It is always refreshing to hear the enthusiasm of the men and women who do the countdown when, as happened a couple of days ago, the Shuttle is launched. After the 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 bit, they say something like "main engine start" and then (and this is where the over-enthused up-speaking comes in) "and lift off of the Shuttle such and such, on a mission to take B&Q guttering to the International Space Station"... or whatever it happenes to be.
I bet Nasa runs a course in launch-announcer up-speaking with sessions on how to put the necessary amount of stress on syllables (far too much in my view, which, after all, is the one that counts on this blog), and on how to sound especially cheery and up-beat. Maybe the announcers also practice at home in front of the wardrobe or dressing table mirror. Personally, I'd rather play air guitar or pull faces.
All of which seems to highlight a difference between the former colonists and the downtrodden passive-aggressives who stayed in perfidious Albion. You can't imagine anyone here getting so het up on the microphone even as thousands of tons of Shuttle, crew and payload are being hurtled towards escape velocity - not even Premiership football commentators. No, it'd be "5, 4, 3, 2, 1...where's my coat?"
The closest thing Britain has to it are the generalities on the headed note paper, signage and websites of officialdom, such the Met Police's "Working together for a safer London" - or whatever it is. It's all a load of imperfect participle bollocks.
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