T’ Three Little Pigs

Once upon a time, in t’ little market taan o’ Piggering near Whitby, theyer lived a kindly owd  widowed sow by t’ name o’ Hamma Montanna – oo ‘ad three little piglets ter tek care o’. At t’ time o’ this ‘ere story like, she wer’ knockin’ on in yeears havin’ had several litters afore. So instinct wer tellin’ ‘er that it weren’t gonna be too long afore she’d be trottin’ off ter that great sty in t’ sky.


Porky’s years ago, in wot nah seemed like another life, Hamma had bin a rising star o’ stage an’ screen - starin’ in movies such as Babe, Pigs In Space, Porkies, Star Boars, Piglets Of The Caribbean, Unsteakable, T’ Bacon Supremacy, Groundhog Day; an’ also musicals such as Phantom Of The Chopra, Spamalot an’ Porky & Bess.


At one o’ t’ many after-show swine an’ cheese parties she attended, she met t’ future love o’ her life -  R&B legend Boar Diddley. ‘e quickly becum ‘er gilt-ie pleasure as f’ monny a long month afore ‘e finally put a ring through ‘er nose, they’d sneak aat ter meet each other, hold hams an’ share a few troughs o’ Hogsmead.  Eventually, at t’ openin’ night o’ 633 Squadron – The Hambusters, ‘e got daan on one trotter an’ proposed.


For a year a two they wer’ as happy as pigs in shit! Indeed, Diddley wer reight gradely at bringin’ ‘ome t’ bacon wi musical bookings aal ova North Yorkshire. Sadly, a heart attack brought on by sum sort o’ electrical shock, meant one year ‘e lost ‘is ‘ead at t’ village Hog Roast at t’ Sun Inn.


Aal she ‘ad left nah, wer her three sons:  Knio - oo wer allus backards at cumin forrard; Piiig – oo wer born with three eyes; an’ CunningHam oo’d clearly inherited ‘is mother’s brains.


Nah Hamma dearly loved ‘er three little squealers an’ worried f’ theyer future wi aat her. So ivvery night, she med it ‘er business ter gather ‘em raand t’ pignic table, ter chew t’ fat an’ tell ‘em pig tales that might prepare them f’ t’ big bad world beyond t’ safety o’ theyer sty.


One night, as they shared theyer evenin’ slops, Hamma said ter her three sons: “Well lads, ah’m not gettin’ onny younger, so’ t’ time ‘as cum, f’ thee aal ter go aat in ter t’ big world an’ find tha own places. ‘ere’s a silk purse f’ each o’ thee, med fra one o’ me ears.  Inside each, there’s a bit o’ brass ter get thee started. It aint much but it’s better ‘n nowt! ”


T’ three piglets hugged theyer mother wi’ joy an’ trepidation, spendin’ much o’ t’ rest o’ t’ night, in quiet contemplation o’ future events. In t’ morning afore they left, Hamma told them: “Wot ivver tha does, do it t’ best tha can coz appen it’s t’ only way ter get along! Aalreight?”


Then off went t’ three little pigs in different directions t’ seek theyer fortunes – an pooar Hamma wer left alone aal heart-sluffened, yet content that she’d done aal she cud.


Nah Knio, oo wer allus backards at cummin forrard, happened upon ter nearest public inn (T’ Crackling Pig) an’ wer soon tempted in ter spendin’ is brass on raand atter raand o’ Razorback - a beer reputedly 10 times stronger than Hogsmead. So it dint tek long afore ‘e wer pissed as a vicar neckin’ communion wine. Strangely, t’ moare ‘e drank, t’ mooare e’ med new friends. Friends wot wer only too ‘appy ter ‘elp ‘im spend ‘is brass. An’ unsurprisingly, it follud that not long atter, they wer aal daan at t’ Pigcino ‘elpin ‘im throw ‘is money away on one fool-hardy bet atter another. In fact, in no time at aal, ‘ed not only gambled away aal t’ brass is mother ‘ad given ‘im, but also ran up a level o’ credit ‘e simply cudn’t pay back. It only dawned on ‘im wot a mess ‘e wer in, wen ‘e eventually noticed t’ huge bouncers givin’ him t’ evil piggy eye – an upon lookin’ raand, noticed that aal ‘is new buddies ‘ad vanished back in ter t’ night like shadows.


“Bugger!” ‘e thowatt. “Wot a stupid, greedy piggie ah’ve bin. Appen this place is gonna ‘ave mi bacon!” So ‘e did t’ only thing that a piglet could do in such circumstances… like lard meltin’ in a hot pan, he ran! An’ bein’ swift o’ foot if not o’ brain, ‘e wer aat t’ door  an‘ a long way daan t’ road afore t’ boars at Pigcino ‘ad even noticed.


As ‘e ran, Knio had a crisis o’ conscience! ‘e felt just terrible that ‘e’d gambled away ‘is inheritance an’ let ‘is mum daan in just ‘is first day aat fra theyer home. So ‘e swore on his little pink piggy heart that if ‘e survived this day, ‘e’d settle daan jus’ like ‘is mum ‘ad wanted ‘im to in t’ fust place.


As fate wud ‘ave it, at that very moment, ‘e passed a field full o’ bright golden straw an’ theyer in it’s middle, noticed a farmer struggling wi t’ effort o’ gatherin’ in t’ crop. So usin’ t’ only little grey cell ‘e possessed, ‘e quickly med a deal wi t’ farmer – an’ in return f’ helping t’ farmer bring in ‘is crop, wer given enuf straw ter build issen a house. Thus t’ fust little piggy built ‘is ‘ouse o’ straw.


Nah Knio’s middle brother, Piiig, wer a different sort o’ piglet aal together. ‘e liked t’ be in touch wi nature. ‘e loved animals, ‘e liked trees, ‘e liked mekin’ things – an’ ‘e ‘ad an eye f’ t’ ladies. Not that ‘e ‘ad onny experience like. But that nivver stopped ‘is third eye rovin’ an tekin’ note o’ every pink paand o’ porky flesh that trotted by. So, when Piiig left t’ family dwellin’, ‘e set aat straight away like, f’ t’ bright lights o’ Whitby wayer ‘e hoped ter meet t’ piglet o’ is dreams.


An’ ‘e aalmost did! Well sort of.


That atternoon, as Knio entered t’ aatskirts Whitby taan, ‘e cum across a sow o’ ill repute offerin’ ‘er services on t’ street. She wer an experienced owd ham o’ generous proportions, wi a rack on’er that monny piglets wud happily die fer.  An’ so f’ Piiig, it wer lust at first sight an’ afore long ‘e ‘ad handed ova ‘is brass an’ wer ensconced in ‘er boudoir, snortin’ cocaine an gettin’ ‘is little curly tail well an’ truly straightened! She on t’ other hand wer less than fussy because she ‘adn’t paid ‘er pimp f’ board an’ protection f’ weeks  - so she easily turned a blind eye ter ‘is third eye.


Nah it dunt tek a genius ter realise that such a relationship wer doomed ter cum ter an’ unhappy end. An o’course it did…


 Just as Piiig an’ ‘Smoky Bacon’ wer reachin’ t’ sqeak o’ passion, in ter t’ room burst ‘er pimp wi three enormous hairy grizzled lookin’ Carpathian wild boars, wi tusks on ‘em like excited elephants.  They picked up Piiig an’ hurled ‘im against ‘er wardrobe, shatterin’ it into millions o’ pieces. Then they bounced him off t’ ‘er dressin’ table, t’ coffee table, an’ t’ chair by t’ bed  - breakin ivvery thing ‘e cum in ter contact with. An’ sumwayer during this process, ‘e lost consciousness. Meanwhile t’ pimp concentrated on hurlin’ both insults an’ ‘is ham-fisted trotters at t’ pooar whore,  whilst relievin’ her o’ aal o’ ‘er takings.


