Ther's Nowt So Queer As Folk (School Days Remembered)

Fra  t’ vantage point o’ t’ top o’ Snoggers Hill, an’ wi mooare than a touch o’ sadness in us ‘earts,  Big Ron, Joe Sykes an’ me wer’ watchin’ t’ caancil diggers knockin’ daan our old village school...
 

“Ee, tis such a shame” says Joe, “ah spent many an un’appy owwer in theyer. Nivver thowatt ah’d miss t’ place!”

“Not enuf kids attendin’ equals a shortage o’ brass f’ payin’ t’ bills”, ah says.

“Ah reckon it’s allus bin that way” says Joe sagely. “Even wen ah wer’ theyer, ther’ wer’nivver enuf local lads an’ lasses ter fill mooare ‘an one class. In fact, ah remember a number o’ occasions wen ah wer’ t’ only one theyer – an’ even t’ teacher, Mrs “Tweety” Bird, ‘adn’t turned up. On them days, ah’d call aat register ter me sen, write stuff on t’ blackboard an’ give me sen lines if ah wer’n’t payin’ enuf attention. Appen mi mam cudn’t be bothered wi’ school holidays. Took yeears fer mi ter find aat they existed at aal.”

“Back then it wer’ mooare important ter help aat  at  t’ mill ooer on one o’ t’ farms” added Big Ron. “Most parents considered schoolin’ a waste o’ time! Mi dad used ter say: ‘Tha waint learn owt wi tha heed stuck in a booak’; ooer, ‘If tha can swing a sythe tha dunt need ter kno’ what t’ Chinese eat!”

“Ah remember Tweety Bird” ah says. “ Five foot dead, spinal deformity, wi a club foot. Used ter lollup daan t’ corridors like t’ Hunch Back O’ Notre Dame. Allus ‘ad a string o’ kids followin’ ‘er doing Quasimodo impressions. Ivvery time she rang t’ school bell, ther’ wer’ pandemonium.”

“That’s ‘er” says Joe. “Allus let us mek as much noise as we liked - on account o’ ‘er bein’ ‘alf deef. Spent ‘er time in class knitting endless cardigans, wi’ balls o’ wool cleverly balanced on ‘er ‘ump! Her finest hour cum wen Fats Dalby nearly choked on a Dorset Knob raand t’ back o’ bike sheds. She marched straight up to ‘im an’ stabbed ‘im in ‘is goolies wi ‘er needles. Fats coughed that ‘ard, t’ half chewed biscuit flew aat o’ ‘is mouth like it’d bin fired aat o’ a catapult, an’ knocked t’ Deputy Head’s mortise board clean off in t’ process! Appen t’ look on aal o’ theyer fissogs wer’ priceless.”

“Wer’n’t she eventually sacked f’ feedin’ a whole class o’ ‘juniors’ laxative chocolate?” asked Big Ron.

“Aye” says Joe, “an’ t’ shiny toilet paper t’ school bought fra t’ paand store wer abaat as absorbent as glass; an’ as affective as usin’ a trowel. Ah know, coz ah wer’ one o’ them pooer little sods!”

“Wunder wot possessed t’ daft mare ter do summat so cruel?” ah says.

“It wer’ t’ shiny toilet paper” says Joe. “Ah heard atterwards like, that she’ wer sick o’ us kids wrappin’it araand us combs ter mek us own kazoos, then followin’ ‘er ivvery wayer hummin’ t’ Adams Family theme tune. We aal thowatt she cudn’t hear like, but she said she cud feel t’ vibrations ooer summat.”

“Ah reckon she ‘ad a kind ‘eart really” ah says. “Probably just snapped!”

“Not like that bastard Mr. Sellers then!” says Big Ron wi real feelin’. “Appen ‘e didn’t enjoy ‘is job  unless ‘e wer’ handin’ aat punishments!”

“Nah ‘e WER’ rotten!” ah says. “Ivvery week ‘e’d tell us abaat t’ school master oo flogged a kid ter deeth, sayin ‘ow ‘e’d luv ter deal wi us urchins in t’ same manner. Ah personally thowatt that a bit harsh like, as we wer’n’t naughty until ‘e started shaatin’ wen we spoke wi aat raisin us hands ooer simply got things wrong.”

