A lot o’ folks ‘ave been askin’ me wither fam’lies wer’ diff’rent wen ah wer’ a lad? Thinkin’ abaat it nah, ah suppose they wer’....
Ter start with, they wer’ often much bigger. Not today’s 2.4 chillens per ‘ouse‘old but as many as fifteen bairns in a brood. Me mother wer’ allus up t’ duff ooer poppin’ aat sibblings like she wer’ shellin’ peas. Aal she ‘ad ter do wer’ cough an’ there’d be another one. If ah took me library book back, by t’ time ah got ‘ome, ther’ wer’ 3 moore sat raand t’ table. She’d ‘ave one on her breast, two on her hips an’ a gaggle raand ‘er feet. Tis no wonder she allus duck-waddled daan road, an’ looked permanently knackered ooer pissed off. By t’ time she wer’ thirty, appen she cud pass f’ twice that.
I’d like ter say it wer’ because me dad wer’ so virile but appen that’d be lying. ’e ‘ad summat wrong wi ‘is legs in that ‘e cudn’t walk past pubs. Ah reckon it affected ‘im in t’ trouser department too, coz ‘e used ter say ter me mother wen she wer’ feelin’ a tad amorous like, “tis no use luv, a dead bird can’t fly fra nest!” As a result she’d spend most Friday nights at t’ army camp dances wi sum o’ t’ other ladies fra village. Ah reckon she liked their rations as ah often overheard ‘er tellin’ ‘em that she got plenty o‘ sausage up theyer.
Me dad hated us kids. Hardly surprisin' really - but 'e allus knew which side o' 'is bread wer buttered an as a result 'e kept t' status quo. Didn't stop 'im shaatin at us tho. Said, apart f’ wen ‘e wer’ sat on t’ privy, ‘e nivver got any peace. So ivvery Sunday mornin’ ‘e’d lock ‘is sen in t’ aatside lavvy wi t’ daily prophet – an’ we’d not see ‘im agayen ‘till tea time. But occasionally, if ‘e wer’ in a reight good mood, ‘e’d read us t’ articles fra t’other side o’ t sneck-lock-door. Ah reckon ‘e also liked ter mek sum up an aal. ‘e told us: brown eggs cum fra Lancastrian chickens wi’ dirty bums; that one man daan our street ‘ad gone ter sleep wi’ ‘is ‘ead under ‘is pillow an’ t’ tooth fairy ‘ad cum in t’ middle o’ t’ nieght an’ taken aal ‘is teeth aat; and one particularly hot summer ‘e told us that a volcano ‘ad erupted an’ melted aal t’ ice-cream factories in Yorkshire, so ‘e cudn’t buy us one even tho ‘e really wanted to.
If ‘e wer’ in a bad mood, ‘e’d jus’ remind us that t’ mother o’ aal venomous spiders lived in t’ aatside lavvy, jus’ araand t’ u bend – an’ if we wer’n’t really quiet it’d cum aat an’ bite us kids on us bums. O’ course, then, if sum one didn’t suck t’ poison aat reight quick like, we’d be dead in minutes. F’ yeears ah allus took a stick wi me wen ah visited t’ aat-‘ouse. It wer’ only wen ah eventually got married that ah faand aat it wer’n’t a normal thing ter do.
Not one o’ me dad’s treasured newspapers ivver went ter waste. Sum wer sent daan ter t’ village hall wayer ther’ wer’ a weekly class f’ makin’ miniature papier mache sugar bowls, sum went ter t’ Reverend who liked ter study t’ form of ‘is osses, an’ t’ rest ah cut in ter squares an hung on a string in t’ lavvy. Ah can still hear me mother shaatin’ “Jus’ t’ three! Jus’ t’ three!” Said you only needed one up, one daan, and one ter polish.
