Why do some people sound smart whilst others sound like they’re in a pub fight?

Language is one of the great social equalizers, except when it isn’t. We all technically speak the same language, but how we speak it can determine whether we’re perceived as intelligent, competent, or just another person shouting about football at the pub.

Enter Basil Bernstein, the British sociologist who dared to point out that the way people use language isn’t just about personal choice—it’s about social class, education, and power. His theory of elaborated and restricted codes remains one of the most fascinating explanations of why some people sound effortlessly intellectual, while others are dismissed as rough around the edges before they’ve even finished their sentence.

The problem? Not everyone can switch between these codes effortlessly, and some of us—myself included—have a habit of unintentionally sounding like a Wikipedia article in casual conversation. Let’s explore why that happens, why some people get judged for their speech patterns more than others, and why language is still one of the most powerful tools for social mobility or exclusion.

Bernstein’s Theory: Why Some People Talk in Bullet Points and Others in Full Essays

Basil Bernstein identified two distinct ways that people use language: restricted code and elaborated code.

Restricted code is informal, context-dependent, and shared among tight-knit groups. It relies on assumed knowledge, inside references, and an economy of words. Think of how family members or close friends talk to each other in shorthand without needing to spell everything out.

• Example: “You seen him lately? Bloody state of it.”
• Meaning: The listener is expected to know who “him” is, why he’s in a state, and that no further explanation is needed.

Elaborated code is explicit, detailed, and assumes no prior knowledge. It tends to be the language of education, professionals, and people who overthink their word choices at all times.

• Example: “I recently encountered an acquaintance who appeared to be experiencing significant personal difficulties.”
• Meaning: Same as before, but now it sounds like an excerpt from a university dissertation.

Bernstein argued that middle-class children are typically exposed to both restricted and elaborated code, whereas working-class children primarily use restricted code. The consequence? Schools and workplaces favour those who can use elaborated code fluently, leaving others at a disadvantage.

The Workplace and the Cult of Professional Language

Ever sat through a meeting where someone used far too many words to say something simple? Welcome to the corporate dialect of elaborated code, where unnecessarily complex language is a sign of intelligence, or at least a solid attempt at faking it.

• Restricted code: “Let’s fix it.”
• Elaborated code: “It is imperative that we address this issue through a collaborative, results-driven approach.”

Both sentences mean the same thing, but one sounds professional and the other doesn’t. This is why some people get taken more seriously in meetings than others, despite saying absolutely nothing of value. The ability to perform intelligence through language is often more important than actual expertise.

Bernstein’s theory explains why workplaces unconsciously favour middle-class communication styles, leaving people who speak in a more direct, no-nonsense way to feel less professional. However, Pierre Bourdieu’s concept of cultural capital adds another dimension to this argument. Bourdieu suggested that language is just one form of cultural capital—those who master the dominant linguistic style of a social space gain power and credibility within it. The ability to switch between codes, then, is not just an advantage; it is a form of social mobility.

Bourdieu also explored how accents impact social status. A strong regional or working-class accent can be an immediate marker of class background, affecting how people are perceived in professional settings. Even if someone speaks in elaborated code, a non-standard accent can still lead to subconscious bias, reinforcing class hierarchies.

The Struggle of Accidental Wikipedia Speak

Some people struggle with sounding not smart enough due to restricted code. Others, like me, have the opposite problem—sounding like we just swallowed a thesaurus when all we meant to say was, “Yeah, it was alright.”

The issue with being overexposed to elaborated code is that you sometimes forget how to switch it off. You go to make small talk at a party and instead of saying, “Weather’s nice today,” you catch yourself saying, “The unseasonably warm climate we’re experiencing is quite remarkable for this time of year.”

Result? You sound like an AI-generated email. Yes, I have been compared to AI writing before. One of my colleagues, who didn’t know about my neurodiversity, once ran one of my emails through an AI analyser as they were sure I was using ChatGPT or something. It said I was, so as an experiment, I got ChatGPT to re-write the email. They then scored that, and it was more human than I was. Thanks!