Wen Piiig eventually opened ‘is three eyes agayen, several hours ‘ad passed by. T’ well endowed sow, ‘er pimp an’ ‘is henchpigs ‘ad aal gone. Piiig wer alone in t’ wreck o’ t’ apartment, covered in blood, purple an’ black bruises, an’ millions o’ bits o’ kindling which once med up furniture.


“Kinell” ‘e said aat laad. “Wot a selfish little piglet ‘ave bin. Ah’ve lost me inheritance an’ let mother daan aalready. Ah swear that if ah can jus’ get thru this day, ah’ll settle daan like mum wanted me ter do in t’ fust place!”


Then, like t’ turning on o’ a light, ‘e ‘ad a brilliant idea. ‘e borrowed an oss an’ cart fra local blacksmith an’ piled it high wi aal t’ kindling, wood an’ sticks, that wer once t’ owd tart’s furniture. ‘e also took t’ nah hingeless dooar, t’ bed an’ anything else t’ cart cud hold! (Even t’ pink fluffy handcuffs, t’ KY Jelly an t’ Anne Summers Rampant Rabbit ‘e faand in ‘er drawers.) Then ’e buggered off aat o’ t’ taan as fast as ‘is little trotters wud carry ‘im. Once back in ter t’ countryside, ‘e faand a nice quiet boggy swamp, an’ set abaat buildin’ issen a house o’ wood. Not a nice carved one like, but a house med aat o’ t’ kindling, splinters, sticks, an’ scraps ‘e’d taken fra t’ owd sow’s meager abode. O’ course it wer nivver gonna look like a property on Mayfair, or a Manhattan sty-scraper – but nonetheless it wer mooare or less weatherproof an’ it wer stronger than ‘is bother Knio’s house o’ straw.


O’ t’ three brothers, it wer CunningHam wot got t’ hog’s share o’ t’ family’s brains. Not that ‘e wer exceptionally bright ooer gifted either. But ‘e thowatt abaat things a lot afore speakin’ ooer actin’, which wer aalmost as good.


CunningHam thowatt long an’ hard abaat wot ter build ‘is house aat o’? Stone seemed best coz it wer solid, weather proof an’ survived t’ ravages o’ time. But stone cum in different shapes an’ sizes an ‘e weren’t a stone mason. So in t’end ‘e chose bricks! They wer solid, weather proof an’ stood t’ test o’ time – but mooare importantly, they fitted together much easier! So on t’ day ‘e said goodbye t’ family home, ‘e took issen off ter be a brickie – an’ enrolled in t’ college in Scarborough. Five days later ‘e knew e’d faand ‘is particular gift.


Thus t’ third little piggie spent ‘is inheritance wisely - an in ‘is own good time, built ‘is house aat o’ bricks. “Mum’ll be reight praad o’ me nah!” ‘e said ter issen admiring ‘is handy work atter ‘e’d finished.


In fact, CunningHam liked bricks – a lot! So much so, that ‘e built  everything aat o’ bricks. ‘is table, ‘is chairs, even ‘is bed wer med aat o’ brick. Indeed, ‘e felt safe an’ sound in ‘t knowledge that everything ‘e  ‘ad wer solid an’ dependable.


Well at least that’s wot ‘e thowatt till t’ day ‘e went surfin’ wi ‘is brothers at Filey. Theyer, ‘e watched as they happily splashed in t’ waves wi surf boards made o’ straw an’ sticks. Later however, his smug sense o’ security - along wi ‘is board o’ bricks - vanished in abaat 40 feet o’ water.


Nah sum folks say that fate is nowt mooare than a grumpy owd sow wi a sty full o’ weeners – an’ that destiny is just a selfish boar. But wots f’ definite, is that, at a certain time o’ t’ month, neither mek f’ happy bed-fellows! An’ unbeknown ter our three young brothers, in a seedy part o’ Whitby taan, fate an’ destiny ‘ad both bin windin’ up one o’ it’s moore insalubrious residents.


AbraHam wer an American Razorback, a true Hamster (a hog-gangster) brought inter Whitby taan by t’ Vegas mob ter run aal it’s illegal activities such as gambling, prostitution, an’ drugs. ‘e wer t’ Don, t’ President, an’ ‘e represented t’ word o’ law, legal ooer otherwise f’ aal t’ pooar folks o’ Whitby. Even t’ local boys in blue wer in ‘is pay an’ in ‘is pocket.


So via t’ local constabulary, it ‘ad cum ter AbraHam’s attention that t’ three brothers wer wanted f’ various misdemeanors an’ wer possibly musclin’ in on ‘is territory. According ter ‘is info, brother number one – a young piglet called Knio, owed im an unpaid alcohol an’ gamblin’ debt wot wer increasing dramatically wi spiraling interest.  Brother number two – a three eyed runt called Piiig, wer wanted fer breaking up one o’ is whore-houses an’ robbin’ it o’ property. Brother number three, a piglet called CunningHam actually hadn’t done anything illegal – but ‘e’d bought up aal t’ bricks in North Yorkshire leavin’ AbraHam nowt wi which ter expand ‘is empire. Worryingly,  AbraHam feared this last act wud be seen by others as a play f’ power, mekin’ im look weak unless ‘e dealt with it swiftly an’ wi aat mercy. So AbraHam sent  f’ ‘is top enforcer!


Mr. Wulluf wer AbraHam’s top dog! ‘e wer a wolf by birth an’ a wolf by nature! An enforcer, a war-dog, a top predator an’ a ruthless killing machine that completed orders swiftly an officiently, wi aat paws f’ thowatt ooer care.


“Appen ah want thee ter pay a call on yon piglets, one by one!” said AbraHam ter Mr Wulluf. “Flattern theyer houses an’ kill ‘em – but mek it look like an accident! OK?”


Mr Wulluf simply nodded silently an’ stalked off.


That night Mr Wulluf, oo dearly loved ter eat fat little piggies, quickly faand ter t’ house o’ straw.  ‘e banged on t’ door an’ said in ‘is big gruff voice, “Avon calling little pig, please let me in.”


Nah despite not being t’ sharpest tool in the box, Knio knew this weren’t  t’ Avon lady – but only because it wer only Tuesday an’ t’ Avon lady didn’t cum ‘till Thursday.  So ‘e says, “No, no, by t’ hair o’ my chinny chin chin, ah’ll not let thee in! Bugger off!”


“OK, tha’s got me” says Mr Wulluf. “Ah’m not t’ Avon lady. Ah’m t’ famous big bad wolf, an’ if tha dunt let me in, then ah'll huff, an’ ah'll puff, an’ ah'll blow yon house daan.”


“On yer bike!” shouted Knio back in defiance.


So Mr Wulluf huffed, an’ ‘e puffed, an’ ‘e blew Knio’s house daan!


An’ then ‘e killed t’ pooar little piggy an’ spit roast ‘im ova t’ fire.  Afterwards he’ ate Knio as a pork an’ Bramley Apple sandwich wi a chunk o’ crispy crackling on t’ side.


T’ following morning, Mr Wulluf continued ‘is search f’ house number two – t’ house med o’ wood. ‘e quizzed ivveryone ‘e met on ‘is travels abaat theyer local knowledge – often tradin’ tales o’ houses bein’ blown daan by freakish winds. Indeed, Mr Wulluf rather enjoyed his role as a master o’ misdirection.


By that night, Mr Wulluf had faand Piiig’s house med o’ wood - partly thanks ter t’ loose tongued rantings o’ a half cut, green Scottish ogre that wanted ‘im aat o’ ‘is swamp. So h’e banged on t’ dooar an said in his big gruff voice, “Pest Control – we’ve ‘ad reports o’ t’ infamous Lampton Wood Worm eatin’ folks aat o’ theyer ‘ouses. Ah need ter tek a look araand. Please let me in.”