Ova aal, ah reckon fam’lies wer’ much closer back then! Tho ah ‘ave ter admit that Big Ron ‘ad aal sooarts o’ problems wi’ ‘is mother, who wer’ also ‘is aunt, an’ rumour ‘ad it, she wer ‘is sister too. In fact, many families wer’ so deeply interwoven, we tended ter call aal women ova 30 ‘Auntie’ just in case.
O’ course, it wer’ reight difficult ter guess a ladies age back then because so many wer’ so pug-ugly. Yeears o’ workin’ aatside in aal weathers, no make-up an’ centuries o’ in-breedin’ ‘ad produced sum truly hideous creatures. Joe Syke’s sister Marg, ‘ad such a long face, she looked like a mare abaat ter foal. Their dad used ter breed cart ‘osses – a fact tha wer’ reminded of ivvery time she smiled. Joe told me ‘e reckoned she’d bin ridden by most o’ t’ stable lads too. Ah laughed along wi’ ‘im altho ah didn’t understand wot ‘e meant at t’ time. Wen I asked Marg’ if I cud ‘ave a ride a few days later, she said she’d meet me behind t’ old barn that neight. Onny road ah reckoned it wer’n’t gonna be much fun trottin’ araand in t’ dark an’ cold, so ah didn’t go.I’d like ter say it wer’ because me dad wer’ so virile but appen that’d be lying. ’e ‘ad summat wrong wi ‘is legs in that ‘e cudn’t walk past pubs. Ah reckon it affected ‘im in t’ trouser department too, coz ‘e used ter say ter me mother wen she wer’ feelin’ a tad amorous like, “tis no use luv, a dead bird can’t fly fra nest!” As a result she’d spend most Friday nights at t’ army camp dances wi sum o’ t’ other ladies fra village. Ah reckon she liked their rations as ah often overheard ‘er tellin’ ‘em that she got plenty o‘ sausage up theyer.
Me dad hated us kids. Hardly surprisin' really - but 'e allus knew which side o' 'is bread wer buttered an as a result 'e kept t' status quo. Didn't stop 'im shaatin at us tho. Said, apart f’ wen ‘e wer’ sat on t’ privy, ‘e nivver got any peace. So ivvery Sunday mornin’ ‘e’d lock ‘is sen in t’ aatside lavvy wi t’ daily prophet – an’ we’d not see ‘im agayen ‘till tea time. But occasionally, if ‘e wer’ in a reight good mood, ‘e’d read us t’ articles fra t’other side o’ t sneck-lock-door. Ah reckon ‘e also liked ter mek sum up an aal. ‘e told us: brown eggs cum fra Lancastrian chickens wi’ dirty bums; that one man daan our street ‘ad gone ter sleep wi’ ‘is ‘ead under ‘is pillow an’ t’ tooth fairy ‘ad cum in t’ middle o’ t’ nieght an’ taken aal ‘is teeth aat; and one particularly hot summer ‘e told us that a volcano ‘ad erupted an’ melted aal t’ ice-cream factories in Yorkshire, so ‘e cudn’t buy us one even tho ‘e really wanted to.
If ‘e wer’ in a bad mood, ‘e’d jus’ remind us that t’ mother o’ aal venomous spiders lived in t’ aatside lavvy, jus’ araand t’ u bend – an’ if we wer’n’t really quiet it’d cum aat an’ bite us kids on us bums. O’ course, then, if sum one didn’t suck t’ poison aat reight quick like, we’d be dead in minutes. F’ yeears ah allus took a stick wi me wen ah visited t’ aat-‘ouse. It wer’ only wen ah eventually got married that ah faand aat it wer’n’t a normal thing ter do.
Not one o’ me dad’s treasured newspapers ivver went ter waste. Sum wer sent daan ter t’ village hall wayer ther’ wer’ a weekly class f’ makin’ miniature papier mache sugar bowls, sum went ter t’ Reverend who liked ter study t’ form of ‘is osses, an’ t’ rest ah cut in ter squares an hung on a string in t’ lavvy. Ah can still hear me mother shaatin’ “Jus’ t’ three! Jus’ t’ three!” Said you only needed one up, one daan, and one ter polish.
