I’d say I’ve spent most of my ‘adult’ life between three areas of the UK; Edinburgh, Lancashire and London. One is my home, one was for education and the other was for acting.

Yes, I already hear you muttering that word under your breath; “traitor”.

But the one thing I realised in all of them, is that no matter where I was, I found myself clinging on to my northern roots for dear life.

I can’t speak for other regions but there definitely seems something about Northerners where we like to constantly remind ourselves, and others, that we are just that, northern.

Especially in Scotland, where being English isn’t the most popular nationality, reiterating as much as possible, “I’m from the north of England! We wouldn’t mind independence n’all!”

Apart from in London, where you often get it pointed out to you by other people, as though it was a spot on your face that you were unaware of – “oh my god you’re northern!” and then would reel off a series of northern catchphrases they’d heard from television, most likely performed by privately educated southerners attempting to do the accent.

But all they would succeed in doing, is showing me a version of myself that was slow speaking, dumb sounding and all together simple.

Drawing out the vowels as though we speak in slow motion, pronouncing me name as “Jerrrrr” instead of “Joe”.

More often than not, saying things like, “oh, are you from Yorkshire?” assuming that any northern accent is from the place where they think the famous tea and puddings come from.

Not realising that I’ve never given a girlfriend a white rose for a blooming good reason.

They can’t help it to be fair. But, all it takes is to be on the Tube, hear an “owt” or a “nowt” drift down the carriage, before looking at them knowingly, and proceeding to give them the ‘nod’.

The ‘so you decided to try make it down here n’all?’ nod, where no words are needed. Just a friendly smile, that upward Lancastrian nod and if you’re feeling outlandish, a “so whereabouts you from then?”.

Where, upon finding out, you talk like long lost soldiers-in-arms, trapped behind enemy lines. Sharing one often-said sentence in common, “expensive down here in’t it?”

Before long, you’re back on the train to Preston, or Wigan, or Manchester, humming the Corrie theme tune as you make the final hurdle past Crewe.

Before getting home, asking what’s for tea, and hearing the beautiful words, “there’s a pie in the oven”, knowing you can speak with no one going to mimic your accent back to you. Lovely stuff I tell you.