Nah it so ‘appened that Piiig knew t’ Lampton Worm personally. Indeed Big Jim an’ he had often gone fishin’ together - wi Big Jim usin’ issen as bait, only ter wrap issen raand onny fish wot tried ter bite ‘im. So Piiig knew ‘e weren’t no pest. Which meant oo ivver this was at t’ door, it weren’t no pest control. So ‘e says, “No, no, by t’ hair o’ my chinny chin chin, ah’ll not let thee in! Appen there’s only one pest ‘ere an’ that’s thee. So bugger off!”


“OK, tha’s got me” says Mr Wulluf. “Ah’m not fra Pest Control. Ah’m t’ famous big bad wolf, an’ if tha dunt let me in, then ah'll huff, an’ ah'll puff, an’ ah'll blow yon house daan.”


“Tha can kiss my pink porky ass!” shouted back Piiig in defiance.


So Mr Wulluf huffed, an’ ‘e puffed, an’ ‘e blew Piiig’s house daan!

An’ then ‘e killed t’ pooar little piggy an’ casseroled him in a big pot wi plenty of Blackthorn Cider.  Later he’ ate Piiig wi mashed potatoes, butter soaked asparagus, an’ a chunk o’ crispy crackling.

T’ following morning, Mr Wulluf continued ‘is search f’ house number three – t’ house med o’ bricks. Once agayen, ‘e quizzed ivveryone ‘e met on ‘is travels abaat theyer local knowledge an’ traded tales o’ houses bein’ blown daan by freakish winds.

T’ news o’ a second ‘weather related incident’ quickly spread raand t’ bush telegraph o’ North Yorkshire wi folks daan at t’ local markets keen ter express an ‘opinion’ on t’ uncommon freakish winds that allegedly seemed ter be occurring. One such incident wer rare enough – but two homes destroyed aat o’ t’ blue wer unprecedented. CunningHam heard t’ rumours too – an’ havin’ not had any contact with either o’ ‘is brothers recently, feared t’ worst.  So ‘e turned t ‘internet f’ information. Sadly, it wer no help at aal. Accordin’ ter t’ met office, t’ weather ‘ad bin jus’ gradely!

That night, ther cum a knock on CunningHam’s front dooar, an’ a big gruff voice says, “U.P.S ‘ere. Ah have a delivery o’ bricks f’ thee! Please let me in!”

Immediately CunningHam knew summat wer wrong coz ‘e only ivver bought ‘is bricks off eBay an’ they allus delivered usin’ Parcel Force. So ‘e says, “No, no, by t’ hair o’ my chinny chin chin, ah’ll not let thee in! Bugger off!”

“OK, tha’s got me” says Mr Wulluf. “Ah’m not t’ U.P.S. man.  Ah’m t’ famous big bad wolf, an’ if tha dunt let me in, then ah'll huff, an’ ah'll puff, an’ ah'll blow yon house daan.”

“Tha can chuffin try!” shouted back CunningHam in defiance. “But ah reckon tha’s got mooar chance striking matches on tripe!”


So Mr Wulluf huffed, an’ ‘e puffed, an’ ‘e blew. But nowt ‘appened!  So huffed, an’ ‘e puffed, an’ ‘e blew sum mooare. But nowt appened aal ova agayen!   In fact, no matter ‘ow monny times ‘e tried, ooer ‘ow much Mr Wulluf huffed an’ puffed, ‘e cud not blow CunningHam’s house daan!


So finally realisin’ this, ‘e promptly decided ter change ‘is tactics an’ thowatt ‘e’d try ‘is paw at aat smartin’  t’ little pig. So ‘e said, “Little pig, appen ah kno’ wayer  there’s a reight gradely field o’ turnips!”


“Oh aye” said CunningHam. “Wayer?”


“Oh, in Mr. Smith's home field! If tha can be ready tomorrow mornin’, ah’ll call f’ thee.  We can go together an’ get sum f’ us dinner like.”


“No ta – but thanks aal t’ same!” says CunningHam. “Ah do aal me shoppin’ on line nah – an’ they even deliver! In fact they’ve bin this very mornin’ so me larder’s stocked high wi wonderful food!” 


Mr Wulluf wer reight annoyed at ‘earing this but nonetheless remained doggedly determined ter get ter t’ little pig sum’ow ooer other. So ‘e said, “T’ Muppet Christmas Movie is on at t’ flicks at t’ moment featurin’ Miss Piggy! “Ah can pick thee up tomorrow an’ we can go an’ watch it together, if tha likes?”


“No ta – but thanks aal t’ same!” says CunningHam. “Ah’ ve got t’ Sky Movies package an’ can stream aal t’ films ah like, reight ‘ere at ‘ome – aal in high definition. No need ter venture aat!”


“Wot abaat night clubbin’?” says Mr Wulluf, ‘is blood nah boiling, yet still desperately tryin’ ter think on ‘is paws whilst presentin’ a calm demeanour. “Ah bet tha’d like ter meet a good lookin’ gilt or maybe tha’d prefer a sow wi mooare experience? Appen ah cud easily fix thee up? Wot say ah pick thee up araand 9 o’clock tomorrow?”


“No ta” says CunningHam. “Ah’ reckon ah’m gay! Ah jus’ haven’t cum aat yet! Besides ah’m also agoraphobic! But thanks f’ askin’.”


“Well ah reckon tha’s jus’ tekin t’ Michael nah!” barked Mr Wulluf loudly, throwing aal caution ter t’ wind. “Appen ah’ll jus’ ‘ave ter do this t’ hard way an‘ climb daan t’ chimney an’ gobble thee up!” An’ wi that ‘e started climbin’ up t’ side o’ t’ house.


Well wen CunningHam saw what Mr Wulluf wer abaat, ‘e cacked issen fer a minute or so – but then ‘e remembered ‘is mothers words an’ suddenly ‘e had a plan! CunningHam hung a large pot o’ water over ter fire an’ stoked it up until it wer reight  blazing - an’ t’ water wer’ boilin away like a bucket o’ angry wasps. Then ‘e waited....


Luckily f’ im, Mr Wulluf ‘adn’t noticed wot ‘e wer up ter  - an’ so wi aat onny hesitation dived straight daan t’ chimney at ‘is earliest opportunity... an’ straight in ter t’ pot o’ boiling water.  No sooner wer Mr Wulluf in t’ pot wen Cunningham slamed on a lid an’ fastened it daan. And that, as they say,  wer t’ end o’ Mr Wulluf!


Well almost.


Yes ‘e wer dead – but CunningHam wern’t finished wi ‘im yet. CunningHam invited ‘is mother ova ter morn t’ loss o’’ is brothers an’ share a meal o’ crispy fried Wulluf in pancakes. (Well, they were ominvores after all!) In fact, they both pigged themselves ‘till theyer sides squealed!


T’ next night CunningHam then paid homage ter ‘is favourite movies – T’ Hog Father Trilogy, an’ took Mr Wullufs boiled, severed head, an’ snook it in ter AbraHams bed while ‘e wer sleeping. Wen ‘e woke up in t’ morning. AbraHam faand Mr Wulluf’s head staring’ lifelessly back at him.

Being a thoroughbred Hamster, AbraHam understood the message perfectly and nivver bothered CunningHam ivver agayen. So they each lived happily ivver after!


T’ End

Ear Worms An' Parallel Universes

Last week, ah wer’ sat in t’ Angel Inn wi mi mates Big Ron an’ Joe Sykes, watchin’ t’ summer rain cum daan that ‘ard aatside, it wer aalmost cracking t’ cobbles.

“Appen us ‘Mediterranean Summer ‘as bin sucked in ter that parallel universe agayen!” says Joe, absentmindedly. “Sum wayer in another reality, a worm ‘ole as oppened up on a duplicate o’ this world - an spat aat aal our luvly ‘ot summer weather!”

“Aye” ah says, “An swapped it f’ aal theyer piss-pooar stuff!”

