T’ Story O’ Handsome & Freckles

Once upon a time... on t’ borders o’ t’ glorious fair taan o’ Scarborough, ther’ lived a pooar tea-picker wi ‘is wife an’ two bairns. ‘e wer’ a gentle an' kindly sooart o' chap, wi' small delicate 'ands, jus’ reight for pickin’ t’ famous Yorkshire Tea leaves, grown at Scarborough’s Tea Plantation, on t’ Scalby delta jus’ aatside o’ t’ taan limits. But due ter a nasty epidemic o’ Starbucks sweepin’ across t’ caanty o’ Yoarkshire, life wer’ real ‘ard!

Often as not ‘e ’ad no money f’ food nor warmth, so ‘is pooar bairns, a lad called Handsome an' a lass called Freckles, wud go ter sleep at neight wi their bellies empty, dreamin’ o’ a bowl o’ gruel. Sometimes, t’ family’s only meal o’ t’ week wer’ a pigeon off some pooar buggers loft, or a lettuce misappropriated fra an allotment.

T’ tea picker’s current wife wer’ a reight miserable bitch! Allus ‘ad a face on ‘er like a slapped arse! She ‘ad a disposition as black t’ liquorice mines at Pontefract, wayer she addled afore she met ‘im. Rumour ‘ad it that she’d bin caught in a molasses explosion daan t’ mine an’ ad’ suffered a contrary reaction to it – makin’ ‘er permanently bitter an’ twisted like. Certainly she ‘adn’t stopped moanin’ abaat it since. In fact she wer’ one them lasses wot wudn’t settle f’ jus’ one word when a thousand mooare wud easily do!

‘e ad met ‘er at t’ caanty fayer not long aater is true love ‘ad died givin birth ter t’ twins. She’d used ‘er feminine charms on ‘im at a time when ‘e wer’ daan an’ needin’  a friend wi a sympathetic ear. Wot ‘e got wer’ a battle axe wi an agenda.  Onnyroad, afore ‘e knew it like, ‘e wer’ bein’ frog marched daan t’ isle wi ‘is two bairns in tow. Many times since that fateful day, e’d wished she’d bin buried under a lump of Yoarkshire Brack daan t’ mine – particularly as she ‘ad no time f’ ‘is bairns. But ‘e wer’ a weak willed bloke, affeared ter stand up to ‘er, so she ruled ova t’ house wi a liquorice root o’ iron.

One neight, jus’ afore Christmas, it wer so cold that they ‘ad ter warm t’ candle up in t’ oven afore they cud get t’ bugger ter light. Aatside brass monkies could be ‘eard singin’ soprano, wandering araand in t’ cold an’ t’ frost, appen they cudn’t find their barin’s. An on this particular neight, her ladyship’s mood wer blacker than ivver...

"Wot are we to do, like?” she says, “We’ve nobut ‘alf a loaf o’ mouldy bread left an’ ah fear we shall aal starve. Appen t’ bairns ’ll atter go!"
 

“Nay, don’t be daft lass – ah cudn’t be wi’ aat mi bairns” says t’ tea picker.
 

“We’ve got nay bloody choice luv!” argued ‘is wife. “Appen if they stay, we’ll aal perish. Wot good wud cum aat o’ that? Tomorrow us’ll take ‘em ter "t’ place o’ a thaasand turns". Folks say ‘at once inside Ikea, tha can be lost fra ivver. An t’ nearest one is chuffin miles away in Leeds. Ah reckon, they’ll not find their way ‘ome fra theyer."

“But wot ’ll becum o’ em?”’e protested weakly.

“Ah reckon ‘at t’ staff theyer will discover ‘em in a week or two - an‘ hand them ova ter local constabulary, who’ll jus’ pass ‘em on ter social services. N' doubt they’ll put fresh food in their bellies an’ gi’ ‘em nice warm beds ter sleep in, like. Wi a bit o’ luck, they’ll get ther’ own caancil owse an’ be put on benefits – jus’ like aal them folks fra abroad get nah. Appen they’ll be far better off theyer, than stayin’ wi us!"

“Ah’ can see tha’s bin thinkin’ long an ‘ard abaat this” says t’ tea picker, “an I knows tha’s got a point like, but ah’m still not shooer abaat this!”
 

So she nagged him. She whinged, whimpered an’ whined at ‘im. She moaned, mithered, bleated an’ bellyached at im. She complained, griped, badgered, pestered, plagued, harassed, hassled, harried, hounded and needled ‘im. An she didn’t shut up until she’d made ‘im promise ter do exactly as she ‘ad said.
 

Nah, although it wer’ late, Handsome an’ Freckles wer still wide awake in their beds, far too hungry ter sleep - so heard ivvery word wot wer’ said.
 

"Oh heck!" sobbed Freckles, "I’ve ‘eard that t’ fella wot designed Ikea wer’ savaged ter deeath by ‘is guide dog! Appen we shall be lost in t’ land o’ Swedish export, travelin’ raand an’ raand in circles ‘til we is driven quite crazy! Wot are we ter do like?"
 

"Cry not, little sister," said Handsome. "Thy bruther will tek gradely care o’ thee." An’ ‘e slipped aat o’ bed an’ put on ‘is coit. Then ‘e softly unbarred t’ door an’ stepped aat inter t’ frozen neight.
   
T’ moon wer’ shining brightly, an’ t’ fag ends discarded by his step mother on t’ path by t’ kitchen dooar, shone aat like little glow worms in t’ moonlight. So Handsome stooped daan an’ filled ‘is pockets wi’ as many cigarette butts as they wud hold. Then ‘e went back in an’ crept in ter bed agayen.
 

T’ next morning t’ wicked stepmother cum an’ woke t’ children reight early. She told ‘em they must get up an’ dress quickly.

"Tha shall go wi’ us ter a place called Ikea ter-day. Tha fatther an’ ah ‘as ter do sum measuring’ up o’ stuff fra bit o’ work ‘e’s bin offered, like. An’ ah want thee ter keep tha sens aat o’ mischief whilst we do.” Then she giv’ ‘em each a half o’ t’ last piece o’ mouldy bread fra their dinner, an’ they aal set aat together. Handsome let Freckles carry both pieces o’ bread in her apron, f’ ‘is pockets wer’ full o’ stale fag ends.
 

Nah, tis amazin’ ‘ow quickly a wet an’ dishevelled lookin’ family on t’ side o’ a main road can hitch a lift fra a passin’ motorist – an necessity had made t’ tea picker an‘ ‘is family experts at this particular skill. So it weren’t long afore they wer speedin’ their way ter Leeds in t’ sleepin’ quarters o’ an eighteen wheel Eddie Stobart transport lorry - surraanded by mooare comforts than wot they’d ivver ‘ad at home.

T’ trucker ‘ad listened very politely ter t’ yarn ‘er ladyship ‘ad spun ‘im – an’ ‘e seemed genuinely concerned. Turned aat ‘e wer’ a born agayen Christian an’ a genuine good Samaritan ter boot. ‘e wer’ on ‘is way ter t’ collect t’ latest harvest o’ tagliatelle fra t’ Spaghetti Orchards aatside o’ Bradford – so Ikea wer’ on ‘is way like.

“Personally ah can’t be doing wi aal that 'do-it-yourself self assembly gubbins!'" says t’ trucker. “Ah once bought two pillows only ter find aat wen ah got 'ome, t' box contained nowt but a dead duck!”

Lookin’ at t’ family’s drawn faces, it didn’t take a genius ter see ‘at they wer’ malnourished an’ pooar! So t' trucker told 'em ‘ow ‘e allus kept a small bottle o’ whiskey an’ t’ odd Yorkie Bar in ‘is glove compartment f’ emergencies – ‘cept ‘e ’d eaten t’ last one t’ night afore. However, theyer wer’ welcome ter ‘ave a slug ooer three o’ t’ whiskey an eat t’ rest o’ a half finished box of Mint Matchmakers wot ‘ad been under ‘is seat fra several months.

So while t’ family ‘elped themsens ter ‘is goodies, t’ trucker known ter 'is mates as Holy Joe, tuned ‘is radio in ter Bishop FM an’ sang along loudly ter aal t’ stonkin’ music being played by t’ DJ Terry Ferdinand. “Shame t’ bugger nivver plays ‘Convoy' ” 'e said absentmindedly.

P'rhaps unsurprisingly, wi such luxuries an’ great music, it wer’ nobbut a blink o’ an eye length journey afore they wer’ pullin’ up aatside o’ a great big blue an yella metal building that looked like a missin' piece fra a giant's lego set. An’ a minute or so later – they wer’ walking thru its dooars whilst humming t’ last song they’d heard fra t’ radio…. t’ theme fra t’ Waltons television series.

Havin’ not seen aat like Ikea afore, Freckles wer’ lead deep into its bowels with ‘er eyes wide an’ ‘er mouth openin’ an’ closin’ like a fish aat o’ watter. But as they went along, t’ tea picker noticed ‘ow Handsome stopped an’ looked back ivvery few minutes.
 

"Why does tha look back so often, my son?" ‘e asked. "If tha dunt take care tha’ll trip ower summat expensive like, an we can’t afford onny breakages."
 

"Ah can’t believe ‘ow much stuff is in ‘ere” lied, Handsome, “ah wer’ jus’ marvellin’ at it aal.”

But secretly, each time ‘e turned around ‘e dropped a cigarette butt, ter mark t’ way they’d cum.

As they went farther an’ farther in ter t’ labyrinth that is Ikea, t’ path got mooare an’ mooare twisty an’ thronged wi people. Onny sense o’ direction that Handsome an’ Freckles ‘ad when they fust cum in, wer soon long since gone. At last, atter wot seemed like hours o’ walkin’, t’ tea picker said ter ‘is children, “Sit daan an’ take a break ‘ere whilst tha stepmother an’ ah ‘ave a gud skeg araand. We won’t be long!” But Handsome noticed that as ‘e said this, ‘e cudn’t look him straight in t’ eye, an’ appeared ter be wipin’ away a tear as ‘e disappeared in ter t’ craawd.

