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

Ey Up Luv – Tis A Lovely Sprog! (Jesus is born in Topcliffe)

Once upon a time..... ther' wor a joiner called Joseph, livin' daan in t’ smoke o’ London— which as tha aal knaws is full o’ soft southern wussies.  But Joseph's ancestors wer' fra  t’ frozen north – wayer t’ men are men an’ t’ lasses are reight grateful.  In fact, their native tahn wor a little place by t' name o' Topcliffe, abaat three mile aater Thirsk. A place renowned f’ suppin’, singin’ an’ debauchery.

Nah it so 'appened 'at t' new Prime Minister - a feller 'oo went by t' name o' David Cameron, decided 'at ‘e'd better reckon up just as much brass 'e could gather in t’ form o’taxes, fra aal t’ poor peasants ‘cross t’ land, as t’ previous bloke wot ‘ad job wer abaat as useful as striking matches on wet tripe - an’ ad left t’ land in terrible debt! So 'e gives aat an' order, 'at aal t' fowk mun be properly registered - an' this meant aal un sundry ‘ad ter go back ter wayer the'r fore-fatthers wor welped.

So that's 'ah it come abaat 'at Joseph, who wor somewhat dischuffed by aal this, set off on a reight long journey ter place wayer tha can see t’ stars jus’ by lookin’ up. (A new experience for t’ southern jessie.) Ony ‘ow, f’ weeks ‘e traipsed all t' way up ter Topcliffe leadin' a donkey - on which sat 'is stagnant wife Mary.

Y’ see Mary wor in t’ puddin’ club - ‘avin ‘ad an immaculate conception – which wor t’ same as sayin’ she’d ad a quickie behind t’ bike shed, got caught up t’duff, an’ wunt tell Joseph who t’real fatther wor. But Joseph wor a gentle sooart o' chap. A strappin' great feller, wi' rough carpenter's 'ands — but gentle an' kindly. Not one ter start a fuss. ‘E did yon journey as slowly as 'e could, just ter mak it a bit easier fer Mary.

Well, yer can just picture 'em arrivin' i' Topcliffe, can't yer? Booath o’ 'em weary after aal that travellin' - especially Mary, wi' aal t' bobbin' up an' daan on yon mooak. It wer’ ‘ardly surprisin’ that yon donkey-ride brawt t' lass inter labour a while afooare t' babby wor dew.

When at last they ended up i' Topcliffe, t' place wor throng wi' fowk - dozens o' families 'at 'ad come ter be registered fer this 'ere income tax bollocks. In fact, Joseph an’ ‘er ladyship wer' t' last in t' queue - an' ther' wor no wayer fer ‘em ter stay!

Ther' wor nobbut one deeacent-sized inn called t’Angil, an' when Joseph knocked on t' dooar, t' landlord oppens it, taks one look at 'em, an' 'e says: “Sod off, lad. We'r full up!”

“Oh Bugger it!” says Joseph, “We've come monny a weary mile - all t' way fra London. An't' lass is expectin' - abaat t’ pop. Tha mun be able ter fit us in somewayer?”

“Findin’ a bed ‘ere? Tha’d get better odds pickin’tha nose wi a penny banger”, says t' landlord. “But 'appen if tha could pay fer it, an' mak it worth me while...”

“Nay”, says Joseph, “Ah'm nobbut a joiner, an' these days us joiners addle next ter nowt. Ah'll gi'e thi all t' brass ah've got — but it'll not amahnt ter much.”

Well, t' landlord taks another look at Mary, sees t' state t' lass is in, an' 'e suddenly rethinks 'issen an' says: “Sithee! Go daan yon steps, an' tha'll come t’ bike shed. Tis empty. Tha can doss daan theyer. Ah'll admit ‘tis a tad manky, but ther's plenty o' owd blankets an’ a gas ‘eater ter keep thee wahrm. Tha can stay thayer till t' lass 'as 'ad 'er babby.”