“Likely as not” continued Joe, “ther’s another version o’ me, in another version o’ t’ Angel Inn, swettin' cobs.”

“Reckon so!” ah says. “An’ ah bet that Joe stands ‘is raand a damned site faster than thee!”

“Wot parallel universe?” asked Big Ron.

“Remember that bloke Einstein?” says Joe, turnin’ ter Big Ron an’ ignoring me.

“T’ bloke wot created t’ seven foot monster wi bolts in it’s neck?” says Big Ron.

“No! Numpty!” say Joe. “That wer Frankenstein!”

“Oh!” says Big Ron.

“Frankenstein wer a boook by Mary Shelly” ah adds informatively.

“Not that lass daan t’ bakery wots allus showin’ off ‘er baps?” says Big Ron.

“No, not ‘er!” says Joe. “Einstein wer t’ bloke wot invented relativity!”

“Wot? Uncles, aunties, cousins an stuff?” says Big Ron.

“No - MC squared” ah adds helpfully.

“So ‘e wer rapper then?” says Big Ron.

“Wot planet ‘ave tha been livin’ on Ron?” says Joe. “No! Einstein wer one o’ t’ world’s greatest thinkers! ‘e theorised stuff!”

“Ohh, reight!” says Big Ron, addin’, “Like wot?”

 “Ok, let’s start fra beginning!” says Joe tekin’ in a big contemplative breath an’ an even bigger swig o’ ‘is paant....

 “Einstein lived donkey’s years ago, like. An’ ‘e wer a proper world-class worrier! ‘e used ter sit araand aal day long frettin’ abaat t’ sooarts o’ things wot other folks cudn’t explain. Like why us ‘ave night an’ day. An’ ‘ow us can see t’ stars at neight wen they’re actually billions o’ miles away. Ah reckon in ‘is time, ‘e wer considered a bit o’ a nutter an’ a trouble causer like - but ova t’ years since ‘is deeath, a lot o’ t’ answers ‘e cum up wi, ‘ave nah bin accepted as reight!”

“Turns aat ‘e wor a clever bugger atter aal” ah offers.

“Onnyroad” continued Joe, “Monny yeears later, sum ‘Professor Guth’ fra a university in Massachusetts, added ter sum o’ Einstein’s thinkin’. One particular thowatt o’ is own, wer that wen t’ universe wer created, theyer existed at that time like, ivverything needed  t’ create not jus’ one earth, ooer one universe – but multiples o’ same thing. So ‘e reckoned that sum wayer aat theyer, there is duplicates o’ us universe, us world, maybe even duplicates o’ thee an’ me.”

“Well, ah’ll go t’ foot o’ our stairs!” says Big Ron.

“Aye, an’ thats not aal” continued Joe. “Sum clever folks reckon that although ther may be ‘undreds o’ t’ same worlds occupyin’ a different time an’ space, they are aal connected sum ‘ow. An’ stuff like worm ‘oles can transport objects fra one ter t’ other an’ back agayen!”

“Nooooo!” says Big Ron.

“Aye, like t’ weather!” says Joe.

“Tis, not jus’ a theory, tis true!” ah says matter o’ factly. “Appen, jus’ be’ind mi washin’ machine theyer is a portal ter a parallel world in a parallel universe!”

“Gi ova!” says Big Ron, ‘is eyes openin’ wide wi intrigue.

“Aye” ah says. “Appen ah know this, coz ivvery time ah get mi washin’ aat, one o’ mi  socks ‘as gone missin’! Nivver a full paiyer, an’ nivver onny other item o’ clothin’, only ivver an odd sock. Ah reckon that in t’ parallel universe, ther is a parallel me oo keeps findin’ extra socks – MY socks – in ‘is chuffin’ parallel wash!”

“By eckers, ah’ve nivver ‘eard t’ like!” say Big Ron.

“Even mooare bizarre..” ah continued, “...at t’ exact moment a sock disappears fra mi washin’, a coat ‘anger materialises in mi bedroom. Not ‘ung up nicely in t’ wardrobe ooer owt sensible like that, but on mi bed ooer in t’ middle o’ t’ floor? Ah can’t fathom it at aal - but ah bet t’ parallel me is right dischuffed wi aal ‘is clothes endin’ up on t’ flooar aal t’ time. Maybe ‘e keeps ‘avin ter run aat ter a parallel Ikea ooer a parallel paand shop ter buy mooare, coz theyer certainly seems ter be no shortage o’ t’ buggers cumin’ through!”

“Well maybe ther’s a market f’ single socks on ‘is parallel world? Ooer maybe ‘e teks em daan ter market on a Thursday an exchanges ‘em f’ coat ‘angers?” says Joe ‘elpfully.

“Ooer theyer’s a lotta blokes wi only one leg?” added Big Ron.

We aal laughed - an’ tuk a few mooare swigs o’ us ale. Joe wer t’ furst ter break t’ reverie.

“As Mr Spock might ‘ave put it” ‘e says puttin’ daan ‘is empty glass, “there is a rift in t’ space-time continuum! An’ ah reckon it’s in mi bedroom!”

“A wot?” says Big Ron.

“Anuther kind o’ worm ‘ole” ah answered helpfully, adding, “Wot meks tha say that Joe?”

“Well” says Joe wi wonder in ‘is voice, “regularly, wen ah put summat daan, an’ then ‘appen ter glance away, wen ah look back agayen jus’ a moment later, t’ object’s disappeared. Like totally vanished into thin air! Poooof, gone! Nah this ‘ardly matters in t’ scheme o’ things wen it’s a stapler, ooer a pen. But appen it’s so annoyin’ wen it’s mi iPhone, wallet, ooer car keys! This normally results in me searchin’ t’ entire bedroom f’ abaat an hour an’ a half, checkin’ ivvery draw an cupboard, even under t’ bed. Ah get ter that point wayer ah’m jus’ abaat ter top mi sen in shear frustration, wen aal o’ a sudden, t’ missing item silently re-appears -  exactly in t’ place it wer supposed ter be, an’ exactly in t’ fust place ah ruddy looked! It’s as if things can pop in an’ aat o’ existence wen ivver they feel like it, wen mi back is turned.”

“Ah‘ve a little black pussy wot can do t’ same thing” ah says (as Joe gave me a funny look). “T’ vet says, she is part Siamese which means she’s naturally sneaky, but ah reckon she’s actually an alien capable o’ time-travelling between t’ parallel worlds!”

“Nah hang on a mo” says Big Ron – ignoring me coz ‘e’d bin listening intently ter Joe’s narrative, “if it’s t’ mobile phone wot’s gone missin’, shuerly tha can just ring it fra a land line?”

“Appen ah tried that!” says Joe. “Yet despite me normally ‘avin’ perfect reception wen at ‘ome, it seems that mi signal an’ mi Lynyrd Skynyrd ringtone, lose theyer way across t’ void betwixt universes. So aalthough ah can ‘ear it ringing in t’ earpiece o’ t’ land line phone ah’m callin’ fra, theyer is no tune bein’ broadcast onny wayer else in this ‘ere reality! O’ course wen t’ phone eventually re-materialises wayer it shud ‘ave bin aal along, it effortlessly displays t’ message ‘You have missed calls’.”

“Wen ah wer a nipper” ah says, “Ah read abaat aal these little people wot lived in us ‘ouses an’ borrowed things wi aat askin’. Believed in ‘em too. Sooart o’ explained why things allus went missin’ in our ‘ouse. Nah ah reckon its t’ parallel worlds rubbin’ up aginst each other, mekin’ things move fra one realm ter t’other.”

“It wud explain a lot!” says Joe thoughtfully. “Stuff allus went missin’ fra our ‘ouse too. Nivver t’ big things, jus’ ivverday little things - like new shoe laces fra t’ drawer, t’ torch ooer candles fra under t’ sink, spare batteries, dad’s condoms, that sooart o’ thing!”