So Handsome an’ Freckles sat daan on a couple o’ leather recliners, not shooer o’ wot ter do next. Both wer’ torn between wantin’ ter protest, an’ not wantin’ ter make life onny harder f’ their fatther. Neither knew wot t’ say ter t’ other, so they sat in silence an’ ate t’ last o’ t’ Mint Matchmakers. Then, feeling a tad jiggered atter their long walk, combined wi t’ affects o’ a rare bit o’ nice food an’ even rarer drop o’ alcohol inside ‘em – quickly fell saand asleep.
 

When they awoke, it wer’ as dark as a coal ‘ole picnic - an’ aal but t’ security lights wer’ aat. There weren’t a soul ter be seen onny wayer. In fact t’ only saands wer’ t’ hum o’ a distant generator an’ t’ hooting o’ an owl wot had lost its way an’ decided ter snuggle up ter a warm-air aatlet on t’ roof f’ t’ neight.

"Oh Handsome, what shall we do?" sobbed Freckles. "Appen we ‘ave mooare chance platin’ fog than getting’ aat. We shall nivver be able ter find us way ‘ome."
 

"Nay fret lass" said Handsome. "Gi’ me your hand an’ I will get thee aat o’ here."

An’ as they got up, as if bi magic like, t’ moon began ter rise aat side sendin’ silver moonbeams through ter glass windas lightin’ up their suraandin’s. “Look theyer” said Handsome pointin’ ahead. F’ theyer in t’ moonlight, like a little glow-worm, shone a cigarette butt that Handsome had dropped earlier. An beyond that another, then another, and so on. “Well ah’ll go ter t’ foot o’ our stairs!” says Freckles.

So hand in hand, t’ children set off followin’ t’ line o’ glow worms through t’ maze o’ corridors an’ passageways. F’ abaat half an hour or so they skipped happily together thinkin’ that their luck ‘ad changed -  but then, as they rounded a corner, t’ line o’ cigarette butts, suddenly stopped – replaced by a highly polished an’ empty flooar.

“Oh bugger!” said Handsome. “Appen ah forgot ter factor in ter me plans t’ possibility o’ a cleaning lady! Ah guess we is gonna have ter think o’ summat else nah?”

But Freckles wer’n’t payin’ ‘im onny attention like. She wer’ looking at a sign on t’ an office door. It read: “Welcome ter your IKEA interview. Please build yourself a chair and sit down.”

Then suddenly she started acting aal weird like, sniffin’ ter air like a hound on t’ scent o’ a fox.
“Wots up?” ‘e says to ‘er.

“Ah think ah can smell a hint o’ meatballs, fra daan this way somewayer. Maybe fries too?” says Freckles.

“Well ah can’t smell owt!” replied Hansome. “But in t’ absence o’ a better idea, ah suggest we folla tha nose an’ see wayer it takes us!” So they did.

Atter a while Handsome says, “ Ee by heck chuck, tha’s reight. Ah can shooerly  smell summat nah! Tis a bit like Maccy D’s but wi a hint o’ real food?”
 

So reight thru t’ neight, t’ children journeyed up an daan t’ isles o’ beddin’, kitchens, office furniture an’ a billion other things that tha dun’t actually need but can get flat packed – ‘ere an’ theyer losing t’ scent o’ fry-ups but then findin’ it agayen, an aal t’ time getting’ closer ter its source.  In fact t’ sun wer’ cumin’ up by t’ time they raanded a corner in wot wer’ t’ biggest warehouse either Handsome ooer Freckles ‘ad ivver been in - and spied t’ most wonderful sight they‘d ivver seen.

Fustly, ther’ wer’ a sweetie shop, designed like a cottage in a story book, aal ready fra t’ Christmas market, complete wi false snow an’ fairy lights too. An’ next to that, wer a another shop wot sold meatballs – an’ hotdogs – an’ fries an’ aal manner o’ savouries. (Hence t’ smell.)

Freckles, bein’ made o’ sugar an’ spice an’ aal that stuff, wer naturally drawn ter t’ sweetie shop. But she felt like such a wazzock when she realised it wer made entirely o’ plastic gingerbread, ornamented wi rubber cookies, cellophane candy windows an’ toffee steps made fra foam.

Meanwhile, Handsome wer’ delighted that t’ shop selling meatballs an’ hotdogs was entirely real – as wer’ aal t’ food inside it.

"What a gradely breakfast we shall have!" cried Handsome, helping himself to a cold hot dog an’ a bread bun. "We’ve got Coke, Fanta an’ coffee too!”

Freckles wer’ jus’ in t' middle o' deep-throating a giant hot dog, when she heard a gentle voice fra behind her sayin’: "Munching an’ crunching! Do ah hear a mouse?”

An' ter her shock an’ delight, she turned araand ter see her fatther standin’ theyer wi ‘is arms open wide – accompanied by half a dozen security men wi torches.

“Ah’m so sorry” ‘e says. “As soon as ah got aat side wi yon step mother, ah realised wot a complete fool ah’d bin ter listen ter her poisoned words fra aal these yeears. ‘ow cud ah abandon mi own bairns? So ah give ‘er a bit o’ ‘er own medicine like. I nagged her. Whinged, whimpered an’ whined at ‘er. Moaned, mithered, bleated an’ bellyached at ‘er. Ah complained, griped, badgered, pestered, plagued, harassed, hassled, harried, hounded and needled ‘er. An more ‘an that, ah told ‘er exactly wot ah thought o’ er. An it felt bloody wonderful!”

“So wot did she say ter that?” asked a gobsmacked an’ reight praad Handsome.

“Nowt!” replied t’ tea picker. “She wer’ that took aback that she didn’t look wayer she wer’ goin’ an' stepped back'ards aat on ter t' road, an' straight under a number 32 bus fra Cleckhuddersfax. An ah’m delighted ter report that t’ wicked witch is deead, deceased, passed on, gone!"

"Yay!" cried 'is two bairns, wi tears of joy freely flowin' daan their cheeks!

"Thankfully" continued t' tea picker, these blokes 'ere saw t’ whole thing – an’ atter I’d told ‘em me story, they kindly volunteered ter help me search f’ thee. We’ve been tryin’ ter find thee ivver since!”

“Aint thee afeared that t’ old bag will come back an haunt thee? That 'er rottin' zombie like corpse'll cum an' cratch tha eyes aat or summat when tha’s asleep?" asked Freckles incredulously.

“Nay lass” said t’ tea picker, “Reckon ah’ll ‘ave ‘er buried face daan - in a block o' concrete. She’ll nivver be able ter claw her way aat o' that!”

So Handsome an’ Freckles an’ t’ tea picker thumbed their way back to t’ Scarborough an’ lived happily ivver after. Freckles became a lady of low voltage, Handsome a rent boy – an’ t’ tea picker took up folk music under the name o’ John Boy Walton.

End:
______________________

This story is dedicated to the musicians, contributors and hosts of The Folk Show on BishopFM Radio  - and in particular to my friend Glenn (John-Boy) Coggin and the rest of our Waltons family. 

A New Arrival F' Joe Sykes

Couple o’ weeks ago nah, ah were ‘avin a quiet paant daan at t’ Angel, when ah noticed mi mate Joe Sykes stood at t’ other end o’ t bar, starin’ in ter t’ mirror like e’d seen a ghoast. ‘e wer’ as pale as one an’ aal. Sweat wer’ drippin daan ‘is fissog an’ ‘is ‘ands wer’ shakin’ like e’d ‘Parkinsons’ or summat .  Ah thowatt t’ pooer bugger’s gonna keel ova any second nah – better see wots up.

Ah wer jus abaat t’ lay a friendly ‘and on ‘is shoulder, when ‘e gets a call on ‘is new fandangled gooseberry thinggie. Atter a few seconds, ‘e ‘angs up, grinnin’ fra ear to ear, an’ orders a raand o’ drinks f’ everyone in t’ bar! Turned aat that ‘is wife ‘ad jus’ welped. In fact it wer’ ‘is fust born.

O’ course, wi Joe bein’ mi mate, I knew she wer’ stagnant, like - but bein’ a typical carin’ bloke, ah’d forgotten aal abaat it agayen.

Turnin’ raand an’ seein’ me for t’ fust time that evenin’, e’ slaps mi on mi back an’ announces that ‘e wer t’ fatther o’ a stonkin’ babby boy name o’ Eric, ‘at ‘ad weighed in at a healthy 25 paands.

Fra jus’ a second like, t’ bar went deathly silent. Tha cud o’ heard a flea fart! Then it exploded in protestations.  N’ body cud believe that ony new babby cud weigh in at 25 paands – “less it wer’ a chuffin elephant”.

One pooar lass actually fainted due t’ sympathy pains.

“Appen tis normal in owwer family like,” says Joe, praadly. We’ve bin breedin’ rugby league prop fo’wards fra donkey’s years.  25 paands is abaat average f’ a Sykes babby. Appen e’ll be playin f’ Leeds Rhinos in a few yeears!”

“Ah’d ‘eard tha missus looks like a cart ‘oss” said someone - afore ‘e got thumped.

Then congratulations shaawered Joe fra aal around, amid many exclamations o’ “KIN ‘ELL!” follud by several mooare paants.

Two weeks later, ‘e’s back in t’ Angel lookin aal bleary eyed like wi a five o’ clock shadow. So ah goes up ter im.  “Ey up youth” ah says, “Ows t’ sprog an’ ‘is mam doin’? Appen we’ve bin runnin’ a sweepstake on t’ weight o’ yon bairn. So wot’s ‘e weigh nah like?”

T’ proud fatther jus’ smiles stupidly an answers, “Twenty paands.”

“Wot?” ah says, puzzled, an mooare than a tad concerned. 'Wot ‘appened? ‘e wer’ 25 paands o’ t’ day ‘e wor welped? Is t’ bairn sickening f’ summat?”
 
Joe takes a slow swig o’ ‘is Bull Mastiff Son O’ A Bitch, wipes ‘is lips on ‘is shirt sleeve, leans fo'ward ter whisper in mi ear, an smiling says, “Nay lad - ad ‘im circumcised...”