“’e used ter mek us kneel on us stools if we mis-behaved” grumbled Big Ron thru clenched teeth. “Didn’t need no excuse ter be mean! Wi in a few minutes it’d cut off t’ circulation in us legs, so wen we tried ter move at t' end o' t' lesson like, we fell ova an’ cudn’t get up agayen. We looked like a group tortoises on theyer backs! Course, then we’d get another bollockin an' extra homework at t’ next lesson f’ arrivin’ late.”

“Did’st tha ivver get tha own back?” asked Joe.

“Nah” says Big Ron, “Sellers ‘ad a sooart o’ sixth sense wen it cum ter sniffin aat our attempts ter get even. ‘e nivver sat on drawin’ pins; allus kicked open ivvery dooar so like it as not t’ bucket o’ pigswill fell on little Michael Pratt knockin’ ‘im aat; ‘e wudn’t eat t’ spotted dick made wi rabbit turds - an ‘e somehow avoided t’ trip wire across ‘is garden path so t’ postman copped f’ t’ cowpat in t’ face instead. Ah allus vowed ter get i’m back wen ah wer older - but fate beat mi ter it like.  Wen t’ Heinz factory up t’ street burst its boiler - seems ‘e got caught in t’ deluge an’ draaned in ‘undreds o’ gallons o’ red ‘ot Cockerleaky Soap!”

“Did anyone try ter save ‘im?” asked Joe.

“Well ter be honest” says Big Ron scrattin ‘is chin, “sum o’ ter local mothers wer’ shaatin’ at theyer bairns ter fetch buckets an’ pans – but f' some reason appen they only managed ter find knives, forks an’ tea strainers. Funny that!”

“Dust tha think that wi t’ school gone, that’ll be t’ last we see o’ gypsies?” says Joe changing t’ direction o’ us conversation? “As a nipper, ah used ter like it wen they’d suddenly show up f’ a week or so in early summer. Me an mi mate Jonny used ter sneak up ter theyer camp wen no-one wer’ lookin’. They ‘ad stonkin’ caravans - an’ if we took ‘em summat useful like coins or pertroleum jelly, they’d gi’ us chunks o’ roasted hedgehog ooer other unidentified animals. They once told us fortunes, an whilst ah didn’t f’ a moment believe that ah wud ivver build a railway on Mars, Jonny wer’ convinced ‘e wer going ter marry Queen Victoria. I tried ter tell ‘im that she wer’ long dead, but ‘e just stuck ‘is fingers in ‘is ears an’ stomped off unamused.”

“Aye” says Big Ron, “they used ter show up a week or so afore Appleby Fair – which wer’ perfect as far as t’ School Governors wer’ concerned. Each year, raand abaat then, ter local education authorities took a head caant an’ paid aat ter full years fundin’ based on t’ amaant o’ raggy arse kids ‘at wer’ in t’ school. Appen they benefitted ivvery year fra sudden swellin’ o' t’ ranks!”

“Not ivveryone welcomed ‘em though” ah says. “Abaat same time ivvery year one or two o’ t’ geese wud vanish fra village pond - an’ t’ allotments wer’ allus stripped o’ t’ largest carrots, much ter t’ nun’s annoyance. Lead an tiles went missin’ off ter church roof  an’ f’ months atter theyer visits, wen ivver it rained, ter choirboys wud get wet in t’ cloisters. Jacob Nimrod, t’ Verger insisted on personally towelling ‘em all daan at t’ end o’ each service.”

“Somebody somewhere allus ‘ad it in fer t’ gypsies” commented Joe. “tha cud guarantee a ruckuss at t’ school gate wen aal t’ little kiddies cum ter school on theyer osses. Yet them same folks ‘at complained wer’ allus t’ fust aat wi a bucket an’ spade!”

“Ther’s nowt so queer as folks!" ah says. “But if tha try an tell that t’ kids o’ today, appen they’ll not believe thee!”

Friday 13th

“Ah’m not aal that superstitious really”, ah wer saying ter me mates Big Ron an’ Joe Sykes, fra safety o’ t’ snug at t’ Angel Inn –  whilst outside t’ summer deluge continued f’ a worryin’ 39^th day -  “but Friday 13th has a certain spookyness abaat it, wouldn’t tha say?”

“Noooo!” says Big Ron adamantly. “Nobbut a fool worries abaat things ‘e can’t control! As me granny used ter say: ‘There's many a swollen acorn ‘at nivver touched a cow.'”

“Wot’s that mean?” ah says.