“Dust tha think that’s ow we gets ear worms?” says big Ron.

“Fra condoms?” asked Joe incredulously.

“Ah reckon tha gets them fra tha sheep!”ah replies.

“Bloody wazzocks!” says Big Ron excitedly. “Ah meant t’ musical variety – tunes wot get stuck in tha head.”

“Ohhh”says Joe an’ me in unison.

“Ah woke up this morning singin’ T’ Fields O’ Athenry!”continued Big Ron.

“T’ fields o’ wot?” says Joe.

“"T’ Fields O’ Athenry! Tis a folk ballad set during t’ Great Irish Famine, 1845–1850” ah says sagely.  “Abaat a bloke called Michael fra near Athenry in County Galway oo wer sentenced ter transportation ter Botany Bay in Australia, f’ stealin’ food f’ ‘is starvin’ family. Tis a favourite wi owd folkies an’ Irish footy fans wot sing it as a sooart o’ anthem.”

“Oh reight” says Joe.

 “Well, ah dun’t watch onny football an’ dunt remember ‘earin’ it afore this mornin’ wen ah faand me sen singing it” said Big Ron doggedly. “Ah reckon ah shud ‘ardly kno t’ song nivver mind be able t’ sing it aal t’ way through wi aat a pause! Normally ah wudn’t mind too much – but it’s a really crap song!”

“So wot tha’s suggesting?” asked Joe.

 “Well maybe earworms are t’ result o’ ‘earin’ music fra a parallel world in us subconscious?” says Joe. “Wen t’ worlds brush agin one another – summat cums through like?”

“Aye, an maybe aal them new wire coat ‘angers amplify t’ signal an’ play ‘em to us whilst we're sleep!?” ah suggest.

“Well owt’s possible in this day an’ age” says Joe. 

“Oh aye!” ah says. “Abaaat as possible as thee gettin’ t’ next raand o’ drinks in!”

“Well ah wud” says Joe wi a smile on ‘is face. “But mi chuffin wallet’s gone missin’ agayen!”

Little Red Riding Hood & T’ Werewolf

Once upon a time, long ago in Topcliffe, theyer lived a pretty young lass by t’ name o’ Little Red Riding Hood. It weren’t ‘er real name o’ course – that wer’ Betty Goodbust! But she wer little, she ‘ad a red cloak wi a hood, an’ a reputation wi t’ stable lads daan at t’ Coach n’ Horses f’ enjoyin’ a good ride!

It wer’ a time wen wild animals still roamed t’ land, an’ babbies ooer little kiddies, often went missin’ fra pooar folks ‘omes! Particularly at Harvest Time wen both t’ corn an’ t’ moon wer high! Sum folks blamed t’ gypsies in t’ woods. Others said it wer wolves. Sum said it wer both at t’ same time!

In fact, theyer existed a local legend, passed daan thru t’ generations, that stressed parents an’ older siblings wud quote ter frighten theyer younger wards in ter behavin’ ther sens. Wot it said wer, “If tha ivver meets a person on t’ road, wi one eye brow wot grows right across theyer fissog - appen as not, that person wer a Werewolf.”

Sadly, t’ same legend nivver offered advice as t’ wot ter do if tha actually met a werewolf - coz it wer considered pointless. Ivverybody knew that n’body survived such an encounter!

But ah digress. Back ter Little Red Riding Hood...

One late summer evenin’, Little Red Riding Hood’s mam, asks Little Red Riding Hood, ter tek sum groceries ova ter her granny’s cottage sayin’, “ t’ pooar owd bugger dunt get aat much followin’ her double hip operation”.

Little Red Riding Hood knew this statement ter be a mini porky, coz she knew f’ a fact that ‘er sister took Granny aat ter bingo ivvery Tuesaday an’ Thursday neights, in t’ hand cart nicked fra t’ local bakery. (It wer not as roomy as t’ supermarket trolley previously purloined fra Morrisons - but it didn’t squeak or have a wobbly wheel.) Some neights t’ two o’ em cud be ‘eard giggling an’ carryin’ on like two hormonal prepubescent school girls as they med theyer way ‘ome thru Badgers Chuff Wood. (Especially, if Granny ‘ad purchased sum Dandelion Gin fra t’ Quivering Pig on route.)

But rather than be a tad narked abaat ‘er mam’s little white lie, Little Red Riding Hood wer delighted ter get aat fra under ‘er feet! An wer mooare than a gnats grateful f’ t’ opportunity f’ a crafty spliff in t’ woods, on t’ way.

So off she went like, wi a skip in ‘er step an’ a tune on her lips. Not that "T' Good Ship Venus" was an appropriate ditty f’ t’ little lass, but ‘avin’ seven older rugby-mad brothers meant such cultural learning cudn’t be avoided! She wer just abaat on t’ last chorus wen she realised she’d reached t’ deepest reaches o’ Badgers Chuff Woods – an’ half way ter Granny’s cottage. “Reight” she said ter her sen, “Time f’ mi weed!”

She wer just abaat ter light her beautifully crafted six skin spliff  - wen suddenly fra behind a tree, steps this weird lookin’ bloke she’d nivver seen afore.  “Ey up luv”, ‘e says. “Where’s tha headin’  on such a lovely Summer’s evenin’? A little lass like thee shud be careful aat tonight coz t’ moon will be full an’ high.”

“What ever!” replies Little Red Riding Hood holding up her hands ter form a ‘W’ whilst pushin’ past ‘im wi aat a second glance.

“That’s not reight polite o’ thee!” said t’ stranger, suddenly an’ magically standing right in front o’ her agayen, even tho she ‘adn’t seen ‘im move.

“Bite me!” says Little Red Riding Hood attempting to side step him an’ continue ‘er journey.

“By eckkerslike, tha’s a stroppy mare!” said t’ stranger, blocking her path agayen. “Ah wer only wonderin’ wayer tha’s goin’ wi yon basket o’ groceries, an’ thought ah’d lend thee a hand ooer at least see thee safely theyer! A person on their tod can nivver be too careful on these barmy summer neights.”

“Ah’m off t’ see mi Gran” says Little Red Riding Hood. “Not that it’s onny business o’ yorn!”

“Look ere, ah reckon we’ve got off to a bad start” says t’ stranger. “Let’s try agayen. My name is Wulluf” ‘e said, extending out a long wiry hand.

 As ‘e stepped forrud ter introduce issen, Little Red Riding Hood looked at t’ bloke f’ t’ fust time like. ‘e wer a tall wiry man wi a slightly bent back an’ disproportionately long thin arms an’ powerful legs; ‘is clothes wer once o’ high quality but nah appeared owd an’ lived in; ther wer a peculiar yet not un-nice smell abaat ‘im that reminded ‘er o’ t’ earth, tho she cudn’t say why; ‘is teeth wer as bright as pearls an’ ‘is eyes shone golden in t’ dimming light; ‘is hair wer long an’ full, flowing freely daan his back; an’ despite aal o’ this, or perhaps because o’ aal o’ this, she thowatt ‘im ter be devilishly handsome!

In fact, Little Red Riding Hood suddenly felt inexplicably drawn ter ‘im fer reasons she jus’ cudn’t fathom. Yet despite this, summat in t’ farthest corner o’ ‘er mind nagged at ‘er. But again, she cudn’t say wot. Afore she’d even realised it, ‘e’d tekken ‘er ‘and in ‘is, an’ kissed it. It tingled like rain on a summers day! As ‘e let it go, she noticed ‘is long beautifully manicured nails an’ fleetingly wondered ‘ow ‘e managed ter keep ‘em so chuffin nice?

“So wayer’s tha Granny live?” ‘e says aal casual like.

“Does tha know t’ chippy on t’ edge o’ taan on t’ other side o’ t’ wood?” she faand ‘ersen answering – even though her inner self screamed at her ter say nowt.