Bang Goes T' Theory

One reight dark night, a reight dark man, set off t’ do a reight dark deed....

Nay, ah’m not talkin’ abaat Aladdin - but a bloke wot wer’ born in our beloved caanty o’ Yo-arkshire. In t’ Stongate area o’ Yo-ark ter be precise. A man oo’s name wer’ ter become synonymous wi’ an explosive tale o’ intrigue, skulduggery, blood, guts, betrayal, royalty an’ sex. (Ok, ah lied abaat t’ sex bit!)

Like aal good tales, this-un begins in a pub. T’ Duck & Drake on t’ Strand. One o’ t’ most infamous waterin’ ‘oles in aal o’ London!

It wer' March 1605, an’ hidden in a claad o’ tobacco smoke, be’ind a wall o’ ladies o’ low voltage, wer’ a group o’ darkly dressed men wot ‘ad come together t’ carry aat a desperately dark deed. They wuz wot tha might call today ‘terrorists in waitin’. T’ leader o’ this motley crew, wer’ a bloke by t’ name o’ Robert Catesby - a bit o’ a jessie wi a charismatic swagger, a dangerously persuasive tongue an’ a ludicrously optimistic mind. This whole bloody dark deed thing wer’ ‘is idea – not that anyone wud ivver remember that later, like.

Catesby’s comrades wer’ Thomas Percy, a nob wi loads o’ aristocratic connections; Thomas Wintour, a lawyer; an’ Jack Wright, another Yo-arkshire man, top swordsman an’ close mate o’ t’ bloke fra Yo-ark. T’ latter ‘ad been brought in last minute, fra ‘is knowledge o’ explosives - learned first hand fightin’ t’ Spanish in Flanders.    

“Right –oh”, say Catesby, all official like, “Fust thing on t’ agenda, is t’ introduce us new mate ‘ere – Guido Faukes.”

“Ah prefer t’ name o’ Guy, if its nay bother with thee”, says Guido.

Silence.

“An’ Faukes is pronounced Fawkes – as in hawks. Tis a bugger bein’ a Catholic wi a Catholic saandin’ name, in a country wayer our side are bein’ hanged by t’ Scottish Protestant King James jus’ fra bein’ left footers! So ah dun’t want ter bring ony mooare attention on me sen than I ‘ave ter – if that’s aalreight wi thee? An ah’m guessin’ that WE  (#pauses for affect#) don’t need that reight nah neither...... do we lads?”

T’ announcement wer’ follud by a second silence as eyes travelled raand t’ table fra one ter another like a game o’ pass t’ parcel in an Irish bar. “Guy Fawkes it is then” said Catesby. Next subject on t’ agenda is wot ter call us gang?”

“Ows abaat Catholics Rebelling Against Protestants?” Says Wright.

“Nay that’s just CRAP”, says Wintour. We need sommat creatively sneaky so no one wud know wot it meant if t’ conversation wer’ overheard like?”

“Wot abaat changin’ us names?” says Percy.”We could be Tinky Wink, Dipsy, La-la and Po”

“Good pseudonyms” says Wintour again. “Sorta catchy too. But not really t’ right kind o’ name fra a ruthless gang o’ hardened criminals, eh?”

“Can I submit t’ name o’ Black Death fra tha consideration?” offered Fawkes.

Once again, t’ table looked at ‘im in unison.  “Ee that’s sheer brilliant that is!” says Catesby. “Ther’s allus aat-breaks at t’ moment. Folks’ll think we is talkin abaat t’ plague! Aal in favour raise an ‘and?!”

An’ just like that, t’ gang became known as t’ Black Death!

“Aalreight”, say Catesby again. “Subject three: ‘ow we is plannin’ t’ kill t’ King, t’ Queen, t’ Princes an’ t’ Government at t’ next sittin’ o’ Parliament? Which sorta neatly ties in wi subject four: Startin’ a Catholic uprising, abducting t’ King’s daughter Princess Elizabeth, proclaiming her t’ Queen, an’ making life ‘ere fra aall us Catholics a bed of roses. So what t’ plan like?”

“In a word” says Fawkes, “Gunpaawder.....!”

An so it come ter be like, that a flat wer’ rented near t’ House O’ Lords wayer Guy Fawkes moves in pretending ter be a servant called John Johnson. ‘ere they set abaat digging a tunnel under Parliament.  ……ooer did they? Appen there is no evidence o’ this in t’ histerical books! So in aal likelyhood tis nowt more n’ a load o’ bollocks put abaat after t’ event.

So wot did ‘appen like?

In March 1605, t’ Houses o’ Parliament wer nowt like they is today. Westminster wer’ a rabbit warren o’ taverns, shops, storerooms an’ cellars – wi barrels containing wine, beers an’ oils bein’ an ever present method o’ storage an’ transport. So it wer quite easy f’ one o’ t’ Black Death gang ter rent space in t’ cellars under t’ Houses o’ Parliament an’ bring in t’ gunpowder in barrels in plain sight.

So havin’ rented t’ basement, Guy Fawkes bought t’ gunpowder fra John Whynniard in Essex an’ shipped it across t’ Thames by booat in barrels – one barrel at a time like. Appen these wer’ then rolled through t’ labyrinth o’ passages an’ tunnels between t’ various establishments, until they arrived in t’ cellars under Parliament. In aal, ‘e brought in 36 yowge barrels containin’ an estimated 2500 kg o’ gunpowder. Tis said that there wer enuf 'umph' t' bring daan many o’ t’ buildings in t’ Old Palace O’ Westminster, including t’ Abbey, an’ would ‘ave blown aat windows in t’ surrounding area f’ a distance o’ up ter aalmost a mile. So wi aal ‘is barrels in place, Guy Fawkes wer nah ready f’ t’ biggest chuffin firework display ‘at London ‘ad ivver seen.

But ‘appen as not, fete is a cruel master  - an’ ironically, twice in 1605, London wer gripped by t’ real Black Death – so it wer decided tha' London wer not a healthy enough place t’ hold Parliament. An as a result, t’ King an’ most o’ t’ Government buggered off aat o’ city on a holiday, reight through summer an’ autumn.

Ter say t’ least, t’ Black Death Gang wer’ reight blazin – which wer’ moare than can be said f’ t’ Houses O’ Parliament. But worse news wer’ yet ter come like. A few months later, Guy Fawkes faand aat that t’ time delay combined wi’ drippin’ watter in t’ cellears, had alaad dampt t’get in ter aal t’ gunpowder rendering t’ whole blinkin’ lot as useful as striking matches on wet tripe. So t’ only big bang Guy Fawkes could get at that time wer’ daan at t’ local whore house – where tis said ‘e wer’ no mooare than another damp squib.

Onnyroad, not one ter give up like, Guy Fawkes goes an’ buys mooare gunpowder an’ goes abaat swappin’ aal t’ damp stuff f’ new dry powder. But as a result of ‘is complainin’ abaat ‘is pooerly achin’ back, ‘is arthritis, an’ t’ damp workin’ conditions, etc, ‘is mates start ter recruit mooare Catholic sympathisers ter help aat. Fra then on it wer only a matter o’ time afore a leek got sprung fra t’ ranks o’ t’ Black Death Gang as well as fra t’ roof o’ t’ cellars.
In fact in t’ middle o’ another dark dreary night, an anonymous dark dreary fella delivered a dark damning letter t’ home o’ a turn coat Catholic peer name o’ Lord Monteagle – who had already previously been implicated but not ultimately charged with, various Catholic subversion plots in t’ past. Not wantin’ to get into mooare trouble, an’ already having felt the affects of the stretch rack on his patience, ‘e immediately passes t’ letter on ter t’ King’s Spymaster General – one Sir Thomas Knevitt.

Nah contrary ter wot that might expect, Sir Thomas wer’ not t’ worlds biggest fan o’ ‘is benefactor like, so ‘e just sits on t’ news fra bit, hoping that t’ King might get murdered on some other buggers shift, like. But fete’s a bitch an’ she’s got puppies – so despite aal ‘is hopes and prayers, no such bloody luck. So after abaat 10 days wi ‘is fingers crossed, ‘e can’t stand t’ cramp in ‘em any longer, an ‘e tells t’ King o’ ‘is discovery. T’ King immediately cacks ‘imsen and gives orders fra a search n’ find mission to be sent aat t’ comb t’ catacombs immediately!

So on t’ evenin’ o’ November the 4^th 1605, (still known ter this day in Yo-arkshire as mischief night) thayer’s Guy Fawkes sitting on ‘is barrels o’ gunpowder, surraanded by bundles o’ kindling, desperate fra a smoke like, contemplating t’ theory o’ particle fission, when in walks two o’ t’ Kings guards.

“Ere oo are you?” says t’ first guard ter Fawkes.

“Er... John Johnson” (the equivalent of John Smith nowadays) says Fawkes.

“Is this your stuff?” Asks t’ guard whist strugglin’ ter count t’ number o’ barrels past ten.

“Nay it belongs ter Sir Thomas Percy, I work fra ‘im.” Says Fawkes thinkin’ on ‘is feet like.

Confused the guards look at each other.

“Are you up to nothing?” says t’ guard looking quizzically at him.

“No!” Fawkes replies honestly.

“Are you sure?”

“Er.. yes!”

“Just as long as yer not!”

“No!”

“Right.”

“Reight.”

“Right.”  An off t’ guards go, commenting ‘ow well made t’ barrels are. An that “tha dunt often see craftsmanship like that in this part o’ London”.  (And yes this is allegedly all true!)

Ah can only imagine wot wer’ said ter t’ pooer guards later that neight when they reported in wi yon governor, but t’ next day, ‘avin’ ‘ad a reight good bollockin’ fra Sir Thomas ‘imsen, t’ two guards returned ter t’ same cellar ter find Guy Fawkes had already legged it.

“Well there’s a chuffin surprise?” says one of ‘em.  “Ah didn’t really expect ‘im to hang araand after almost gettin’ busted like. Thee an me is up shit creek nah!”