This is particularly common among neurodivergent people, who may struggle with informal communication cues. Some of us over-explain as a defence mechanism—if you say everything with absolute precision, you can’t be misunderstood. Unfortunately, this also means you occasionally sound like you’re delivering a guest lecture when all someone asked was whether you liked the film.

Code-Switching: The Linguistic Equivalent of a Costume Change

Code-switching is the linguistic equivalent of having a different outfit for every occasion. One minute you’re in a tracksuit cracking jokes with your mates, the next you’re in a blazer explaining ‘strategic synergy’ in a meeting where no one knows what anyone actually does. It’s a survival skill, a social chameleon’s trick, and, quite frankly, the only way to stay sane in a world that expects you to be both relatable and professional at the drop of a hat.

• Restricted code is perfect for keeping things simple. It’s how you tell a mate ‘Same as usual?’ and they know exactly which drink, snack, and regrettable life decision you’re referring to.
• Elaborated code is great for convincing people you have a PhD in common sense. You don’t just ’email a reminder’—you ‘disseminate key information in a timely manner to ensure alignment on strategic objectives.’
• Knowing when to use each one is how you avoid disaster—whether it’s ensuring your boss doesn’t think you’re too informal or making sure your nan doesn’t look at you funny when you accidentally say ‘utilise’ instead of ‘use.’

Deborah Cameron has pointed out that language expectations aren’t just about class but also about gender, workplace hierarchies, and social norms. Essentially, who you are and where you are determines whether people think you’re ‘articulate’ or just ‘a bit much.’ Women, for example, often get labelled as ‘too emotional’ if they speak assertively or ‘too passive’ if they don’t, proving that sometimes you can’t win no matter how well you phrase things.

Linguist Penelope Eckert takes this even further by showing that language is as much about identity as it is about class. People don’t just talk a certain way because of where they come from, but because of who they want to be. This explains why teenagers invent slang their parents don’t understand and why corporate jargon somehow manages to get more ridiculous every year. It’s not just about communication—it’s about marking yourself as part of a particular group. The way we speak isn’t just shaped by social class; it’s a constantly shifting reflection of who we are trying to be.

This ties into Bernstein’s theory by reinforcing how institutional power dictates what is considered ‘proper’ or ‘effective’ communication. Linguist Penelope Eckert provides another perspective on language variation and identity. Her work explores how language is not just about class but also about social identity and belonging. She argues that speech patterns are deeply tied to communities of practice, meaning that the way people speak reflects their cultural affiliations as much as their social class. This aligns with Bernstein’s ideas about linguistic codes while expanding on the ways that individuals use language to construct their identities beyond rigid class structures. People who code-switch are not simply shifting accents but navigating complex social expectations.

Rosina Lippi-Green argues that accents are one of the last socially acceptable ways to judge someone unfairly. You can dress the part, learn the lingo, and memorise all the right buzzwords, but if you walk into a boardroom with a thick regional accent, certain people will still assume you’re better suited to fixing the boiler than running the company. Her book ‘English with an Accent’ highlights how linguistic discrimination operates as a sneaky form of gatekeeping—determining who gets to be seen as professional, credible, or even intelligent. This ties right back to Bourdieu’s argument that linguistic capital—basically, the way you sound when you open your mouth—can be the difference between success and being quietly ignored in a meeting where someone repeats your point louder and gets all the credit.

Despite competence and intelligence, individuals with non-standard accents may still be perceived as less authoritative or less credible simply because they do not conform to the dominant linguistic norms. In other words, people are still making snap judgments about intelligence based on whether you say ‘bath’ or ‘baff.’

The Ongoing Bias Against Working-Class Speech

Despite all of this, there is still a deep-seated prejudice against certain speech patterns. If you have a regional accent, use slang, or speak in a way that doesn’t fit the middle-class mould, you might find people subconsciously assuming you’re less intelligent or competent.

