The Speaking Test

Australians have a habit of asking me to explain Irish history, so I’ve boiled it down to two sentences. For 6,000 years we were happy, built lots of monuments and spread Christianity to Europe. And then the English invaded.

But living over here has made me revaluate this. I knew something was up when I found myself instinctively supporting England in the Ashes series and searching the TV Guide to see when the History of Britain was on.

Last week I flew to Brisbane to sit a twenty minute English test, the craziness of which I’ll get to later. I had an hour to kill at the airport and found myself flicking through the $5 bin in the DVD store. I came across Monty Python’s “Life of Brian” and was reminded of that scene where the People’s Front of Judea is discussing “what have the Romans ever done for us”. The thought struck me that if I asked the same question of myself with regard to the English; I’d probably end up with the similar results as the Judeans.

Apart from the roads, railways, canals, legal system, universities and soccer, what have the English ever done for us? Well, I’d add one thing to that list. Language. The English came to Ireland and forced their language upon us. And being the good natured people we are, we gave it back in a better condition than we received it. Thankfully, the perfidious Brits then went and invaded half the world and forced their language on the poor natives they found there. And that’s why we Irish can emigrate to lots of places and have our tongue tied mumblings understood.

I’m in the throes of applying for Permanent Residency in Australia, a task that would amuse Kafka but to me feels like a journey through the seven stages of hell. My migration agent, when she is not fleecing me, comes up with ever more bizarre reasons for delaying my application. Her latest wheeze is to send me for an English exam on the promise that it will speed things up.

They examining company offered me a place on their Brisbane test. The only problem is that Brisbane is a plane ride away and they don’t confirm places until five days before the exam. The other wheeze they have is to separate their test between a speaking one and a written one, hold these tests four days apart and not tell you the venues until the day before. To a pernickety planner like me, that was like asking NASA to plan a Mars mission over a bank holiday weekend.

As I left the office the night before the speaking test, someone asked me if I’d been practicing much. “Since the age of about 14 months” I snapped back. But maybe he had a point. I speak with an accent and have been told that I spend most of my time talking through my arse. I’m sure that is not what the good people at the language testing centre want to hear, given that they already had enough trouble trying to figure out ways of spending all the money I was giving them.

So I decided to bone up on the Queen’s English between then and the test. The only problem is that the modern digital age provides limited opportunity to converse with like minded people. I’d pre-booked a bus ticket on the web, so didn’t even speak to the driver when I caught a ride to the airport, checked in for the flight at one of those faceless terminals that litter airport concourses and promptly got on the plane and fell asleep. When I got to Brisbane I bought a train ticket into town from a machine and realised I hadn’t spoken a word to anyone all day.

On my way to the train, I noticed a traveller in some trouble and thought this was an opportunity to do a favour and engage in some useful conversation training. I asked if she needed help and she looked at me with a blank expression that sucked the confidence out of me. Maybe I am a mumbling wreck who struggles to be understood? Thankfully, it turned out that she was from South America and couldn’t speak English. I manfully gave her directions to the train in my broken Spanish (I might have been saying “Where is the toilet” but she headed in the right direction anyway).

So it came to pass that I sat down two hours later for my speaking exam having only spoken pigeon Spanish that day. Thankfully it didn’t matter. Someone once said that the English horde words like misers, while the Irish spend them like sailors. Once I started talking, the examiner couldn’t shut me up. I told tall tales, short stories and downright lies, but it filled the twenty minutes required and I had the bonus of making my inquisitor laugh occasionally, which is the ultimate goal of all Irish men who engage in conversation. At the end she thanked me for talking to her, which is just about the first time I’ve ever heard that line from a female.

I made my way back to the station through the muggy streets of Brisbane. They don’t do winter in this part of Australia and the City was full of Tee shirted tourists. As I waited at Central Station I noticed a bust of Sir Thomas Brisbane after whom the City is called. A notice below set out his illustrious career from battles under Wellington to Governorship of New South Wales and the establishment of teaching colleges. It struck me that this dead white man was one of the people who brought the language that I was now so keen to express to this country.

I suddenly respected the great opportunities I have been presented with, simply by having the English language as my native tongue. So let’s give a big hand to the English. I think they are great and every house should have one.

Preferably as a butler. They make great butlers.