But they wer’ wrong again. Our hero had only gone fra a pee. Too much coffee fra Starbucks on top o’ red wine fra t’ Duck & Drake.  So two minutes later, t’ daft bugger walked back in on t’ guards wayer ‘e wer promptly arrested an’ hauled afore t’ King.

“What wer’ yer intent?” says his Royal Highness Charlie, ter Fawkes.

“Ter blow you an’ your Lords back ter Scotland wayer tha belongs!” spits Guy Fawkes aal defiant like.

So as this answer wer a bit ambivalent like, Fawkes is then taken ter t’ Tower o’ London wayer ‘e is stretched an’ tortured f’ three days. An’ on t’ third day ‘e rose agayen to reveal ‘is real name an’ those of his Black Death comrades. Plus the answer to 20 across in the times crossword puzzle.

"Found in the bottom of a bird cage, four letters, ends in IT"  ……..no, weren’t that…… it wer’ GRIT.

Meanwhile, news o’ Fawkes’ discovery ‘ad reached t’ rest o’ t’ Black Death Gang – so most o’ ‘em ‘ad gone in ter hidin’ an’ wer’ hold up in a safe house in Staffordshire. They’d been on t’ run, wer’ wet, down an’ dispirited. So in an extraordinary act o’ stupidity, ‘appen they decided ter dry out sum o’ t’ damp gunpowder – in front o’ t’ open fire. Amazingly no one wer’ killed in t’ resultin’ explosion  - but tis nah commonly accepted that it probably addled theyer minds! Coz as 700 troops amassed aat side armed ter t’ teeth like, t’ Black Death Gang decided ter shoot theyer way aat Butch Cassidy an’ t’ Sun Dance kid style. Thus becoming t’ first ivver recipients o’ t’ Darwin Award on theyer second attempt.

As f’ Guy Fawkes himself, on t’ 31^st o’ January 1606, ‘e wer’ hanged until almost dead. Then his “man-bits” wer’ cut off an’ burnt in front o’ ‘im. Followin’ that, ‘is guts wer’ opened an’ drawn aat, afore ‘is barely alive body wer’ tied ter four osses that wer’ made ter pull in opposite directions, until ‘is arms and legs wer’ torn fra ‘is torso. Wot wer’ left wus then chucked on a fire.

In modern England e’d a bin in an' aat o' prison in 2 years f’ good behaviour!

So sadly, t’ centrepiece o’ this ‘ere story is nah gone. Cruelly tortured an’ disposed of in a way that makes sum o’ t’ actions in Guantanamo Bay look like child’s play. But has ‘e really gone, or is t’ last laugh belonging ter a simple Yo-arkshire man oo liked playin’ wi matches? Atter all, November t’ 5^th (hence forth known as 5/11) is celebrated ivvery year, wi much o’ t’ population o’ this fair land wishin’ they cud do t’ same t’ present set o’ liars, thieves an’ hoodwinkers, collectively known as politicians.

Indeed Guy Fawkes, t’ original war hero turned ultimate British failure, has becum a celebrated icon representin’ t’ common person’s fight against tyrannical governmental rule - right araand t’ world. T’ Guy Fawkes mask, popularized by t’ comic V fra Vendetta an’ t’ subsequent film, seems to be a favorite of activists, anarchists, and protesters alike – an is allus one o’ t’ best sellin’ items on Amazon.

So whether Guido Faukes wer’ an activitist, religious zealot, Yo-arkshire idiot, arsonist, ooer aal t’ blood lot – ‘e remains popular t’ this day fra aal ‘is faults. Certainly tis often said that ‘e wer’ t’ only honest man ivver ter enter Parliament!

But wot ‘appened t’a al that gun powder – I hear thee ask? Well it didn’t go t’ waste.

In 1666, jus’ 61 years aater t’ Black Death Gang wer’ raanded up an’ executed, a little known Egyptian chef, name o’ Gordo Ramsey, ‘ad bought a job lot daan at t’ market t’ help him light t’ dodgy ovens daan at t’ bakery business o’ Thomas Farriner, on Pudding Lane. Seems it had bin doing t’ raands fra abaat a year since t’ start o’ t Great Plague – wi civil servants an caanncillors blowin up rats an’ disposing o’ dead bodies an’ stuff. Unfortunately, due t’ unstable nature o’ t’ active ingredients like, many o’ ‘em lost their fingers ooer other such appendages in t’ process. So t’ be totally honest, it weren’t as in demand as much as tha might o’ thoaat.

Nah bein’ a reight gobby foul-mouthed smart-arse like, Ramsey wer’ too pig-eaded t’ read aal t’ instructions an’ used a tad too much. T’ resultin’ explosion started t’ Great Fire O’ London and got t’ bakery t’ nickname o’ Hell’s Kitchen. Nah that said, it did wipe out t’ plague once an fra aal. So aals well that ends well.

End

PS: Not aal t’ facts quoted above are 100% true like. So if tha’s t’ kind o’ person wot get dischuffed at t’ use o’ poetic license - remember t’ clue is in t’ word ‘tales’. Enuf said. Sithee.

T' Story O' Noah

One day God wer’ sat on ‘is claad in ‘eaven studyin’ t’ earth, scratin’ ‘is chin, chunterin’ under ‘is breath, an’ makin’ funny little whistling’ saands like a plumber workin’ aat ‘is bill.

“Wassup?” asked ‘is right ‘and man, t’ Arch Angel Gabriel. “Tha’s been reight crotchety f’ chuffin’ days nah! “Has tha piles come back?”

“Nay lad” says God doin’ ‘is donkey impression. “Ah’m  fair 'eart-sluffened!  Tis t’ decedents o’ Adam wot’s givin’ me grief. Since ah last ‘ad words daan theyer, ‘appen t’ lot o’ em ‘ave gotten reight wicked an’ arsy like. Can’t understand wot’s made ‘em inta such a morky bunch o’ selfish bastards. Ah’ve nurtured ‘em, looked after ‘em, an’ given ‘em aal soarts o’ good stuff like, so ah’m totally pigged off nah! Ah’m seriously thinking o’ scrappin’ t’ whole planet an’ startin’ aal ova agayen?”

“By ‘eck” says Gabriel. “Saands a bit drastic ter me, like”

“Yup.” Says God nodding sagely. “But ah can’t just leave it as it is! Appen some o’ them bankers daan theyer are tekkin t’ mick!”

“Wot abaat three strikes an’ theyer aat?” says Gabriel helpfully. A’tter all, aint thee supposed ter be a compassionate God like?”

“Nay, tis too aat o’ hand f’ that”, replied God, “if ah don’t set an example nah, in a few thaasand years t’ whole universe ’ll be revoltin’.”

“Mind tha dunt wash t’ babby aat wi t’ bath watter”, says t’ Archangel, “Ah thorwatt that tha liked aal t’ animals tha’d created.  Especially tha one made fra aal t’ bits left ova fra t’others. That duckbilledplatywotsit. An’ t’ be totally honest like, ah’m not sure ah can do another night suppin’ t’ elixir o’ life whilst thinkin’ up names f’ em aal agayen. Me brain’s still hurtin’ fra last time!”

“Spose tha’s got a point, like. Ah could save t’ animals?” mused God. “An’ ther’ is this one bloke daan theyer that’s nivver been in ony bother. Maybe if ah got ‘im an ‘is family ter build a bloody ‘normous ark, ter save t’ animals whilst ah flood t’ rest o’ t’ world – appen they could repopulate it afta aal t’ watter’s gone? Wots tha reckon?”

“Saands like a plan ter me!” replied Gabriel (thankful fra not ‘avin ter suffer another eternal hangover). “But I’d restrict it ter jus’ two o’ each kind o’ animal ooer tha’ll not get t’ ark ter float like!”

So God leans daan thru t’ claad an’ calls ter Noah, "Ey up Noah!" ee says.

“Chuff me!” say Noah. “Does tha ‘ave ter go sneakin’ up on a fella when ee’s mindin’ ‘is own business – ah almost cacked me sen!” And suddenly realisin’ oo ee wer talkin’ to, ee lets go o’ t’ sheep an’ ee says,"oh, ey up God. ‘ow's tha bin?"

And God says, "Not reight well luv, - ah 've decided ter destroy aal mankind."

"Bugger!" says Noah, cos ther int a reight lot tha can say ter that is ther?

So God says a bit moare.
" Appen everyone must die," says God. "Cept you an’ yoaar family like. Build thi sen a booat from resinous wood an’ tar an’ stuff, an’ mek decks an’ stalls aal ova t’ place. It ‘as ter be reight long, an’ reight wide, an’ reight deep, an' aal. An’ put three decks in it luv, an’ a door int side like," says God. "Because Lo!..."

"Lo what?" says Noah.

"I ant finished yet," says God. "Stop interrupting will tha...Because Lo!...ah’m goin’ ter cover t’ earth wi a flood an’ destroy mankind an’ aal ‘is crooked ways."
"Kinell!" says Noah. "Tha dunt do things by halves dust tha?!"

" An’ wot tha's got ter do is dead simple” continued God, “Tha's got ter get a pair o’ ivvry animal... a bloke an’ a missis... and get 'em into t' old booat afore it starts persistin’ daan real heavy. Bring in a pair o’ each type o’ bird... an’ animal... an’ reptile...."

"And fish?"

"Don't be daft Noah. We’re talking abaat a flood – not a barbeque"

"Oh eye” says Noah.

“And don’t forget ter build hives for the bees – ark-hives. Oh, an’ one last thing Noah - tha’s got jus’ one year t’ build t’ ark afore it starts raining cats an’ dogs!”

“Well at least that’s summat we won’t ‘ave ter collect then” says Noah – an’ off ee goes ter build t’ ark.

Nah Noah, oo wer' married ter Joan, (nay - not that Joan of Ark) had three sons: ‘Ham’ oo wer allus stuffin’ ‘is face; ‘Shem’ oo wer’ battin f’ both sides; an Japeth who got is name when at his baptism, t’ holy man said “I name this child.....” an’ promptly sneezed.