“Aye, appen ah do lass.” Says Wulluf gettin’ interested.

“Well, she lives in a cottage raand t’ back. Tha can’t miss it, it has ‘Granny’ in big letters on t’ gate aatside!”

“Does she taste nice – ah mean is she nice your Gran?” asks Wulluf.

“Oh aye!” says Little Red Riding Hood in a bit o' a trance. “She’s t’ best Granny in t’ whole chuffin world she is. She’s a reight foody, gets pissed as a vicar on Dandelion Gin an’ grows t’ best weed this side o’ Badgers Chuff Woods. Tis just a shame she’s gotten a tad deaf an’ blind lately.”

As if in agreement, in t’ distance a solitary bell tolled aat the hour at St Crotchet’s Church  - an’ suddenly Little Red Riding Hood snapped aat o’ ‘er euphoric reverie, like she’d jus’ sat on a cattle prod ooer summat.

“Kinnel, wot time is it Mr Wulluf?” she said. “Ah have ter be off like. Ah’m supposed ter be on a mission o’ mercy. Ah can’t spend mi time chattin’ ter folks ah dunt know wot ‘ave one eyebrow reight across theyer fissogs!” Then, even as t’ words cum trippin’ off ‘er tongue, she remembered Granny’s tales abaat monobrow lycanthropes fra wen she wer naughty. “Oh bugger!” she thowatt. An’ ran off in t’ direction o’ Granny’s cottage screamin’ f’ aal she wer worth.

Wot Little Red Riding Hood hadn't realised wer that t’ sound o' t’ bell 'ad tuk Wulluf by surprise an' broken 'is mental hold ova her, allowing her ter do a runner!

"Why does that keep 'appenin' ter me?" 'e thowatt. "It's bad enuf ah have ter shave 15 times a day an' can understand coyotes in western movies. Folks runnin' off screamin' an aal is just bad form!"

But 'e dunt chase her. Only wot ‘e does like, is ‘e transforms issen in ter a wolf an goes an’ runs dead quick a different way thru t’ woods ter Granny’s cottage  behind t’ chippy – an’ walks straight in as bold as brass, turning back to a person agayen as ‘e did.

Granny wer in ‘er bed, wearin ‘er winceyette nightie, ‘er thick bottle bottom glasses, an’ a sleeping bonnet that wer once an owd tea cosy.  She looked at t’ blurry image that wer Wulluf an’ said, “If tha’s cum fer t’ window cleaning money, ah’ve no chuffin change. Tha’ll ‘ave ter cum back next week. Nah bugger off an leave an owd lady in peace!”

But Wulluf looked at her an’ growled, “Shut tha gob an’ get int’ wardrobe afore ah bite tha head off!”

“Well that’s no way ter talk ter an owd lady!” says Granny. “Ah wer in t’ war, ah’ll ‘ave thee know!” She leaned forrad an’ squinted at ‘im thru ‘er bottle bottom glasses an’ declared, “Well ah’ll go t’ foot o’ our stairs - appen tha’s a chuffin werewolf!” And adding as an after thowatt, “ Don’t go bloody thinkin’ tha can bring up a hair ball on my carpet!”

“Ah used ter be a werewolf – but ah’m alreight nowoooooooo!” replied Wulluf before tying ‘er up, gagging ‘er, an chuckin’ ‘er in t’ wardrobe aat o' sight.

Then ‘e put on ‘er tea cosy bonnet, ‘er bottle bottom glasses, a spare winceyette nightie ‘e faand in a drawer, an’ climbed in ter Granny’s bed. Wi ‘t covers pulled up high ter hide ‘is real sen, ‘e waited fer Little Red Riding Hood ter arrive.  ‘is plan wer reight simple. ‘e wer gonna eat  ‘er! Then maybe Granny? Then leg off wi aal t’ weed.

‘e didn’t ‘ave long ter wait afore Little Red Riding Hood arrived!

“Ey up Granny!” says Little Red Riding Hood, burstin’ through t’ door a few minutes later. “Tha’ll nivver guess wot ‘appened ter me on t’ road ‘ere! Ah can barely believe it mi sen!”

“Ey up chuck!” say Wulluf in ‘is best Granny voice impression so Little Red Riding Hood dunt recognise ‘im. “Ast tha brought mi sum groceries?”

“Oh aye” she says startin’ ter unpack ter basket on ter Granny’s bed. “Well, ah met this bloke, see. An ‘e wer kind o’ strange lookin an....  an....” Little Red Riding Hood’s voice trailed off as she looked at ‘er Granny in that way kids do wen they think summat’s up.

“By eck Granny, tha’s got such big eyes ‘ant tha. Appen ah’ve nivver noticed that afore. Nor ‘ow they glow golden in t’ moonlight.”

“Aal t’ better t’ see thee with!” replied Wulluf as Granny.

So Little Red Riding Hood teks aat a bit mooare fruit, lays it on t’ bed an’ says, “Tha’s got chuffin hairy ears an’ aal Gran. Appen they need waxin’!”

"Aal t’ better t’ hear thee with mi dear!” says Granny.

“An ther’s summat different abaat tha teeth too. New dentures?”

“Aal t’ better f’ eatin’with!” replied Granny.

“An I think tha’s got a caterpillar on tha forehead behind tha glasses ooer tha’s grown a mono brow?” says Little Red Riding Hood with realisation dawning. “Which can mean only one thing... OMG! mi Granny’s a werewolf!”

“Ok, you’ve got me!” says Wulluf pulling back t’ covers, removing t’ bottle bottom glasses an’ t’ tea cosy bonnet, an’ leapin’ aat o’ bed.

“Oh it’s you, you!?” says Little Red Riding Hood in surprise. “Ah thowatt ah’d left thee back in t’ woods! Oh bollocks!”

“Yes tis me, agayen” says Wulluf. “An this is t’ bit wayer ah eat thee.” An wi that ‘e transforms issen back in ter a wolf an’ leaps at Little Red Riding Hood wi ‘is fangs bared.

Fortunately f’ Little Red Riding Hood, Wulluf ‘ad forgotten ter tek off Granny’s nightie afore transforming, so ‘e instantly got tangled up an’ jus’ crash landed agayen. This give ‘er t’ chance t’ tear-arse araand t’ other side o’ t’ bed.

Ah dunt know if tha’s ivver played ‘tig around t’ block’ afore, using an object like a car, or in fact a bed? Well, tis aal most impossible ter catch t’ other person until they tire aat. So f’ t’ next few minutes both Little Red Riding Hood an' Wulluf t’ werewolf,  ran raand an’ raand t’ bed like a kitten chasin’ it’s tale, screamin’ an’ shaatin’ an’ mekin’ such a din!

Nah unbeknown ter ‘em both, behind t’ back o’ Granny’s cottage, sum o’ t’ stable lads fra t’ Coach n’ Horses wer diggin aat a cess pit f’ Granny. Appen they’d swapped some manual labour f’ a few bags o’ weed an’ t chance t’ take Little Red Riding Hood aat ridin’ agayen. They’d finished diggin yon ‘ole an wer jus’ divertin’ Granny’s effluent aatflow in ter t’ pit, when they hears this almighty din fra inside Granny’s cottage.

“Ey up, that dunt saand reight” says one, an they aal leg it in ter Granny’s cottage ter be met by t’ sight o’a big wolf chasin’ Little Red Riding Hood raand an’ raand t’ bed. So quick as a flash like, one o’ em  gets ‘is chopper in ‘is ‘and -  an’ wi one clean swing, lops off t’ wolf’s head.

“Appen ‘e wer ‘avin’ a bad fur day!” ‘e said.

It wer claimed afterwards like, daan at t’ Coach an’ Horses, that t’ wolf wer that strong it ran araand t’ bed three mooare times wi no head afore dying. An that Little Red Riding Hood wer soo  grateful ter t’ stable lads f’ savin’ ‘er life, she went aat riding wi ‘em aal many mooare times atter that.