“aven’t a chuffin’ clue!” ‘e replies, “but she’d oft’ say it at times like these. Ah reckon Friday 13^th is nowt mooare than psychological mumbo jumbo clap trap! Nowt dreadful ‘as happened t’day at aal!”

“Well not so far at least!” says Joe, wi mooare than a bit o’ uncertainty in ‘is voice.

F’ a second, silence descended on t’ room like a party in a mortuary, an we each involuntarily held us breaths an’ waited ter see if fate would intervene. Appen we must ‘ave paused a tad too long coz just as we wer’ abaat ter breathe agayen, t’ door crashed open wi’ a ‘uge bang causin’ us ter nearly cack us sens. It wer a chuffin’ miracle we didn’t spill a drop o’ ale!

Kim Barningham stood theyer, framed in t’ doorway like summat aat o’a Frankenstein movie - ‘is lobsided eyes bulgin’ like Marty Feldman on steroids. “Ther’s trouble at t’ mill” e says beckonin’ at Big Ron wi ‘is overly long bony fingers.

Kim wer an unlucky lad; ‘e wer that ugly wen ‘e wer born that t’ midwife slapped ‘is mam. She said, ‘e’d fallen aat o’ t’ ugly tree an’ must ‘ave hit ivvery branch comin’ daan. In fact ‘e wer that gnarled an’ bent, fer a while theyer they didn’t kno if ‘e wor a little lad or a lass. It wer rumoured that ‘is mother refused ter breast feed ‘im, sayin’ “She just wanted to be friends”.

Onny road, Kim’s luck didn’t improve much as 'e grew. Fust ‘is imaginary friend ran away, then e'd lost one o’ ‘is ears in a ferreting accident an’ ‘ad ter have ‘is spectacles tied ter ‘is head wi one o’ ‘is mother's old stockings. Mind you, that nivver stopped ‘im going on ter mek t’ stool that Prince Phillip fell ovva, but that's another story.

Aat o’ pity like, wen ‘e wer’ old enough, Big Ron hired ‘im as an apprentice at High Fields Farm wayer aginst aal t’ odds ‘e thrived! In fact, ‘e wer allus willin’ ter do aal t’ jobs t’ other farm labourers wouldn’t touch. So in t’end, Big Ron developed a reight soft spot f’ pooer’ lad!

“Bugger me” says Big Ron atter gathering ‘is senses agayen. “Has tha nivver thowatt o’ knockin’ quietly an’ saying excuse me?

“Appen ‘e’s as subtle as a bloody air raid” muttered Joe Sykes fra be’ind ‘is pint."

“So wots tha stressin’ abaat?” asks Big Ron.

“Oh” says Kim bashfully. “Excuse me Mr Barker (coz that wer is name like)... tis Chatterton. ’e’s off ‘is ‘ead agayen.”

Chatterton wer another one o’ Big Ron’s “not a full shilling” apprentices: ‘e wer a strappin’ lad – three shovel ‘andles across t’ shoulders, wi a birth mark like a winged cowpat on ‘is back. ‘e only ivver wore vest t-shirts wot ivver t’ weather – an’ walked wi a limp ivver since blowin’ three toes off ‘is left foot atter usin’ a loaded shotgun as a crutch in t’ Topcliffe Amateur Dramatics production o’ Treasure Island.

“Well” says Kim, “instead o’ workin’ reight thru terday like ‘e shudda, ‘e took ‘is sen off f’ a lunch time session at t’ Constipated Parrot!” (A dingy dirty inn frequented by layabaats, bitter old crumblies wi pipes, an anyone oo ‘ad no brass ooer sense o’ smell.) “Onny road, by chuckin’ aat time, seems ‘e wer roarin’ drunk an’ full o’ mischief. ‘e stole some white spirit fra Widow Minger’s art-studio an’ ‘eaded back ter Highfield Farm wayer ‘e cornered a couple o’ sheep an’ tried ter set ‘em alight.”

“E DID WOT?” Says Big Ron, Joe an’ me, in unison.

“Seems ‘e wer that under t' influence” continued Kim, “’e did mooare damage ter imsen than ter t’ pooer woolys, which reportedly ran abaat bleatin’ wildly wi their arse ends on fire creatin’ smoke trails like wounded spitfires! T’ commotion brought aat ‘alf t’ village. Appen t’ endless rain ‘elped in t’ end like. Chatterton wer later faand fast asleep behind t’ war memorial, wi ‘alf ‘is ‘air missing, ‘is eyebrows an’ eyelashes completely gone, an’ a burnt patch on ‘is chest resemblin’ another cowpat!”