So Noah set each o’ ‘is sons ter work on buildin’ t’ ark as instructed by God – followin’ plans drawn up by t’ Capitan O’Heaven, t’ Archangel Michael. An’ ee set each o’ their wives t’ start collecting t’ animals.

But Ham, Shem & Japeth weren’t t’ brightest o’ suns in t’universe - so appen as not they ‘ad a spot o’ teethin’ trouble. Fust they made a giant tortoise  - coz t’ plans wer upside daan. Then they put t’ dooar in t’ bottom. (This wer later converted into a poop shute – well it ‘ad ter go somewhere didn’t it?) Then t’ Tahn Caancil argued that t’ brothers dint ‘ave plannin’ permission ter build an ark in Noah’s back yard – an’ t’ Equal Opportunity Commission complained coz ee wern’t hiring Croatians.

It weren’t plain salin’ f’ t’ wives neither! T’ Huntin’ an’ Fishin’ Brigade kept takin’ potshots at aal t’ rarer critters  - whilst t’ Animal Rights Liberation Movement kept tryin’ ter set ‘em free agayen. So appen aal these constant delays meant they ‘ad ter burn t’ candle at both ends an’ work thru t’ night ter meet God’s deadline. T’ local folks, still takin’ t’ piss like, nicknamed aal t’ night candles ‘floodlights’.

Meanwhile, Noah tried ‘is ‘and at preachin t’ people oo gawped at ‘s efforts – sayin’ “Repent or tha’ll draan neath t’ weight o’ tha sins!” But t’ fokes jus laughed at ‘im an’ continued their wicked ways.


Eventually, t’ last nail went into t’ ark, an’ it wer sealed an’ fully waterproofed. So Noah took ‘is family an’ all t’ animals on booard. An’ as t’ animals went in two by two, t’ lads cum up wi this reight catch little ditty. Mrs Noah watched on shakin ‘er ‘ead saying – “I’ve ‘eard ivvry thing nah!”

So theyer they aal wuz like, aal packed in an’ tucked up in t’ ark like fleas on a cat – but fra  seven days it did not rain! An’ each day Noah an’ ‘is family heard t’ mocking cries o’ t’ people aatside. “Oi, yer soppy sod! Ah thowatt yer said it wer gonna rain like? Tha’s nowt but a wet lettuce – all wind an’ watter! A big drip! Why dunt tha sod off?” Ivvry day t’ folks shaated rude things at ‘im, an ivvry day ee remained calm an’ continued ter invite ‘em inside ter be safe. But none wud join ‘im.

On t’ seventh day, ther’ wer’ suddenly this great big bang, as God ‘imsen shut t’ great dooar on t’ ark. An’ jus as Noah (oo ‘ad almost cacked imsen agayen) wer pickin ‘is heart off t’ flooar, ee felt t’ first drop o’ rain watter on ‘is skin. Appen it wer’ quickly follud by another, then another. Soon t’ eavens ‘ad opened an’ t’ rain wer heavier than owt Noah had ivver seen.

As ee watched, t’ skies turned black, lightening struck, an’ incredible winds blew. Rain fell on t ‘eath like t’ eaven’s ‘ad bin ripped open an’ wer poorin’ its guts aat. Rivers quickly filled an burst their banks, flooding inta ‘ouses an’ streets, an’ t’ watter kept rising, an’ rising, an rising.

Born aloft this ‘ere great tumult t’ ark sailed serenely away unharmed by t’ devastation being reaped all araand it. Up an’ up it lifted on t’ face o’ t’ watter whilst below towns, cities an’ even maantains disappeared under t’flood. F’ forty days an’ f’ forty nights t’ rain cum daan blotting aat ivvry breath o’ life on t’ whole planet - until only those on t’ ark wer’ left alive. Thus Noah became ter fust man in ‘istory ter float ‘is stock whilst t’ rest o’ t’ world wer’ in liquidation.

Fra above, God sat on ‘is claad an’ regarded t’ earth. No mooare people shattin, daan mobile phones, no superwoofer speakers in chav cars, no blood sucking legal professions, no speed cameras, parkin’ tickets or politicians, no queues, fuel cost hikes, terrorist attacks, clowns or chuffin’ spiders. Then ‘e rembered that t’ spiders wer already on t’ ark. “Bugger” ‘e said. “Ah knew ah’d forget summat!”

Behind ‘im, Gabriel looked ova ‘is shoulder shakin’ is ‘ead. “Ah reckon thee might ‘ave ova done it a tad this time!” ‘e said softly. So whilst ‘e thowat abaat this, God left t’ flood watter covering t’ earth  - but after it ‘ad stood cold f’ a while, Gabriel reminded ‘im ter pull t’ plug aat.

An so it came ter be, like, that on t’ 150^th day, God turned on ‘is hairdryer an’ sent a warem wind ower t’ earth ter recede t’ watter. An’ so by t’ end o’ day, t’ ark come ter rest on top o’ t’ great mountains o’ Ararat. Nah that said, beyond t’ pinnacle o’ t’ mountain, ther’ wer no other land in sight, so ‘appen as not ther’ wer’ nowhere ter disembark fra t’ ark. So Noah waited f’ another 40 days where upon ee sent aat a dove. But t’ dove couldn’t find any perch ter land on above t’ watter line so it returned ter Noah desperate for a rest like.

A week later Noah releases t’ dove again. This time it returned wi a freshly plucked olive leaf in it’s beak – so nah Noah knew t’ watter wer going daan. A week later agayen, ee released t’ dove f’ last time – coz it dunt come back at aal. Fra this, Noah knew t’ watter ‘ad receded fra t’ earth.

Then God spoke ter Noah agayen: “Ey up luv” says God. “Tha can come aat nah. An bring everything wi thee. Ah want thee ter go forth an’ repopulate t’ earth wi everything that is good!”

“Aal  reight” says Noah lookin’ araand at t’ empty landscape. “Might take us a week or three tho!” An’ off he went into the land singing “Oh for the wings of a dove!” 

An as God leaned back on ‘is fluffy white claad an’ watched t’ men an’ beasts go forath inta t’ land, ‘e smelled t’ sweet clean air, felt t’ warem sun on ‘is fissog, an’ ‘e thought life wer reight grand once mooare.

“Tha does realise that thee almost dropped a bollock ther’ like”, says Gabriel sidling up ter ‘is gaffer.

“Wot u talkin’ abaat nah Gabriel” says God, narked ‘at ‘is bubble bein’ burst!

“In future, can thee remember that a God can only exist if t’ folks believe in im! An’ you wor set ter eliminate yer whole congregation in one hit like!” say Gabriel.

“Well ah’ll go t’ foot o’ our stairs” says God “appen tha’s reight. Ah promise fra nah on like, not t’ wipe aat life on earth, no matter ‘ow bad it gets. Cross mi ‘eart an’ ope ter die. But shoerly  ah can still smite t’ odd solicitor, politician or traffic warden?”

“Oh yes” says Gabriel. “Ah think tha’ shud become mandatory!”

A Grim Tale From Topcliffe

Didst tha kno that in yonder days gone by, t’ fowks o’ Yo-arkshire believed that t’ furst body buried in a graveyard, got t’ job o’ guardin’ t’ rest o’ pooar souls that follud? A sort o’ ‘eternal duty, like. An’ fra tha’ reason, often as not, t’ clergy  wud sacrifice a large dog – to watch ova t’ rest o ‘t’ deead fra t’ devil, demons an’ other nefarious supernatural creatures – freein t’ human souls t’ go straight to heaven! Tis said, that on a dark stormy night, in t’ consecrated grounds o’ Yo-arkshire’s oldest abbeys an’ churches, these big black beasts, known as ‘Grims’, cud be seen prowlin’ raand t’ extremities o’ t’ graveyards, eye’s glowin’ red, an’ maaths droolin’ wi’ spittle. An’ when t’ devil him-sen wer’ in t’ vicinity like, t’ Grim would lift its head back an’ produce t’ most blood curdlin’ deathly howl – wot cud be heard fra bloody miles. It’d scare t’ crap aat o’ ony passin’ travellers no bother an’ stop t’ chickens layin’ f’ weeks. But t’ locals knew this to be a warnin’, like, an’ to stay at ‘ome ‘uddled raand t’ fire – so they giv’ t’ creatures a different name. They called ‘em ‘Hell Hounds’. Not coz they come fra Hell - but coz they guarded t’ pure fra its evil!

Nah, t’ fust church at Topcliffe wer founded by St Aidan arrand 650 AD – an’ stories o’ a reight fearful bloodynormus dog wot guards it, ‘ave circulated ivver since. Tis said to be t’ size o’ a large calf, black an’ shaggy, wi a smell o’ sulphur abaat it, gained fra too much o’ exposure to critters fra t’ other side. T’ patrons o’ t’ Angel Inn, will  tell thee tha’ on a still night, t’ sound of its claws can still be ‘eard trippin’ across t’ bridge ova t’ river Ure at t’end o’ Long Street. An’ if ther’s ivver a bit o’ fog hangin’ over t’ village, tha can be assured that t’ Grim ‘ll be aat an’ abaat annall.

Unfortunately, them weird fokes fra t’ wrong side o’ Pennines aint so other-worldly wise as us Yo-arkshire fokes – so ‘t is ‘ardly surprisin’ that fra time to time, some o’ them pooar buggers get t’ whole chuffin’ Grim thing arse abaat face.

In fact, not so long ago, a local lass, t’ fiancé o’ one o’ t’ most hated men in Topcliffe - a lawyer wot ‘ad emigrated fra Bolton (well oo woudn’t?), wor seized wi a sudden an’ unaccountable illness.  T’ local quack ‘ad no idea wot wer’ up wi ‘er, particularly as she wer’ known to be as pure as t’ driven snow an’ normally as perfectly healthy as a flower in t’ summer sun. So much so, that as she blossomed, she wud catch many a gentleman’ s eye as she passed daan t’ street. Indeed, t’ whole village wondered ‘ow t’ lawyer, oo were a right tight-arsed miserable old git, ‘ad ivver won her heart o‘er. Onny ‘ow, t’ quack called in t’ specialist physicians at Northallerton ‘ospital – oo wor equally stumped. So atter much sufferin, t’ pooar woman passed away like - ooer so they aal reckoned.