Research has shown that job candidates with strong regional accents are judged more harshly than those with ‘neutral’ accents (which usually just means ‘middle-class Southern English’). Similarly, schools tend to favour children who use elaborated code naturally, reinforcing social class divides.

Not all sociologists agree with Bernstein’s deterministic view. Critics argue that he underestimated the adaptability of working-class speakers and overlooked how much restricted code can convey. Some researchers suggest that elaborated code is not inherently superior, but simply privileged by institutions that define intelligence in narrow terms.

Language as Social Currency

Bernstein’s theory of elaborated and restricted code reminds us that language is not just about communication—it’s about power, status, and inclusion.

Those who effortlessly speak in elaborated code are more likely to succeed in school, get better jobs, and be taken seriously. Those who mainly use restricted code may find themselves unfairly judged as less intelligent, even if they are just as capable.

And then there are people like me, who occasionally sound like an academic paper when ordering coffee. If you’ve ever accidentally explained something too thoroughly and realised halfway through that your listener’s eyes have glazed over, welcome to the club.

The key takeaway? There is no wrong way to speak—just different ways of being understood, depending on who’s listening.

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AJ Wright

AJ Wright is a quiet yet incisive voice navigating the surreal world of sociology, higher education, and modern life through the unique lens of a neurodivergent mind. A tech-savvy PhD student hailing from South Yorkshire but now stationed in the flatlands of Lincolnshire, AJ writes with an irreverence that strips back the layers of academia, social norms, and the absurdities of daily life to reveal the humour lurking beneath.

As an autistic thinker, AJ’s perspective offers readers a rare blend of precision, curiosity, and wit. From dissecting the unspoken rituals of academia—like the silent war over the office thermostat—to exploring the sociology of “neurotypical small talk” and the bizarre hierarchies of campus coffee queues, AJ turns the ordinary into something both profound and hilarious.

AJ’s unassuming nature belies the sharpness of their commentary, which dives deep into the intersections of neurodiversity, tech culture, and the often-overlooked quirks of human behaviour. Whether questioning why university bureaucracy feels designed by Kafka or crafting surreal parodies of academic peer reviews, AJ writes with a balance of quiet intensity and playful absurdity that keeps readers coming back for more.

For those seeking a blog that is equal parts insightful, irreverent, and refreshingly authentic, AJ Wright provides a unique perspective that celebrates neurodiversity while poking fun at the peculiarities of the world we live in.  Also a contributor at Thinking Sociologically.

untypicable.co.uk

For most of human history, communication has been an arduous, high-effort process. Long before the invention of the telephone, people relied on face-to-face interactions, handwritten letters, and—if you were particularly fancy—a guy on a horse galloping across the country with a scroll.

Then came the telephone, and suddenly, you could talk to someone miles away in real-time. This was revolutionary. For decades, phone calls were the gold standard of professional and personal communication. If you wanted to make plans, conduct business, or check whether your mate actually intended to pay you back for that pint, you picked up the phone.

But technology never stands still. As text messaging, emails, and instant messaging took over, phone calls started to seem… unnecessary. Why endure the social chaos of a live conversation when you could carefully craft a text response, avoid awkward silences, and maintain full control over when and how you respond?

Now in 2025, phone calls are teetering on the edge of extinction—okay, maybe that’s hyperbole, but still. Millennials tolerate them. Gen Z actively fears them. And for neurodivergent people like me, the decline of phone calls should be a cause for celebration—except for the fact that society still insists on forcing them upon us.

But before we explore the horrors of Zoom calls and the tyranny of unexpected ringing, let’s start with the most baffling development in modern communication: Gen Z’s absolute refusal to hold a phone like a normal human being.

Chapter 1: Gen Z, What Are You Doing With Your Phone?

