THE VIKING IN YOUR KITCHEN

orkshire is the place of my birth, where I live, and where I will probably die. It is in my blood and, more importantly, in my voice. My accent is a mix of Old English and heavy Old Norse influence, brought by 9th-century invaders who settled the region. My particular flavour features Mercian roots—a "broader," harsher sound hammered into shape by 19th-century industrialisation.

When I speak, I’m not just using a regional quirk; I’m using a survival. My voice carries the weight of the Norsemen who sailed up the River Don over a millennium ago, weaving their tongue into the very soil. They gave us the thorpe in our villages and the gate in our streets, but more than that, they gave us a way of being.

Whilst our dialect is considered one of the purest surviving forms of Old English in Britain, I fear for its future. Modern media has diluted and softened the way we talk, and some still think a dialect makes you "common" or lower class. That couldn't be further from the truth. It is our identity. If we let it go, it is practically impossible to get back.

We don’t have a language we can hang our horned helmet on, but we certainly have our own words. They aren't curiosities for a museum; they are the gears and cogs of our daily lives. When I’m fettling my bike, grabbing my snap for work, or telling a mardy kid to stop being so nesh, I’m not just talking—I’m echoing those who stood on this same soil before me.

Words like loppy, gennel (soft 'G' in South Yorkshire, thank you), beck, gawk, addled, and wazzock all have a place on our tongues. Phrases like ey up, reyt, and put wood in't oil are small acts of rebellion against the softening of the world.

The Norse influence goes deep. A Wapentake was a historic administrative subdivision within the Danelaw; Yorkshire itself was famously divided into three Ridings (from the Old Norse thridjungr, or 'third part').

These might be marks on an old map, but for those of us of a certain age who spent our nights in the dark, loud corners of Sheffield city centre, the name 'Wapentake' means something else entirely. It was a subterranean sanctuary—a place where the history of the Danelaw met the thunder of rock and metal. It was a place with immense history and amazing memories for me, and (separately) for Morticia.

It’s where the ancient and the modern collided, and for me, that’s exactly where the spirit of Yorkshire lived. But while the physical 'Wapentake' is a memory, the dialect remains. It’s the one piece of our history we carry with us every day. So keep your accent broad and your words ‘reyt’—because if we don't speak for our past, nobody else will.

The spirit of the Urban Viking—and the occasional absurdity of navigating the modern world—lives on in my webcomic, Northman. 

You can read the latest chapter here: northman.kirt.me.uk

I’ll be sharing more of my journey and the daily reality of staying grounded in the modern world over on social media. Join in:

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