Not a one o’ doctors, lawyers ooer grievin’ family ivver suspected, or ‘ad reason to suspect, that t’ pooar lass wer’ not actually deead. An t’ be fair like, ‘appen she presented aal t’ ordinary appearances o’ death! T’ face assumed t’ usual pinched an’ sunken aatline,  t’ lips wer’ o’ t’ usual marble pallor, t’ eyes fixed an’ lustreless, ther’ wor no body waremth, an’ any sign o’ a  pulse ‘ad ceased! But that night, t’ saand o’ t’ Grim’s terrible howl wer’ ‘eard across t’ village fra fust time in mony a long yeear!

So naturally, in accordance wi t’ girl’s family’s wishes, t’ lawyer held a ‘wake’. Appen this be wayer f’ three days t’ body is preserved unburied, (p’rhaps in a coffin on t’ kitchen table) an’ t’ family gather raand t’ pay their last respects. T’ practise o’ holding a wake dates back to afore proper doctors an’ t’ NHS.  Back then, mony folks wer’ suspected o’ diein’,  when in fact they ‘adn’t. So a wake gave t’ pooar souls a little last-chance time to recover an’ ‘wake’ up afore they wor buried alive.

Abaat midnight on t’ fust night o’ t’ wake, ther’ come t’ saand o’ a dog sniffin’ an’ scratchin at t’ front dooar o’ t’ lawyer’s house. T’ local lasses suggested that it wor t’ Grim - an’ that 'e should let it in. But affeared f’ ‘is life, t’ lawyer ordered t’ door bolted tighter an’ everyone to ignore it. So this wer’ done, like, but after a while, such a terrible howl arose aatside, that aal t’ milk in t’ house curdled. Over an over wor heard t’ mournful howlin’ o’ t Grim - like a soul pleadin’ t’ heaven fra a last chance. But t’ lawyer remained stubborn an’ eventually t’ saand died away.

T’ followin’ night, t’ same thing ‘appened. An’ agayen t’ lawyer jus’ hid.

Unfortunately f’ t’ pooar lass, durin’ her wake, her body acquired a stony rigidity an’ started to hum a bit – so t’ funeral wor hastened on accaant o’ t’ lawyer’s worry abaat decomposition attracting t’ howlin’ beast. Thus on t’ third day like, she wor deposited in ‘er family vault, within t’ consecrated graands o’ Topcliffe church – wayer t’ doors were sealed an’ chained on t’ orders o’ t’ lawyer. But agayen abaat midnight that night, an’ f’ ivvery night f’ weeks afta like, t’ Grim wer’ seen pawin’ at t’ chains o’ t’ vault an howlin’ at t’ heavens. Then as suddenly at it had appeared, t’ Grim vanished an’ wor not seen agayen.

F’ next three years, t’ vault lay undisturbed, until one night, a strike o’ lightnin’, brought daan part o’ a tree, breakin’ oppen t’ vault dooar an’ shatterin’ t’ chains an’ t’ seal. Naturally both clergy an’ t lawyer came to inspect t’ damage.

Wot a reight fearful shock awaited them both when at last they threw oppen t’ dooars! As its portals swung aatwardly back, a white-apparelled object fell rattlin’ into t’ lawyer’s arms. Twas t’ skeleton o’ ‘is fiancé in ‘er tattered deeath shraad! Realisin’ this, t’ lawyer immediately fell dead upon t’ spot wi massive heart attack! But afore t’ clergyman cud say or do owt at aal like, aat o’ nowayer appeared t’ Grim, red eyes a blazin’ an’ spittle dripping fra it’s maath. It took no notice o’ t’ clergyman an’ instead clamped its jaws on t’ lawyers neck, an’ wi no effort at aal, dragged t’ body aat o’ t’ vault. Fra t’ door way, t’ clergyman watched it take t’ body o’ lawyer away fra t’ church an’ aat o’ consecrated land – wayer upon both Grim an lawyer simply vanished.

Afta a few minutes o’ recovery time, t’ clergyman went back into t’ vault to see wot 'e cud discover.  'E soon found aat that t’ pooar girl ‘ad obviously revived wiyin a day or so o’ her entombment, an’ that her struggles wiyin t’ coffin ‘ad caused it to fall fra a ledge, wayer it broke oppen on t’ flooar – allowin’ her to get aat. A lamp, accidentally left behind wiyin t’ tomb full o’ oil, wor nah empty. On t’ uppermost o’ t’ steps wot led daan into t’ dread chamber wor a large fragment o’ coffin, an’ on t’ back o’ t dooar wer’ scratches, splinter’s an’ dents fra wayer t’ coffin ‘ad been used as a club to attract attention in t’ hope of escape. Unfortunately, no-one heard her bar t’ Grim – an’ no help ivver came. Whether t’ pooar lass had died fra hunger, thirst or sheer terror, t’ clergyman cud not determine, but in her dying moments she’d fallen against t’ door wayer rusty ironwork had held her upright an’ erect f’ three long years.

Nah ah appreciate that mony o’ thee’ll think ah made this whole story up, like. But if tha goes daan to Topcliffe Church on a foggy evenin, tha can discover f’ tha self t’ truth o’ t’ matter. If tha’s pure o’ heart, ah’ll wager tha’ll come to nay bother. But if tha’s from Lancashire, ah’d run.....  quickly.

T' Pied Piper O' Northallerton

Long time ago nah...

...on t’ banks o’ river Ure in North Yorkshire,  lay a gradely little market taahn, name o’ Northallerton. Most o’ t’ folks theyer, wer’ ‘onest, ‘ard workin’, shoulder to t’ wheel types, livin’ contentedly off  t’ land ooer  workin’ in t’ taahn. As t’ yeears went by, mony ‘ouses an’ businesses wer’ built an’ t’ taahn prospered growin’ rich an’ grand. In fact a tad too grand f' theyer own good like, as sum folks grew conceited an’ pompous as they bellies got fatter!

Theyen one day, summat  aat o’ t’ ordinary ‘appened  to disturb t’ peace.

Nah I mun tell thee, that Northallerton ‘ad allus ‘ad rats, an’ a lot too. But ah dunt mean  t’ four legged kind. Nay not them! Summat a lot worse! Ah’m talkin’ abaat  t’ uman variety, t' very worst kind – chuffin’ bankers! Just t’ thowat o’ em meks me shudder!

Onny ow,  aal at once,  t’ bankers began to multiply – an’ soon ther’ wor banks aal ova taahn!! Everywhere tha looked, wor a mass o’ dark suited, faceless, pitiless  bankers, wonderin’ t’ streets at will, wi a subway buttie in one ‘and an’ an iPhone in t’ other. Fust, they attacked aal t’ businesses, doublin’ loan repayments an’ hikin’ lease costs.  Then, they refused to gi’ aat mortgages an’ foreclosed early on aal an’ sundry. Next they ring-fenced pensions an’ savin’s accaants – an’ gnawed away interest rates whilst chargin’ millions f’ ovadrafts ‘ow ever short lived ooer small. In fact, t’ little bastards ate away at everythin’ they cud get their theivin’ paws on, leavin’ t’ pooar 'onest 'ard workin' folk wi nowt left ovva but t’ clothes on their backs.

T’ terrified citizens flocked t’ caancil chambers at Silver Cross - an’ pleaded wi’ t’ taan caancilors t’ free ‘em fra this ‘ere dark evil plague. So affeared fra ‘is job like, t’ Mayor o’ Northallerton invited aal t’  caancilors an’ t’ legal professions  t’ cum to a grand meetin’ at t’ Lord Mayors Chambers an’ present sum stonkin’ ideas as t’ ow to deal wi’ t’ problem.

But on t’ mornin’ in question, t’ room wor as silent as two kids caught 'avin’ a fumble. Despite aal  t’  brass plaques, bar qualifications an’ legal secretaries present, none o’ t’ bigwigs cud cum  up wi a legal precedent t’ keep aal t’ banks in check!

Appen, f’ abaat 15 minutes, t’ mayor ‘ad bin staring idly into ‘is Starbucks’ Mega-Grandissimo-Mocha-Chocca-Rama-Lama-Ding-Dong-Decaf-Capuccino, contemplating in ‘is head like,  if t’ lawyers wuz only laiking at bein’ dumb whilst quietly extending a professional courtesy to t’ banks - when aal o' a sudden like, ther’ wor a laad  knock at t’ dooar. "Ee, oo cud tha’ be?", t’ city fatthers wondered uneasily, mindful o’ t’ angry crowds jus’ aatside. But when t’ dooar wer gingerly oppened, ter their surprise, theyer stood a reight scrawny little bugger, dressed in brightly coloured garb wi a peacock feather in 'is ‘at . An' in 'is 'and, wer a long instrument monny folks wud o' bin praad ter display.

“Tha dunt kno’ me”, ‘e says, marchin’ in. “But ah’m t’ famous Pied Piper. A've freed other taans o’ beetles an’ bats – an’ f’ a Grand, appen ah'll rid thee o’ yorn rats"  (Ee wud o’ said bankers – but it didn’t rhyme wi bats!)

"Wot, THEE Pied Piper?” replied t’ gobsmacked Mayor. “Tha’s allus seemed a tad taller in t’ story books like?”

“Ay, reckon me stature ‘as growed wi me deeds”, says t’ Pied Piper. “Me fingers can slide up ‘ an daan this ‘ere flu-it like a bride on a groom – an’ nowt nor no-one can resist followin’ it’s sweet saand!”

“So  tha’ll get rid o’ all them w....   w...  bankers, f’ a thousand quid!" continued t’ Mayor, incredulously. "Appen tha cud charge fifty thousand if tha succeeds!"