“Well ah’ll go ter t’ foot o ‘our stairs” ah says. “Appen there’s summat ter aal them stories o’ bad luck on Friday t’13^th atter aal.”

“Tha’s not wrong theyer” says Kim grinning broadly, “Widow Minger’s said she’ll turn a blind eye ter t’ theft charges if she can ‘ave Chatterton up at ‘er studio ivvry night f’ a month!”

T’ Birth O’ Woman

One day like, atter wot seemed like a chuffin’ eternity in t’ Garden O’ Eden by ‘is sen, Adam decided ‘e wer’ bored. ‘e’d dun aal t’ weedin’, mowed t’ lawns, an’ picked enuf berries ter mek another batch o’ Sloe Gin. ‘e’d given names ter aal t’ fowls o’ the air, an beasts o’ t’ land, an’ in t’ process invented Latin. ‘e’d even given that slippery bastard t’ snake, a good talkin’ to f’ mekin’ inappropriate suggestions ter the flamingos - which wer’ nah permanently blushing pink. So ‘e calls aat ter God...

“...Ey up boss, ist tha theyer? Ah’ve got a bit o’ a problem daan ‘ere like!”

Nah God wer’ sat on ‘is claad in ‘eaven discussin’ t’ concept o’ crosswords wi t’ arch angels Michael, Raphael, and Gabriel. Currently ‘e wer mooare than a tad crotchety ‘at theyer failure to get t’ answer ter clue f’ three daan.  “Four letters, ends in IT – found in t’ bottom o’ a bird cage.”

“Oh, ey up luv” ‘e says peerin’ daan thru t’ claads at Adam. “Before tha says owt, answer me this. Four letters, ends in IT – found in t’ bottom o’ a bird cage.”

“Grit” says Adam.

“See, SEE” says God to ‘is angels, “Wer that so chuffin’ difficult? Appen thee aal are just a bunch o’ winged numpties!”

“Theyer must be a word we can invent f’ a collective o’ angels?” says Gabriel, ignoring God’s sarcasm. "Appen that'd mek a grand crossword question!"

“Aye, like ‘host’, ‘throng’, ooer maybe a ‘choir’” says Michael.

“Thicket” says Adam.

“S’ wassup Adam?” asks God trying to saand vaguely intelligent.

“Well ah don’t wanna saand ungrateful like” says Adam. “An’ ah know tha created me, an’ ‘ave provided f’ me ivver since, includin’ surraanding me wi this beautiful garden an’ aal t’ wonderful animals, birds, fish an’ creepy crawly critters - but ah’m jus’ not happy!”

“Oh, an’ why is that?” came a ‘thicket’ o’ voices fra Heaven.

“Well ter be honest, I’m lonely aal on me tod like” says Adam. “An’ it’s startin’ ter affect me eyesight!”

“Nay fret lad” say God, “appen ah’ve got t’ perfect solution. Ah shall create thee a companion.”

“Whoa" says Adam, "that sounds cooool.”

“Can we call it a Whoa-man” says Raphael whispering in God’s ear.

“As thou art a man, an’ thou art a he” says God sagely, “thy companion will be a she – an’ she will be called a woman.”

“So wots a ‘woman’, Lord?” asks Adam.

“Woman will be t’ most intelligent, sensitive, caring an’ beautiful creature ah’ve ivver created” says God. “She will be so in tune wi thee that she will be able ter figure aat wot tha wants afore tha wants it. She will be so sensitive an’ caring that she will know thy ivvery mood an’ ‘ow ter mek thee ecstatically happy. Her beauty will rival that o’ t’ heavens an’ earth. She will unquestioningly care f’ thy ivvery need an desire! She will be t’ perfect companion f’ thee."

“By eck that saands reight grand, that does!” says Adam.

“Aye lad” says God. “But she’ll cost thee. Tha dunt get owt f’ nowt in this world tha knows!”

“Oh” says Adam. “How much will this ‘ere woman cost me like, Lord?”

“Ah reckon she’ll cost thee, your right arm, t’ rest o’ tha eyesight, she’ll bend tha ear, mess wi yer mind, an’ grip tha testicles like a greyhound on a rabbit!”

“Bugger!” says Adam, scattin' 'is chin....

“Wot can ah get f’ a rib?”