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