O’ course Granny wer quickly faand in t’ wardrobe only a little worse f’ were-wolf. But she quite rightly insisted they aal had a few medicinal glasses o’ Dandelion Gin an’ shared the odd spliff ooer three.   An ivverone agreed it seemed churlish ter argue wi a woman so worldly wise!

“Tell yer wot” says Granny, “Let’s drink ter t’ hair o’ t’ dog!” So they did.

Georgie Taramosalata & Dragon Curry - (T’ True Story O' St. George)

Ah reckon that nowadays, we aal accept that t’ name o’ St. George stands f’ courage, an’ chivalry – right? Well chivalry means behavin’ in accordance wi a code o’ honour wot wer invented by t’ knights o’ old – them soldiers o’ fortune fra myth an’ legend. Appen back then, they ‘ad ter swear ter be reight brave, fair, true ter theyer word, an ter protect t’ weak an’ pooar. O’ course, bein’ t’ politicians o’ theyer day like, many o’ these non-elected paragons o’ virtue spoke wi a forked tongue! Our hero George, wer’ no better. This is his true story…….

Once upon a time, ther’ wer’ a kid called Georgie Taramosalata, a skinny little runt oo addled in ‘is parent’s  Greek fast-food ‘Souvlaki’ shop, opposite t’ porno cinema in Leeds. A place frequented ivvery neight by  flashers, ladies o’ low voltage, aat o’ ‘ours drunks, vagabonds an’ t’ ‘omeless. (Especially once it’d got past chuckin’ aat time.) ‘ere ‘e med ‘Kalmaki Shishkebab’ (pieces o’ grilled meat on a stick) an’ ‘Gyros’ (an assortment o’ minced meat, tomatoes, onions, an’ tzatziki, wrapped in pita bread) f’ t’ night owls, misfits an’ inbreads.

It wer’ a strange sort o’ life really, mainly nocturnal, a tad smelly, wi reight long hours – but Georgie cud mek a gastronomic silk purse aat o’ a sow’s ear – an’ often did. Literally! Only on rare occasions did ‘e use real pork cuts in ‘is offerings – an’ even rarer, lamb – which p’rhaps explains t’ lack o’ vermin an’ strays in t’ area. Nonetheless, ‘e ‘ad t’ midas touch wen it cum t’ cookin’, an’ ‘ad developed an enviable reputation f’ servin up t’ best kebabs in t’ whole o’ West Yorkshire. No trip ter t’ flicks, stag night, hen party, ooer piss-up, wer’ ivver complete wi aat one o’ Georgie’s mouth numbingly-good conglomerations on t’ way ‘ome.

Georgie nivver ad a single complaint. Though ter be honest, oo cud complain? ‘alf o’ ‘is walking-dead patrons took five steps sideways ter ivvery one f’ward, an’ ‘ad spilled most o’ theyer supper by t’ time they’d crossed t’ Headrow - often resultin’ in yet mooare food bein’ purchased. Few ivver med it home wi’ aat up-chuckin’ on route. Ivvery night abaat 2am you‘d hear t’ choked shouts o’ Ralph an’ Huey echo daan t’ cobbles. Many wer simply so excessively under t’ affluence o’ incohol, they ‘ad no idea ‘ow much they’’d spent, wayer, wi whom ooer on wot? So short changing ‘em wer’ jus’ like takin’ candy fra a baby.

Yet despite t’ apparent good life, Georgie longed f’ an adventure! ‘is  fatther   Gerontios , ‘ad brung Georgie an’ ‘is mother  Polychronia, ova fra Greece wen ‘e retired fra t’ army;  an’ in an unconscious effort to forge a link back ter ‘is ‘ome-land, ‘ad beguiled little Georgie thru aat ‘is childhood, wi ‘is stories o’ mythical creatures, heroes an’ unruly Gods.

Sadly, Georgie lost ‘is fatther, an’ one o’ ‘is own ears in a ferretin’ incident aged jus’ 14 – an’ f’ years  after wore a pair o’ ‘is mothers stockings tied round ‘is ‘ead ter ‘old ‘is glasses in place. Later, after ‘is mother  ‘ad also passed on, ‘e  swapped these f’ a  tea cozy wi an extra loop added on one side.

Nah aalmost young man – Georgie needed summat mooare than kebabs! So one neight, in a drunken stupor, ‘e locked up ‘is parent’s Souvlaki shop, mounted ‘is Vincent Black Lightening motorbike, an’ weaved off daan t’ road ter be a soldier o’ fortune!

O’course this didn’t appen ova night like. Fust ‘e joined the TA. Then ‘e became t’ camp cook wi t’ regulars; an’ atter servin’ ‘is time, ‘e finally went solo as a security consultant in Saath Africa.

Abaat t’ same time as Georgie wer’ goin’ solo, in t’ north o’ t’ country, jus’ aat side t’ city o’ Cyrene, trouble wer’ a stirrin’. A bloody great big dragon, fed up wi jus’ livin’ in t’ fairytales, ‘ad decided ter inhabit t’ local lake – t’ only source o’ watter f’ t’ city. Wen ivver t’ locals wud go fer provisions, t’ dragon wud either eat them ooer breathe fire on ‘em, instantly turning ‘em into little piles o’ barbeque charcoal.

As t’ population decreased, t’ folks o’ Cyrene ‘ad no choice but ter cum ter terms wi yon dragon. They agreed ter gi ‘im one person ivvery month ter eat, so long as ‘e left t’ others alone an’ unharmed f’ t’ rest o’ t’ time.

At fust, t’ choice o’ victim wer’ easy, but as t’ prisons emptied, t’ crime rate plummeted an’ door ter door salesmen vanished in ter obscurity, t’ choice becum much ‘arder. So t’ king o’ Cyreen decreed that t’ names o’ ivvery citizen shud be scratched on ter pieces o’ pottery, an’ kept in a great eric. (Or was it an urn?) Onny road, each month, one o’ t’ names wud be drawn aat o’ t’ eric, an’ that pooar sod wud be fed ter t’ dragon. In this way blokes an’ lasses, rich ooer poor, wer’ chosen at random ter becum supper fer t’ evil beast!

Then one day, fate dealt t’ king another  cruel blow – f’ one day it wer’ t’ name o’ t’ princess wot wer’shaken aat o’ t’ eric. An according ter t’ king’s own law, ‘is daughter wer’ f’ t’ slaughter. So ‘e called t’ people together  an’ offered ‘em gold an’ treasure if only they wud agree ter spare ‘er  fra t’ dragon. T’ judges oo oversaw t’ lottery said that it must be completely fair like, ooer else t’ people wud no longer accept it. An’ so, much saddened, t’ King said ter t’ princess: “Mi dear, ah shall nivver see tha wedding day – so ivvery claad ‘as a silver linin’.”

Appen a week quickly past, an’ t’ day arrived wen she must meet ‘er fate. T’ palace servants dressed ‘er  in t’ wedding gaawn she’d previously picked aat ‘just in case’ she met Mr Right, an’ placed a craawn o’ flowers on ‘er bonse. They led ‘er aat o’ t’ city in a reight grand procession, an’ aat t’ lake wayer yon dragon waited aal expectantly like.

As luck wud ‘ave it, whilst they wer’ on theyer way, a dude on a Vincent Black Lightening motorbike cum  riding up ter t’ city – an admirin’ t’ parade, asked why such a beautiful lass wer’ lookin’ like a slapped arse on ‘er wedding day?

A local citizen replied: “Because according ter t’ law she must this day be nosh f’yon dragon wot lives in that lake! An’ ‘er  wedding gift shall be death.”

“Seems a bit harsh!” says Georgie, adding matter o’ factly, “Besides theyer’s no such things as dragons! Theyer nowt but mythical stories told by old folks t’ frighten naughty chillens ter theyer beds!”

