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The name Britain is derived from Brittos, the island’s Celtic tribe. The Anglo-Saxons came from the North Sea and drove them out to Wales, Cornwall, and other corners.

The Anglos by name get the credit or take the blame. But the island’s English came from a Saxon dialect, Mercian, with heavy Old Norse influence. (Mercian, not to be confused with ’Merkin, that Inglish dileck we awl love: European on my boots.)

And yadayadayada until October 18, 1922. The BBC was born. Hail Britannia.

I remember caffeine-enabled cross country trips in my VW van: ubiquitous BBC drove out the deep night silence. Always there. I think, were the world to end, BBC would report it, in a quite calm and collected British tone.

“In other news, Jessica, the world is ending. Interesting, actually.”

“Quite so, Jonathan. It’s an oddity, to say the least.”

“I daresay, Jessica, Britannia rules the waves, so to speak.”

“[Chuckles] Yes, the air waves indeed, Jonathan. Now on to other news…”

We hear the murmur of BBC in the mornings. We’d wake at 5 but for the murmur to lull us back into a final nap to top off the night’s rest.

It was with good cheer on Inauguration Day that our local BBC station didn’t quite lull us. The world that ended was marked by the tune ♪ Hit the road, Jack. ♪ And it was a very good day indeed. To say the least.