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...”
Friday 25 November 2011
Sunday 13 November 2011
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.
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.
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 4th 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?”
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 4th 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!”
“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.
“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.
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’ 31st 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’ 5th (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.
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’ 5th (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.
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.
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