If you have ever had the misfortune of sitting next to a Gen Z person making a phone call, you may have noticed something deeply unsettling.

They do not hold the phone against their ear.

No.

Instead, they put it on speakerphone and hold it flat in front of them, as though they are conducting a séance for the spirit of Steve Jobs. And they do this in public spaces, blissfully unaware that the rest of us do not want to hear their full, unfiltered conversation about Becky’s latest emotional breakdown or the trauma of getting oat milk instead of almond in their iced coffee.

Let’s be clear: This is not necessary. Bluetooth headphones exist. Regular headphones exist. Holding a phone like a phone still exists. And yet, here we are, all unwilling participants in their full-volume life updates.

So what’s happening here?

Sociological Explanation: The Performance of Public Calls

According to sociologist Erving Goffman, human interactions are performances, with different behaviours depending on whether we’re in a public or private setting. Traditionally, phone calls were private affairs—conducted in offices, homes, or places where no one else was forced to listen.

But Gen Z? They have rewritten the social script.

• The line between public and private has blurred—thanks to social media, people are used to living in a semi-public way at all times.
• Speakerphone calls are not just communication—they are a performance, an assertion of identity.
• There’s also a status element—having a loud, drawn-out phone conversation in a Starbucks suggests that your life is so busy, so important, that you cannot even hold a phone properly.

Unfortunately for the rest of us, this means we are now unwilling extras in their personal podcast.

But the problem isn’t just how phone calls are conducted—it’s the fact that they exist at all.

Chapter 2: The Neurodivergent Phone Call Struggle

For neurotypical people, phone calls are a minor inconvenience at worst.

For neurodivergent people like me? They are an unpredictable, socially exhausting, anxiety-inducing test of endurance.

Phone Calls Violate the Social Contract of Communication

Sociologists like Harold Garfinkel talk about ethnomethodology—the study of how we navigate everyday social interactions through unspoken rules. One of these rules is “turn-taking”—the ability to control the timing and structure of a conversation.

Phone calls violate this rule.

• They demand immediate attention.
• They offer no preparation time.
• They force real-time interaction, removing the ability to pause, process, and respond in a controlled way.

For neurodivergent people, this is deeply unsettling.

Texting allows control. Phone calls remove that control.

Chapter 3: The Rise of Zoom and Teams Calls (The Digital Hellscape We Can’t Escape)

At some point, workplaces realised that emails exist. But instead of using them, they invented something even worse: Zoom and Teams meetings.

Zoom Calls: The Illusion of Productivity

Sociologist Max Weber argued that bureaucracy thrives on inefficiency.

• Zoom and Teams calls are not about productivity—they are about creating the illusion of productivity.
• They exist to justify the existence of meetings, even when a single email would suffice.
• They reinforce hierarchy—if your boss calls a meeting, it forces you to engage on their terms.

Chapter 4: The Only Acceptable Reasons to Call Someone in 2025

1. You’re my doctor, and you have important medical results.
2. You’re my food delivery driver, and you’re lost.
3. Something is on fire.
4. You are Liam Neeson from Taken, and I have been kidnapped.
5. You are literally dying, and your final words must be spoken immediately.

If your reason for calling does not fall into one of these categories, please text me.

Conclusion: Let’s Just Text Instead

Social theorists like Marshall McLuhan have long argued that “the medium is the message”—meaning that how we communicate shapes what we communicate.

In the modern world, text-based communication has redefined social interaction. It allows for:

• Asynchronous engagement (replying when it’s convenient).
• More thoughtful responses (rather than immediate reaction).
• A more equal power dynamic (instead of forced urgency).

So next time you think about calling me, ask yourself this simple question:

“Could this be a text?”

If the answer is yes, then do the right thing: text me.

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AJ Wright

AJ Wright is a quiet yet incisive voice navigating the surreal world of sociology, higher education, and modern life through the unique lens of a neurodivergent mind. A tech-savvy PhD student hailing from South Yorkshire but now stationed in the flatlands of Lincolnshire, AJ writes with an irreverence that strips back the layers of academia, social norms, and the absurdities of daily life to reveal the humour lurking beneath.

