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...”