper — and Bob the Builder, and Harry Potter. It’s my son, the budding Anglophile, who is honing his British accent at the feet of a cartoon puppy.
Andrew got his first taste of Brrritish last summer, when we brought home a “toy Scottish telephone” (his request) from our second honeymoon in Edinburgh. We spent two days combing the city for one and, in one last dash before heading to the airport, found a Bob the Builder model fresh from a packing crate that morning.
Eight months and $46 worth of batteries later, Andrew has mastered every twitch and intonation in Bob’s computer-chip voice. “Mama,” he hollers gleefully, “do you know how they say ‘four’ in England? “Fouh.”
Then came Harry.
Uncle Matt sent the boxed set of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire for Christmas. (Seventeen CDs. Choke.) Life has been underscored by Jim Dale’s narration ever since. Daughter Jaime listens to the plot; Andrew listens to the voices.
But it is Kipper who has really captured Andrew’s imagination. This dog has a phone that sounds like a doorbell and a doorbell in the middle of his front door (how exotic!), and he and Tigah speak in measured, well-enunciated tones that any dialog coach would envy. Kipper is a H.I.T. Entertainment property that airs on Nick Jr., but we have never seen it there — we rented videos from the library until the Easter Bunny tucked three tapes into the family basket.
Over Spring Break, Andrew played (and rewound, and replayed) those Kipper tapes for a few hours each day. Then he’d abruptly switch off the VCR and announce, “I’m ready for a baath” or “I would like some crisps.”
That’s the thing about Kipper. He goes beyond mere ahccent: He’s the guy with the vocabulary Andrew wants. Anyone can fake an accent, but only a real pro would put on a jumper to go fetch Pig’s trainer mug from the woods. That, friends, is brilliant.
I confess I find it charming when Andrew blurts out at the dinner table, “You need to take me to the loo.” (This must come not from the impeccable Kipper but from Harry Potter, whose ghost chum Moaning Myrtle travels by toilet.)
There are a few Brits in our small town, and Andrew is quick to call them on it. We run into Sharon, and he says, “You have a British accent,” then mimics every sentence she utters. “You’re a clevah little boy!” she laughs. “You’re a clevah little guhl,” he responds. Sometimes he even corrects her, which is less than charming, but she takes it well.
At a recent school meeting an older woman, Vera, introduced herself to Andrew. I had her pegged as a Southerner, but when he said, “You have a British accent,” she told us how she had moved from England several years ago. (She thought he was a clevah little boy, too.)
It’s not just English, though — and it’s not just Andrew. An acquaintance confessed that she can understand what Teletubbies are saying, and her one-year-old is adopting Teletub as her mother tongue. “She says ‘Eh-oh’ instead of ‘hello,’” the mom fretted.
It just may be time for a pahsport.