Well, Joseph wor fair 'eart-sluffened 'at bein' offered a muck-'oile ter doss daan in, but it wor better ‘an nowt, so 'e thanked t' innkeeper kindly, an' led Mary daan t' bike shed. Abaat this time, Mary wer experiencing’ summat tha calls ‘dé ja vue’ and had turned a delicate shade o’ ‘vert’.

It wer’n't a wooden shed, tha knaws, like wot tha sees on t’ Christmas cards, stuck aat in t' middle o' t' desert wi' a couple o' palm trees! No. It wor a sooart o' kids wendy ‘ouse overlookin’ t’ pubs dustbins. An' they ‘ad ter share it wi' a couple o’ rats an’ moare than t’ odd spider. Not t' sooart o' place a lass 'ould 'ave chozzen fer 'er bairn's birthplace. But Mary wor past carin', an' while Joseph tethered up t' donkey, t' lass ligged 'ersen daan in t' corner on an owd sack cloth. Later that neet, in yon bike shed ‘at looked laake a Wendy ‘ouse, Mary gev birth ter 'er fust-born. “Tis a lad,'' she cried.

Strugglin’ t’ find t’ natural bonds o’ parenthood, Joseph peered daan at t’new born an thowt 'at this lad wor nowt aat o' t' ordinary. In fact ‘e thowt ‘at little sod ‘ad fallen aat o’ the ugly tree and hit every branch comin’ daan. So when Mary says, “Ah shall call 'im Jesus, fer my little lad'll grow up ter be t' Saviour of all mankind”, t’ say t’ least, ‘e wer fair gobsmacked.

Nah else wayer on t’ same neet, at t’ foot o’ t’ Hambleton Hills above Thirsk, ther' wuz two-a-thri shepherds sitting raand t’ campfire, keepin' watch ower the'r sheep. All of a sudden, t' sky lit up in a glorious blaze o' laaght 'at shines aal raand 'em. Well, t’ pooar buggers were scared t’ death and cowered on t' graand, as weak as watter, an' aal of a dither.  Then owt o’ no wayer, t' Angil o' t' Lord says ter 'em: “Nay fret, ther's nowt ter be afeeared on! Ah've come ter bring thee sum reight cheerful neews — neews 'at 'll gladden all t' fowk 'oo 'ear it. Ther's a little lad just been born i' Topcliffe, ‘oo is t' Messiah an’ t' Saviour of aal mankind. Get off tha asses an’ visit yon babby t’ pay respect.”

No sooiner 'as t' Angil finished 'is message than t' shepherds 'ear wonderful singin' 'at fills aal t' sky — a sooart of Allelewia Chooarus sung by thahsands an' thahsands of angelic voices.

When it wer aal ova, they just gawped at one-another. Then one on 'em says: “Na then, lads! Wi mun go an' see if t' tale 'at t' angil 'as telled us is reight! Wi mun go inter Topcliffe, an' try ter find this 'ere babby.”

“But what abaat t'sheep?” says another on 'em.

“Oh, 'ummer ter t' sheep!” says t' fust shepherd. “This is summat aat o' t' ordinary — it's a message fra t' Almighty! T' sheep 'll not come ter onny 'arm. It's nobbut a few miles away. Come on, lad. Frame thissen!”

So off they went, an' by an' by they find t’ bike shed, an' Mary an’ Joseph, an't' babby wrapped in Hambletern Ales bar towels. “Can wi 'ave a peep at 'im?” aasked one o' t shepherds. “We is ‘ere t’ give ‘im respect!”

“Aye, tha can that”, says Joseph, glad of a bit o' company, like.

“Ee! I'n't 'e grand?' says t' shepherd. “E looks laake Churchill. T’ dog mind you – not t’ ex Prime Minster.”

Then ‘e turned ter Mary an’ sez “Ey Up Luv – Tis  a lovely sprog! What do tha' call t’ little feller? Can I laike me drum f’ im, missus?”

“If tha wakes ‘im oop an meks ‘im stroppy agayen tha’ll nay be plannin’ childuns o’ tha own!” sez Mary. “ We'r callin’ 'im Jesus! Nah, if tha’ll excuse mi, ‘tis time fer 'is next feed.”