As an autistic thinker, AJ’s perspective offers readers a rare blend of precision, curiosity, and wit. From dissecting the unspoken rituals of academia—like the silent war over the office thermostat—to exploring the sociology of “neurotypical small talk” and the bizarre hierarchies of campus coffee queues, AJ turns the ordinary into something both profound and hilarious.

AJ’s unassuming nature belies the sharpness of their commentary, which dives deep into the intersections of neurodiversity, tech culture, and the often-overlooked quirks of human behaviour. Whether questioning why university bureaucracy feels designed by Kafka or crafting surreal parodies of academic peer reviews, AJ writes with a balance of quiet intensity and playful absurdity that keeps readers coming back for more.

For those seeking a blog that is equal parts insightful, irreverent, and refreshingly authentic, AJ Wright provides a unique perspective that celebrates neurodiversity while poking fun at the peculiarities of the world we live in.  Also a contributor at Thinking Sociologically.

untypicable.co.uk

Emails are, at their core, a simple concept. You write words, you hit send, and someone else reads them (or doesn’t, depending on whether they’re the type to “circle back” weeks later as if nothing happened). But lurking at the bottom of every email, just before that final full stop, is a hidden battlefield: the email sign-off.

It’s not just a way to end a message—it’s a finely tuned weapon. A secret handshake. A passive-aggressive slap in digital form. Used correctly, a sign-off can make or break workplace diplomacy, subtly communicate your true feelings, or, in extreme cases, send a shiver down the recipient’s spine.

Here’s a breakdown of the most common (and most dangerous) email sign-offs, what they claim to mean, and what they actually mean.

1. “Kind Regards” – The Cold, Corporate Dagger

What it pretends to say: “I am a professional human who wishes you well.”
What it actually says: “I don’t like you, but HR says I have to be polite.”

There is no kindness in “Kind Regards.” It is the most chillingly neutral way to sign off an email while maintaining plausible deniability. It’s polite, yes, but in the same way that being handed a plain beige envelope with “NOTICE OF LEGAL ACTION” written on it is polite.

Usage:

• Perfect for shutting down a conversation while appearing civil.
• Ideal for when you are deeply irritated but not quite irritated enough to make it obvious.
• Often followed by an attachment you definitely should have read the first time.

2. “Best” – The Ambiguous Power Move

What it pretends to say: “I wish you the best, my friend.”
What it actually says: “I acknowledge you and this email, and that’s the limit of my emotional investment.”

There is nothing warm about “Best.” It is the professional equivalent of a nod across a crowded room—brief, cold, and with no intention of further engagement.

Usage:

• A favourite among people who want to appear friendly but don’t want to commit to actual friendliness.
• Often used by higher-ups who want to sound approachable but don’t care enough to type three more letters.
• The preferred choice for people who are perpetually 30 seconds away from throwing their laptop out the window.

3. “Thanks” – The Bare Minimum

What it pretends to say: “I appreciate this.”
What it actually says: “I need you to do this and I want to sound polite, but I will not be elaborating.”

“Thanks” is a classic. It’s short, to the point, and safe. But beware—context is everything.

“Thanks!” – This is warm. Approachable. Friendly.
“Thanks.” – This is a demand. A threat. A warning.

Usage:

• Used when you need someone to do something but don’t want to sound like you’re bossing them around.
• If someone emails you with just “Thanks.”, prepare for battle.

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4. “Thanks in Advance” – The Subtle Threat

What it pretends to say: “I am grateful for your future efforts.”
What it actually says: “I expect you to do this. No questions. No excuses.”

There is no escape from “Thanks in advance.” It is not a request. It is a statement of fact. By the time you’ve read those three words, your fate has been sealed.

