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 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.
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