“Tis a deal then!” said, t’ Pied Piper. An wi that, t’ funny little stranger hurried away, sayin’ as ‘e left: "Tis late nah, but by dawn tomorrow, ther’ won't be a single banker left in Northallerton!"
An’ so it came to be. When t’ sun wuz still below t’ horizon, t ‘sound o’ a pipe cum waftin’ thru t’ streets o’ Northallerton. An’ as t’ Pied Piper slowly med ‘is way thru t’ houses, behind him flocked t’ bankers. Out they scampered fra doars, windows an’ gutters. It wer a spectacular sight to see like, aal them creatures o’ misery followin’ wayer so ever ee played. 'e marched ‘em daan to t’ river Ure an’ straight into t’ watter, wayer everyone o’ em wer draahned an’ swept away by t’ current. By t’ time t’ sun wuz high in t’ sky, ther’ weren’t even a single banker left in t’ taahn.

(An t’ four legged rats an gone in to hiding too!)

Naturally, t’ folks o’ Northallerton wer overjoyed. “A chuffin’ miracle they aal cried.” Ther’ wus even greater delight daan at t’ taan hall, until t’ Piper tried to claim ‘is payment.

"Fifty thousand quid?" exclaimed t’ Mayor. "Never!"

“That’s wot thee said ah cud ‘ve if ah wor successful!”, reminded t’ Piper.

“A throw away comment said in jest” butted-in a snotty lookin’ bloke in a white wig – oo saanded like ee’d swallowed a plumb. “Not worth the paper it’s not printed on. No contract – no deal – no obligation - no debt.”

Well, t’ Piper wor fair 'eart-sluffened 'at bein' didled aat o’ ‘is ‘ard earned brass, but ‘e wor a pragmatist nonetheless. "Aal-reight” ‘e says bitin’ ‘is lip, “Ah’ll tek t’ Grand ah originally quoted thee. Can’t be fairer ‘an that!” But t’ Mayor broke in, "T bankers are all deed nah an’ appen they can nivver cum back. So be grateful f’ fifty quid an’ be off wi thee, or tha'll not get even that!"

Well at this, t’ Piper got abaat as ‘oppin mad as a tin o’ frogs left in t’ sun. So wi’ ‘is eyes flashing rage like traffic lights on steroids, ‘e pointed a threatening finger at t’ Mayor an’ addressed t’ rest o’ t’ room: "N'body meks a fool o' t' Pied Piper! Ah promise thee aal nah”, ‘e says, “that tha'll bitterly regret ivver breaking tha promise!” And wi that ‘e stormed aat. An’ as t’ door slammed in it’s frame, a collective shiver o’ fear ran thru t’ gathered caancilors an’ t’ legal professions.  But t’ Mayor jus' sat back in 'is seat an thowatt to issen, "Ah've jus’ saved fifty grand! Appen tis time to replace t’ Mayor’s Limo!"

That night, freed fra t’ nightmare o’ bankers an’ never endin’ debts, t’ ordinary folk o’ Northallerton slept mooar saandly than ivver. An’ when t’ strange an compellin’ saand o’ piping wafted thru t’ streets at dawn, only t’ Mayor, t’ caancilors an’ t’ legal professions ‘eard it.

Drawn as if by magic, they hurried aat o’ their homes an’ thronged at t’ Piper’s heels to t’ saand o’ ‘is strange melody. Soon ther’ wer a long train o’ hypnotised professionals weaving an’ bobbing along be’ind ‘im. T’ long procession soon left t’ taahn an’ made its way to t’ foot o’ t’ Hamble Hills near a village called Kilburn, wayer a great white, oss ‘ad been carved aat o’ t’ hill. When t’ Piper came to a halt, 'e played ‘is pipe even laader still, an’ a great ‘ole creaked oppen in t’ osses ass. Beyond lay a deep dark cave. In trooped t’ Mayor, t’ caancilors an’ t’ legal professions, an’ when at last they’d aal gone into t’ darkness, t’ hole shut tight agayen – wi nivver a sign ’at it’d ivver existed.

Only one little solicitor’s apprentice escaped this fate coz ‘e wor lame an’ couldn’t keep up. ‘e often later swore on ‘is Bible that ‘e’d witnessed t’ whole event – though few people ivver believed ‘im. Fact is t’ taahns folk wer jus’ glad to ‘ave a chance at startin’ over, like.

Many years wer’ to pass afore t’ voices o’ bankers an’ t’ legal trades wer’ to be ‘eard in Northallerton agayen. Still to this day t’ memory o’ t’ harsh lesson learned lays dormant in everyone's ‘eart – passed on only in whispered bedtime stories daan t’ generations.

Nah ‘tis said that ivvery year a few soft southern wussies poke araand t’ white ‘osses arse in search o’ it’s hole an’ t’ lost professionals - but t’ hill has never given up its secrets. Though daan at t’ Forrester’s Arms in Kilburn, t’ locals ’ll tell thee that on a good day tha can see t’ ‘oss smile.

Davis & Golightly

One day ther’ wer this reight to-do, b’tween two kids fra opposite ends’ o’ Long Street; sworn enemies in t’ annual conker knock-aat competition. Yer see, it ‘ad reached t’ final two, between this big foul-mouthed bully o’ a kid called Golightly – an’ a tiny raggy-arse little bugger name o’ Davis.

Golightly, ‘e wer swingin’ wildly tryin’ to use ‘is weight to smash ‘is opponent’s conker in ter middle o’ next week, whereas Davis wer’ moar delicate like, an’ consistently accurate, makin’ ev’ry strike count. So despite ‘is best efforts an’ massive size, ‘appen Golightly ‘ad as much chance o’ wining as walkin’ up a gangplank wi’ no ship on t’ end. When ’is conker eventually shattered fra Davis’s persistent tappin’, ‘e spat aat ‘is dummy coz ‘e couldn’t take losin’. Said ‘ow Davis “’ad cheated” – an’ “‘ow ‘e’d bin bakin’ ‘is conkers in vinegar  t’make ‘em as ‘ard as stowen!” Well pooah Davis wer’ reight  mortified coz ‘e wer’ as honest as t’ day is long, an promptly burst into tears. “Ah’ll tell me bloody dad o’ thee”, ‘e wailed. “Go ahead ya wazzock”, replied t’ young Golightly, “My dad’s bigger ‘an youers!”

So it came to pass, that it fell t’ parents ter defend their progeny’s pride  – an’ soon t’ scene wer’ set foar a bit o’ a do between t’ two dotin’ fathers! ‘Appen, word o’ impending fight spread araand laike soot fra a chimney, an’ people gathered in aal t’ doorways an’ thronged t’ street f’ a better view.

First o’ parents on t’ scene wer’ Davis senior. ‘E wer five foot in ‘is stockin’ feet an‘ ‘e wer skinnyer ‘an a bean pole. It wer said ‘at ‘e ‘ad ter run araand in t’ shower jus’ ter get wet! Despite bein’ captain o’ t’ Angel Inn pub quiz team, ‘e couldn’t fight ‘is way aat o’ a paper bag. It wer’ plainly obvious f’ aal to see, ‘at when God gave aat strength, ‘e’d clearly missed aat. In fact, ‘e ‘ad muscles on ‘im like knots on cotton! 

Nah Davis ‘adn’t paused befoar rushin’ aat t’ think why  t’ crowd ‘ad gathered, nor ‘ad ‘e previously met Golightly junior nor senior - so at this time ‘e ‘ad no comprehension as t’ family’s stature. Appen ‘e also ‘ad yon daft idea ‘at ‘e cud be some kinda featherweight champion and hero in ‘is son’s eyes. So ‘e starts mouthin’ off at aal t’ locals an’ struttin’ up and daan liake a bantam cock. "Nar then!" e shaats, “oo’s t’ little gobshite ‘ats been accusin’ our Rodney o cheatin’? Ah’ll box ‘is ears off!”

“Appen that’ll be me!” said a big boomin’ voice fra t’other end o’ street, ‘at wer so deep it rattled everyone’s fillings.  An’ as t’ crowd parted ter clear a spot f’ two parents ter meet, Davis stared vertically upwards in t’ eyes of t’ giant called Golightly. “**** me!”, ‘e said.

"Look at size on that!" said someone in the crowd. "E’s built bigger an brick aat ‘owse!"

It wer true! Golightly wer nearly seven foot tall, an’ three shovel widths across t’ shoulders.  People said ‘e wer crazy an’ damaged an’ cud fight like a bear. ‘E ‘ad ‘ands liake earth movers an’ muscles as big as mountains. ‘E ‘ad cauliflower ears; teeth liake broken tombstones; an’ reight at that moment, ee wer radiatin’ anger liake a well smacked arse. As t’ crowd looked fra one dottin’ father ter t’ other, they aal agreed, “Davis, you’re gonna die!!”

So egged on by t’ locals, both parties started proddin’ each other an’ shaatin’ profanities – whilst t’ village undertaker searched aat a child sized coffin f’ Davis. Meanwhile Davis bit Golightly on ‘is ankle which caused ‘im to hop abaat and scream liake a morris dancer on acid - only less amusin’, like. But it weren’t long afore Golightly got a grip of issen an’ simply picked Davis up by ‘is foot an’ ‘eld ‘im upside daan, swinging uselessly like a pheasant ‘angin’ on a butcher’s hook in t’wind. Then jus’ when Golightly had wound back ‘is monstrous great fist t’ batter Davis to a pulp, fete intervened – as thru t’ crowd pushed this bloody great woman built in t’ amazon style.

Tis said ‘at she only failed t’ auditions f’ King Kong coz she wer too big. She ‘ad ‘airs from her nostrils platted ‘oldin’ her tights up, rough patches on ‘er cheek fra strickin’ matches, segs in ‘er belly button f’ openin’ bottles - an’ a tattoo on t’ inside o’ her thigh which read “Ah dare ya!”.

This, as everyone in t’ village knew, wer Mrs Golightly  - an’ not only did she wear t’ trousers in t’ Golightly household, she allus ruled it wi an iron fist an aal. (Or t’ iron itssen, or a pan, or onny other ‘ard implement she cud find at ‘ time.) Indeed she wer t’ only person ‘at Golightly senior wer afeared of.  Nah unexpectedly like, ‘ere she was marchin’ at im wi a face liake a bulldog chewin’ a wasp – an’ instinctively ‘e knew ‘e wer deep in t’ poo.