Usage:

• Best deployed when you want someone to do something but don’t want to deal with their input.
• Makes it clear that you will not be chasing them for it because it will be done.

5. “Have a Great Day!” – The Cheerful Yet Menacing Closer

What it pretends to say: “I genuinely hope you have a nice day.”
What it actually says: “I loathe you, but I will package my rage in legally acceptable optimism.”

Rarely used in truly happy emails, “Have a great day!” is the sign-off of someone forcing a smile through clenched teeth. The more cheerful it is, the more passive-aggressive it feels.

Usage:

• Best used after telling someone off but wanting to seem positive.
• If received in an email that also contains a “Just circling back”, prepare to suffer.

6. “Warm Regards” – The Overly Familiar Gambit

What it pretends to say: “I care about you and your wellbeing.”
What it actually says: “I think we are closer than we actually are.”

“Warm Regards” is the hug of email sign-offs. It tries to be comforting but mostly just makes everyone uncomfortable. If you don’t already have an established warm relationship with the recipient, using this can feel like sending a xx to your boss. (And we all know how that ends.)

Usage:

• Acceptable if you’re actually on friendly terms with someone.
• Highly suspicious if used by someone who was coldly professional in their last email.

7. “Sent from my iPhone” – The ‘I’m Important’ Excuse

What it pretends to say: “Apologies for any typos—this was sent from my phone.”
What it actually says: “I have an iPhone. I’d like you to know that.”

“Sent from my iPhone” is the email equivalent of casually mentioning, “Oh, sorry, I was in the Maldives last week.” It is unnecessary, often irrelevant, and mostly used by people who don’t realise they can delete it in their settings.

And let’s be honest—typos are not exclusive to phone emails. If anything, this disclaimer is more likely to draw attention to them.

Usage:

• Used by people who either don’t know how to turn it off or want you to know they are too important to be at a computer.
• Unforgivable if it appears in a professional email full of errors.

8. No Sign-Off at All – The Ultimate Power Move

What it pretends to say: Nothing at all.
What it actually says: “I have moved beyond the constraints of pleasantries.”

An email with no sign-off is terrifying. It’s abrupt. It’s cold. It leaves nothing open for interpretation. A person who sends an email with no sign-off is either in a hurry or furious beyond words. Either way, it’s unsettling.

Usage:

• Common in workplace disagreements where the sender is done engaging.
• If your boss starts emailing you with just their name at the bottom, prepare for restructuring.

Choose Your Sign-Off Wisely

Email sign-offs may seem small, but they carry weight. Choose wrong, and you might accidentally sound cold, too familiar, or subtly hostile. Choose right, and you can exert total psychological dominance over your inbox.

So next time you sign off an email, take a moment. Consider your words carefully. Because sometimes, “Kind Regards” isn’t kind at all.

And if all else fails? Just hit send with no sign-off and watch the world burn.

Have a Great Day! James.

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James Henshaw

James Henshaw is a brooding Geordie export who swapped the industrial grit of Newcastle for the peculiar calm of Lincolnshire—though he’s yet to fully trust the flatness. With a mind as sharp as a stiletto and a penchant for science-tinged musings, James blends the surreal with the everyday, crafting blogs that feel like the lovechild of a physics textbook and a fever dream.

Equally at home dissecting the absurdities of modern life as he is explaining quantum theory with alarming metaphors, James writes with the wit of someone who knows too much and the irreverence of someone who doesn’t care. His posts are infused with a dark humour that dares you to laugh at the strange, the inexplicable, and the occasionally terrifying truths of the universe—whether it’s the unnerving accuracy of Alexa or the existential menace of wasps.

A figure of mystery with a slightly unsettling edge, James is the sort of bloke who’d explain the meaning of life over a pint, but only after a dramatic pause long enough to make you question your own existence. His wit cuts deep, his insights are sharp, and his ability to make the surreal feel strangely plausible keeps readers coming back for more.