So Mary sits 'ersen daan ter feed 'im - an' off t'shepherds go, thrilled ter bits f’seein’ t' little un.

That neet it got reight dark and parky, wi a heavy footfall o’ snow. Sum sez it wor araand -19. Joseph an’ Mary wor jus’ settlin’ daan f’ a grand night o’ misery w’en they wor disturbed agayen by a different sooart o' fowk alt’gether. At t’ shed dooar stood three posh buggers fra south, come ter see t’ babby. One wor a megalomaniac an’ t’others wer’ dyslexic eijits.

T’ leader terld ‘ow they wor persuaded by an Angil ter folla a star in t’ sky, an aat journeys end wud find a new king. Atter fust bein’ ejected fra steps o’ Buckinham Palace, one o ‘em ‘ad snaffled a sat nav fr’m Argos an ‘hey presto’. 

“Wot chuffin’ star?” Said Joseph an’ Mary together.

“T’ bloody breet un up thayer” sez t’ visitors, pointin’ ter a gloorious blaze o' leet ‘angin’ ova t’ bike shed.  “T’ Angil called it t’ North Star an’ sez ow it allus points t’ way t’ Yorkshire.”

(O’coarse they didn’t ta’k so grand i’ reeality. They wor strugglin’ wi a plum in t’ gobs and wor haughty, stand-offish, an’ afflicted wi’ Queen’s English!)

“Well ah’ll go t’ foot of our stairs!” sez Joseph – wondrin ‘oo Mary ‘ad bedded. “Ah s’pose tha better cum in then – but mind as ter wipe tha feet!”

Each o’ t’ visitors ‘ad broaat a prezzy f’ t’ sprog, T’one wi t’ name o’ Cowell  gi’ ‘im a CD maanted i’ a frame; t’one wi name o’ Shelly gi’ ‘im a booak, an’ t’ third, called Macintyre – recounted sum jokes.

 “Ee that’s bloody champion sez Mary - Gold, Frankenstein an’ Mirth.” 

“Aye, stonkin’,” sez Joseph, “tho sum Mother Care vouchers wuda bin a tad mooar gradely! Ooer p’rhaps sum beer?”

So t’ three toffs sed ‘ey up’ t’ nipper an’ then made their excuses f’ leavin’, sayin’ that t’ camels wer double parked on sum yella lines.

Soon it wer reight quiet in t’ bike shed, an nowt stirred, not even a mouse. Fra be’ind ‘er knittin’, Mary stole a skeg at Joseph ‘oo wor scratchin’ ‘is noggin in deep wunder.  E looked at ‘er f’ a long mo and sez, “Ah think tha’s got a grand amahnt o’ explainin’ ter do chuck. Ah might not be playin’ wi a full deck, but this ‘ere babby i’ clearly mooar un a gnats special!”

So Mary terld him t’ truth, t’ whole truth, an nowt but the truth – and ‘e wor relieved. Appen she told ‘im abaat t’ birds an’ t’ bees an all – an ‘e wor even mooar relieved.

“Wi all t’ job cuts, traffic jams, pollution an soft southern wussies daan sowth, ah reckon we aaught t’ stay ere in Yorkshire!” Sez Joseph suddenly. “An’ i’ we change us names t’ summat laake Awkright, yon bailiff ‘ll nay be able t’ repossess t’ donkey neither.

An’ so it came ter pass, that Joseph got a job makin’ beer barrels f’ Black Sheep Brewery i’ Masham  - an t’ son o’ God, (Jesus Cooper)  wor born i’ Topcliffe, an’ rasied a Yorkshireman – true and proud. An f’ tha’ reason Yorkshire i’ allus referred ter as God’s Own County! As f’ Mary, despite bein’ a gradely mam ter sprog, she’ wor often seen tekkin’ fella’s in t’ wendy ‘ouse be’ind t’ Angil fer a quick RE lesson. Joseph, e jus’ turned t’ other cheek – but tha’s a different story altogether!

T’ end.