T’ tell t’ truth, Mrs Golightly ‘ad been fair 'eart-sluffened when she ‘eard  ‘ow her kin wer’ scrappin’ agayen, particularly after aal t’ ASBO’s they’d amassed recently. An’ she didn’t want onny moare visits fra t’ local constabulary that day.  So she’d put daan ‘er bakin’ an’ picked up ‘er rollin’ pin an’ marched aat. “Put ‘im daan” she ordered, “Tha dunt kno where ee’s bin!” Davis was instantly dropped unceremoniously on ‘is ‘ead.

F’ a big lass, Mrs Golightly cud move surpringly fast, an’ Golightly senior didn’t know which side his head was butted as he fell down theyer at ‘er feet. An’ as she dragged ‘im ‘ome by ‘is collar, she apologised ter Davis who jus’ nealt  theyer on t’ graand wi ‘is gob openin’ and closin’ silently liake a fish aatta watter.

So in t’ end, it wer ’ Davis family ‘at won the day – an’ soon ‘e were bein’ carried aloft by t’ villagers  ter t’ Angel Inn f’ a couple or three celebratory pints o’ ‘Bull Mastive Son Of A Bitch’.  (Owt f’ a free drink!) Meanwhile, t’ young lads ‘at ‘ad started it aal, were back playing in the street together as ‘appy as two peas in a pod. Appen they’d made up ova a couple sticks o’ bubble gum an wer’ now plottin’ ‘ow to highjack t’ chippy van next Friday.

'Ow Yo-arkshire Wer' Made

It so ‘appened ‘at one day God wer twiddlin’ ‘is fingers an’ gettin’ reight crotchety coz ‘e ‘ad nowt t’ laike wi. In fact ‘e got so pigged off ‘e went missin’ f’ six days. T’ Archangel Gabriel started frettin’ ‘an sent aat a search party. On t’ seventh day, ‘e fownd ‘im restin’ on a star.

"Ey up”, said Gabriel, “ast tha wet tha bed or wot??”

“Nay lad”, said God, “ah’ve bin busy makin’ stuff!”

“Oh eye” said t’Archangel, “Wot’s tha bin messin’ wi’ nah like?"

"Ah've created t’ planet Earth”, ‘e said. ‘tis grand. “A place o’ opposites ‘an great balance."

"Balance?" says Gabriel.

God explained. “Look theyer. Ah’ve called tha’ bit ‘America’. T’ top bit ‘ll be reight wealthy - big ‘ouses, grand motors ‘an fat bellies – an’ t’ bottom ‘arf ‘ll be reight pooar, nowt but poverty ‘an ‘ardship.

God talked o’ aal t’ different countries. “Ova theyer ah’ve placed a continent o’ white fowks, an’ ova theyer a continent o’ black uns. Tha’ on’ ‘ll be roastin’ ‘ot, an’ tha’ on’ ‘ll be frozzen aal covered wi’ ice.”

Gabriel, ‘e wor fair gobsmacked wi aal t’ effort God an’ put in an pointed ter a green bit o’ England an’ says: Wot’s theyer?”

“Ah,” says god. Tha’ be Yo-arkshire, t’ most glorious place on Earth. Tis full o’ beautiful lakes, streams, rivers an’ ‘ills, stonkin’ music, grand architecture, an’ sporting giants. T’ fowks fra Yo-arkshire ‘ll be modest, intelligent an’ witty. Allus sociable, ‘ard workin’ an’ ‘igh achievers. Known throughout t’ world as diplomats an’ peace makers.”

Gabriel ‘e gasped in admiration, thought f’ a mo’ an says, “But wot abaat balance, God? Where’s t’ balance.”

“Ah”, says God, nodding sagely, “Ah mun tell thee abaat Lancashire......”

T' Prodigal Son

Appen ther' wor once a Yo-arkshire ‘ill farmer 'at 'ad two lads. T' youngest on 'em comes up ter 'is fatther, an' 'e says: “Fatther, will tha gi’ mi my share o' t' farm naah like? Ah’m soooo  pigged off wi allus bein’ broke, ah’m reight set on seekin’ mi fame an’ fortune in t’ bright lights o’ Leeds ooer Bradford!”

Well t' farmer wor reight gobsmacked bi this. ‘E said, “T' deeacent thing ter do lad is ter wait ‘till tha fatther dees afooare tha starts askin' fer thee legacy. Sod off an’ get on wi’ tha chores!”  But that neet t’owld bloke started ‘avin second thoawts ‘at maybe  ‘e should give t’ lad a chance  — see what 'e could do on 'is own, like — so in t’ end, 'e gev 'im 'is share o' t' farm.

Well, would yer credit it? No sooiner does 'e gerr 'is 'ands on all t' brass, ‘e goes off on a bender in Sheffield. An' theyer 'e 'as a grand owd time, blewin' all t’money on beer, ladies o’ low voltage, an’ a white powder yer rub on yer teeth called E-By-Gum. So f’ days e’s aat of ‘is tree, pissed as a vicar on communal wine, an' mooastly naked.

But when 'e'd spent all 'is brass, it wor a different tale! 'E'd no mates then, ner lady-friends neether – not even t’ ugly ones. An' 'e ended up wi' a bit o’ a rash toboot. ‘E wor flat broke, starvin’ ungry an’ as thirsty as a whistler in t’ desert eytin’ crackers. Oh eye, an e wor allus scratchin’ daan theyer.

In fact, ‘e wor so desperate f’ some nourishment an’ company ‘at ‘e blagged ‘is way inta a job at Maccy D’s near Meadow Hall, dealin wi t’ drive-ins. All ‘e ‘ad ter do wer say “Wud tha like fries wi’ that?” But ‘e weren’t aloud ter eyt nowt ‘til ‘is shift wor ova (though by accident like, ‘e faand a new use f’ t’ mayonnaise as a cure f’ is itchin’). So bi t’ time ‘is shift wer’ ova, ‘e cud o’ stripped t’ meat fra a scabby donkey in less ‘an forwer seconds.

But then aal o’ a sudden like, jus’ as e wor sinkin’ ‘is gnashers inta a double trouble whoppa choppa XXXL cheese burger wi’ fires an’ jalapenos on t’ side, t' lad comes to 'is senses. “E, ah am a fooil!” 'e says to 'issen. “A reight bletherin’ eejit! ‘Ere’s me eytin this-ere  pigswill, when ther's fowk workin' fra mi fatther 'at can eyt proper grub an' sup ter theyer 'eart's content. Ah mun go back ooam. Ah’ll say ter t’owd man: 'Fatther, ah've done wrong. Ah'm nooan fit ter be a son o' thine. Gi'e us a job as one o' t’ farm-workers. That's all ah ask.

So 'e sets off walkin’ back 'ooam, an' after trailin' monny a mile up ‘ill an’ daan dale, ‘is clothes wor in tatters an’ ‘is booits  wor full o’ oyles.  But’ a long while af-ooare 'e gets ter t' farm 'is fatther sees 'im, an' instead o' goin' off 'at t' deep end, 'e rushes aat to meet 'im, thraws 'is arms raand t’ lad, an' kisses 'im.

 T' poor lad starts t' speech 'at 'e'd re'earsed: “Fatther, ah've done wrong. Ah'm nooan fit ter be a son o' thine...” But 'is fatther butts in, an' calls aat ter t' farm workers: “Come on! Frame yersens! This lad's starvin' aat 'ere — frozzen ter deeath! Bring 'im summat wahrm ter weear — bring 'im mi top coit ... An' 'e's nowt much on 'is feet, bring 'im a pair o' booits ... Order in a pizza, a curry an’ a chinky — ‘appen we’ll eat like kings toneet.

An' sooin they wer' 'avin' a proper 'ooam-comin', wi' food, an' mewsic an' lively dancin'. It wor a stonkin good do, ah'll tell thee.

But t' lad's elder brutther wor still workin' aat in t' field. An at t' end o' t' day, when 'e got near t' farm‘ouse, 'e 'eeard mewsic an' dancin'. ‘E says ter t' farm workers: “What's up? What's all t' celebrations abaat?” “It's thi' brutther!” they says. “E's come back 'ooam. An' thi fatther's as pleased as punch, cos 'es not come to onny 'arm.”

But t' elder brutther wor fewrious. An' 'e stood theyer in t' yard like a wazzock on t’ pavement, sulkin' away, an' refewsin' ter go in. After a tad, 'is fatther come aat to 'im, an' started pleadin' wi' 'im to come in, an' ter stop bein' such a jealous mawk.

“Nay, fatther,” says t' lad. “Ah've slaved fer thee all these years. Ah've worked mi' fingers ter t' booane, an' ah've niwer done owt to upset thi. But tha's not gi'en me even so much as a bit o' owd mutton so ah could throw a party fer mi' mates. But as sooin as t’other son o' thine turns up, after pissin’ all that brass dahn t' drain, an' cavortin’ wi' ladies o’ low voltage — tha' goes ****kin’ doolally!”

“Nay lad”, says t' fatther. “Tha's allus been t’ favourite o’ mine — an' tha can 'ave owt tha wants! Everythin, ah ‘av is thine. Ah jus couldn't but make a bit o’ a fuss. Ah thowt yer brutther wor deead — an' 'e's alive agayen. Ah thowt e' wor lost — an' 'e's come back 'ooam. An’ if tha’s no enuf, e’s come back wi this reight grand idea ter set up a fast food business sellin’ yoakshire puddin’s. ‘E wants ter call it ‘Pud-U-Like’. An ‘e wants thee to be t’ managin’ director and control it, like. Ah reckon tha’d be daft in t ‘ead not ter say ‘Ay champion’ an’ at least think abaat it.”

So t’ eldest brutther went inside wi’ ‘is dad – an it came to pass ‘at t’ two brutthers set up a fast food business together that wor reight popular in Yoarkshire – tho didn’t do so well in t’ souath. 

T’End