Ova aal, ah reckon fam’lies wer’ much closer back then! Tho ah ‘ave ter admit that Big Ron ‘ad aal sooarts o’ problems wi’ ‘is mother, who wer’ also ‘is aunt, an’ rumour ‘ad it, she wer ‘is sister too. In fact, many families wer’ so deeply interwoven, we tended ter call aal women ova 30 ‘Auntie’ just in case.
Marg ‘ad ‘er sights set on Big Ron’s younger brother Chip – oo wer’ definitely not fra right side o’ t’ block. ‘e wer’n’t like most young men we knew at aal. Chip knew ‘ow ter iron clothes, ‘e cud cook an’ sew. ‘e helped t’ lasses set their hair an’ ‘e allus cried wen onny o’ t’ farm animals went off ter slaughter. Marg cud o’ been t’ prettiest lass in Yorkshire an it wudn’t ‘ave med onny difference. If she wanted a real man abaat t’ place, appen she shud o’ tried Big Ron. ‘e’d o’ been theyer like a rat up a drainpipe.
Appen we aal ‘ad nicknames back then. In fact, we nivver referred to each other by us real names as if it wer’ a sin ooer summat. The only time ah heard me real name bein’ used wer’ wen ah wer’ bein’ called in f’ me tea ooer gettin’ a bollockin’ fra t’ teacher!
Big Ron wer’ called Big Ron coz ‘e wer’ massive, Chip wer Chip coz ‘e wer’ t’ runt o’ t’ litter, Bumpy Awkright wer’ covered in boils, Fingers Crawford wer’ a tealeaf an’ Jumbo Johnson ‘ad claimed ter see an elephant one night in ‘is bedroom. Joe Sykes wer’ called Joe coz ‘is real name wer’ Ickingril an’ ‘e ‘ad a tendency ter beat t’ crap aat o’ onny one oo dared call ‘im Icky. Said ‘e wer’ just a plain old Joe – so it stuck. We cud nivver understand wot possessed ‘is parents ter christen ‘im Ickingril? It wer’n’t as if they wer’ posh like. Definitely not t’ sort oo got aat o’ t’ bath f’ a wee. Marg’s real name wer’ Petunia. She got her nickname fra t’ older boys, tho ah can’t remember why!
Ivvery Sunday, me ‘ole fam’ly wud dress up in us best finery an’ trail daan ter t’ church f’ Reverend Pugh’s sermons – follud by t’ rest o’ t’ village in theyers. Only t’ smartest fam’lies wer’ allaad ter sit in t’ front pews, wi yon scruffiest buggers med t’ sit at t’ back. So ivvery week like, shoes ‘ad ter be polished, necks got scrubbed an’ t’ back o’ us ears wer’ checked f’ tide marks. Hand-me-daan clothes wer’ handed daan fra child ter child, an’ patched an’ re-patched ‘till nobbut t’ patches existed. O’ course we nivver med it ter t’ front pews, much ter me mother’s annoyance. As a result she’d spend t’ fust ‘alf o’ ivvery service muttering abaat t’ fam’lies that in ‘er opinion, shudn’t be in front o’ us, verbally cuttin’ em ter shreads wi’ ‘er tongue as skilfully as a surgeon wheels a scalpel.
Ah remember one Sunday she wer’ chunterin’ so much, me dad pretended ter cough loudly ter hide ‘er sarcasm fra rest o’ t’ parishioners. But t’ moare ‘e coughed, t’ mooare she mithered. Eventually, Reverend Pugh cum daan aat o’ ‘is pulpit, lent ova me dad an’ whispered summat in ‘is ear. Ah reckon ‘e gave him a Fisherman’s Friend coz ah’m shooer ah heard him say “ For cough!”
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