INNIT

A, of Requires Hate, has been reading JM Frey’s Triptych, which apparently tries to be really social justice-y and falls flat on its own face, but that’s not what I care about right now! No. Because the author also tries to write British people and that is COMEDY GOLD, MY FRIENDS.

A has been inflicting quotations on me. So many quotations. I don’t have enough of Bacigalupi’s terrible Thai at hand to inflict on her in return, so I’m instead passing on the TERRIBLE, TERRIBLE LOVE to you.

ENJOY.

He was practically vibrating with geeky (endearing) excitement. “Cool, innit?”

“That is totally, totally unfair, innit?”

“A man has two lovers, he should have twice as much sex,” Basil points out. “Laws of…physics or sommat, innit?”

“Your back’s hurting again, innit?” Basil asks, putting a vessel of tea down beside Kalp’s arm.

“First task of Integration,” Basil says cheerily, “is learning which lunch lady to flatter at the canteen, innit?”

“Can’t go changing the timeline,” Basil said with a cheeky grin. “That’s the Temporal Prime Directive, innit?”

Basil whispered quickly, excitedly into her ear. “Yeah? But it…it’s perfect, innit?”

Basil smiled wryly against his mug, lips still on the rim. “Innit?”

APPARENTLY Brits say innit a lot. Nevermind that people who say innit a lot generally have an entire accent going on. NEVERMIND THAT PESKY FACT. (Although to be honest, it’s probably for everyone’s benefit that the author didn’t try to render a glottal stop, let alone a full accent.)

“Blimey, do you see this phone? I can’t use this! It’s a bloody beige brick, innit? It’ll never interface!”

I remain convinced that this line is parody. There is no other explanation.

“She’s…she hasn’t grieved. Any of it. It’s not…healthy, issit?

“So that’s it, issit. All over, then?” he asked

“Your mother has seen you in a filthy uniform. I don’t think a little barn dust is going to make much of a difference, issit?”

I’ve never even heard anyone say ‘issit’. And aside from the ‘innit’, most of the people I know speak pretty much exactly like this guy.

“Bugger.”
“What?”
“I’m stuck. My — bollocks — my bloody sleeve! Grab my trousers.”

C-C-C-COMBO.

Meanwhile he says ‘fuck’ exactly once a grand total of four times.

It’s some kind of bizarre modern equivalent of TALLY-HO PIP PIP that I want to take out back and gently shoot, for its own good.