Norfolk Dialect Spoken Here

Language Of Days Gone By

Thet thare Keith Skipper keep on a-tellin on us we oughter talk Norfolk, dornt he. Thass a rum ow job, dew yew arst me.

Tha thing on it is, a good haarf o' them wards what we used when we wor young uns ent used no more.

I mean to say, thare ent many on us what still say duzzy. Thet wor duzzy this an duzzy thet when I went to skewl. "Dornt yew pay no regaard tew him, bor, he ent narthin but a duzzy fewl." Now we jest say bloody an hev done with it, dornt we.

Gals wor mawthers in them days. Them what arnsered yer back wor silly-bold mawthers. An them what fared to look like they oughter be on Pearge Tree wor swacken greart mawthers. Now them what we called silly-bold we call cheeky, an them what stick out in front we call big built.

Pie Crust
Come to think on it, nobodda now dornt never say Pearge Tree. Consarn it all -- tree, troshle, let alone tree-pennorth o' trippeny tread -- thet dornt sound right now, dew thet.

We dornt talk about tha Wicar neither, dew we, nor yit thar willage. Thass tha wireless what a tarned all our W's inter V's, I reckon, only dornt yew go an tell ow Keith Skipper, cos he wark for tha wireless. Without yew want him to fetch yew a sisserara alongside yar skull, yew'll hold yar duller.

Talkin o' mawthers, them what went a-sammuckin about with holes in their stockins wor shammocks, an them what triculearted theirselves up wor frimmocky.

Tha fust mawther what I went out with wor a proper dardledumdue. Slow? My hart alive, I dornt reckon she'd ever see a dodman without she met it.

I wor a-lamperin along up tha drift tha other mornin when I run inter ow Mrs Parsley. A kidgy ow woman she is an all, with a temper as short as a pie crust.

She's tha woman what arst tha Wicar to let har set narer tha pulpit. "Thare's ow Mrs Smith an ow Mrs Robinson set thare afront o' me," she say, "an by tha time yar sarmon come a-trearklin trew them, thet fare such wunnerful pore stuff, thet thet rearly dew."

Arter thet I run inter ow Chaarlie. "Seal o' tha day, bor," he say to me.

"Coarse ow weather, Chaarlie," I say. "Thet fare suffin rarfty."

"Thet thet dew an all," he say. "Carnt lay forrard in tha garden, can we, not arter thet rearned pitchforks all larst night. Tha mowld is marster puddeny."

"Ah," I say, "thet hully is clung."

We stood thare a-maardlin for a bit about tha times when we wor young.

"Thare wor all hilders an hulvers up tha drift in them days," I say, "but they slashed em down. Tha baarley bird used to sing along hare all night, but yew never dew hare him now."

"Thass right enought," he say. "Corse, thare's still mavishes an gooleys an pickcheeses, an chancetime yew see a King Harry, but thass a maarvel whare all them birds a gorn."

"I know," I say. "I see a bit in tha pearper tha other day about tha hobby bird. Him what writ tha aarticle reckoned thare wor one in Norfolk. Only he called thet a wryneck."

"Stoon me, we used to see several o' them, dint we," say ow Chaarlie. "Them an coney chucks. How orfen dew yew see a coney chuck now?"

Howsomever, I carnt set hare a-popplin on about ow Chaarlie, cos I jest felt a smur o' rearn, so I'll hatta go an git my cutter back in tha shud agearnst thet git wet.

So fare yew well together, only like I say, dew yew keep squat when yew see ow Keith Skipper. Mind yew say narthin about tha wireless a-killin orf our langwidge, dornt he'll go shanny an mob yew suffin crewel.