“Well clearly tha’s not seen this un then!” said t’ princess sarcastically, as t’ crowd yelled in unison, “IT’S BEHIND YOU!”

“OH NO IT ISN’T!” replied Georgie, nonetheless turnin’ raand. This wer’ follud by t’ saand o’ ‘is jaw hittin’ t’ graand, an’ a whispered, “Fuuuuuck me!”

As Georgie stood in shock, t’ city folks tied t’ pooar princess ter a tree by t’ lake, an’ left ‘er theyer ter meet ‘er fate.

“Oh bugger!” Said Georgie. “Appen tis mi sworn duty ter save yon lass fra such evils as that theyer dragon. But ‘ow? Wot ivver am ah ter do?”

T’ few citizens wot ‘eard ‘is mutterings warned ‘im that ‘ed ave mooare chance strikin’ matches on wet tripe than fightin’ against such a ferocious, plague-ridden, fire-breathing lizard! But ‘avin lived in Leeds f’ mony years like, Georgie reckoned issen ‘ard, an’ ‘e wer’ determined mooare than ivver ter save t’ princess.

“Erm, excuse me Mr Dragon” said Georgie suddenly, “Can ah ‘ave a quick word wi thee?” An’ wi that ‘e marched straight up ter t’ dragon an’ started whisperin’ in its lug ‘ole.

Meanwhile, t’ princess, oo’d bin previously very experimental wi sum boy scouts, managed ter silp aat o’ ‘er  bonds wi ease, unnoticed by t’ craawd which wer’ holdin’ its collective breath watchin’ Georgie. But rather  than eat ‘im, t’ dragon simply looked bemused. Then as they watched, a broad smile crept raand its huge gob an’ its head started noddin’ up an’ daan like it wer a bulldog in an insurance advert.

Georgie retreated a tad, an’ called aat ter t’ princes ter take off t’ belt fra araand ‘er  waist an’ ter throw it to ‘im. This she did, an’ Georgie wrapped it gently araand t’ dragons neck like a collar. Immediately t’ dragon became as peaceful as a lamb. Georgie tied ‘is own belt t’ this an’ together wi t’ princess lead it peacefully into t’ city towards t’ palace.

Wen t’ people saw t’ princess an’ Georgie leadin’ t’ dragon back thru theyer walls, they became angry an’ afraid, but Georgie made ‘em a promise ‘e wud lead t’ dragon far fra theyer lands. T’  people knew that fra then on they cud live safe an’ unharmed.

Nah ah know wot tha’s thinking. Appen tha thowat Geogie killed t’ dragon like wot it says in aal t’ hysterical books? Nooo! ‘e wer’ much too devious f’ that!

Fer savin’ ‘is daughter an ‘is city, t’ king knighted Georgie, an’ give ‘im t’ hand o’ t’ princess in marriage. So she became Mrs Taramosalata, an’ t’ king reluctantly paid f’ t’ wedding. ‘e didn’t really ‘ave onny choice as Georgie wer’ blackmailing ‘im wi t’ release o’ t’ dragon agayen. So t’ king also give Georgie a large part o’ ‘is wealth an’ fortune, not t’ keep ‘is beloved daughter in t’ style ter which she wer’ accustomed, but ter piss off an’ not darken ‘is dooar agayen. This Georgie invested in a chain of Souvlaki shops and Curry restaurants across Leeds an’ Bradford, wi’ ‘is new business partner an’ old mucker t’ dragon. (They’d actually met sum years previous at a military special ops briefin’ an’ ‘ad worked out t’ con atter watchin’ t’ good, t’ bad an’ t’ ugly on sky one neight.)

Together  they wer’ responsible f’ inventing ‘Blue Dragon’ sauces an’ ‘Dragon Curry’ – which as aal Yorkshire men can testify is ‘otter than Vindaloo, Phaal or Tinderloo. In fact, tis t’ ‘ottest ring singe that’s ivver bin known ter man – an if tha breaks wind afterwards like, tha can set fire ter buses ooer strip wall paper in seconds. F’ that reason, it is served wi chilled bog roll in anticipation.

T’ king o’ Cyrene cud nivver bring issen t’ admit ‘ed bin ‘ad by a confident trickster, so t’ modern story o St. George an’ t’ dragon wer’ born. Ova monny years, George an’ t’ dragon repeated t’ con a number o’ times in different countries, which explains why ‘e is not only t’ patron saint o’ England, but also Canada, China, Greece, Russia, Portugal, Palestine, Ethiopia, Serbia, an’ Montenegro too. Appen there is even a country named atter him – an’ that’s Georgia, which is situated between Russia an’ Turkey.

So nah tha knows!

T’ Trouble Wi Marriage (Part 2 – The Female Viewpoint)

“T’ lads ‘ave buggered off daan t’ allotment agayen. Appen they’ll be up ter no good!” says Sally, Bumpy Awkright’s fiancée, ter Paula, me mate Joe Sykes’s missus.

“Good” replies Paula, “they’ll not be under us feet whilst we discuss tha pendin’ nuptials wi ter ladies fra t’ church committee. Appen they’ll be arrivin’ soon – in fact ah think ah can feel a chill in t’ atmosphere aalready!”

“Ah’ve  ‘eard they’re legendary in theyer dowerness! Is it true?”enquired Sally.

“Aye” says Paula, “t’ ladies church committee are aalmost biblical in theyer strictness. Ah’d rather one o’ t’ plagues o’ Egypt visit upon us than Mary, Mable an’ Big Ron’s wife Margaret. But appen they is reight influential in t’ community – an if tha can get theyer blessing fer tha weddin’, they can move maauntains f’ thee in nobbut a blink o’ an eye! Appen they’re not known as t’ Pickford Sisters f’ nowt!”

“Mary, Mable an’ Margaret” says Sally, “they saand like a trio o’ dredgin’ booats fra t’ Leeds Liverpool Canal.”

“Appen they bloody look like a trio o’ dredgin’ booats fra t’ Leeds Liverpool Canal an aal,” says Paula, “they is allus dressed in black fra head to toe.”

“Do they allus travel araand in separate taxis?” asked Sally pearin’ aat t’ window.

“Aye” says Paula, “tis f’ same reason members o’ t’ royal family travel in separate aircraft – so if one ‘as an accident like, ther’s allus sumone left ter carry on bein’ miserable!”

“They can’t be that bad, shuerly?” asked Sally.

“Put it this way” says Paula, “when they visited our ‘ouse afore Joe an’ me got hitched, strange things started ter happen. T’ water curdled in t’ goldfish bowl, t’ bantams stopped layin’ eggs, t’ pidgeons stopped comin’ ’ome – an’ so did me dad! But ah guess ivvery claad ‘as a silver lining.”

“Better be on us best behaviour then” says Sally, “appen they is gatherin’ aatside as us speak!”

A few minutes later, t’ three ladies oo lunch in t’ name o’ t’ Lord, had taken ownership o’ t’ settee an wer’ loookin foward ter suppin’ Yorkshire Tea fra Sally’s best china cups – wi a few ‘ome med canapés on t’ side.

“Should we say Grace fust?” asked Paula.

“Aye” says Mary standin’ up, wi her hands together, an’ eyes raised towards t’ ‘eavens.

“Oh Heavenly Father, ‘avin’ recently completed t’ last rights o’ aah dear sister Edna, oo, thru ‘er own carelessness, stepped aat fra  t’ number 32 bus ter Leeds, wi aat lookin’, only ter get run daan by an Eddie Stobart lorry - we nah sit daan together wi these two young lasses, in thy presence, at this table, groanin wi a repast that thy hast in thy magnificence provided. We thank thee Lord f’ t’ blessin’ o’ good  ‘ealth (recently deceased excepted), f’ t’ individual trifles an t’ fine chopped piccalilli, an’ we pray that in thy infinite wisdom an’ mercy, t’ pork pies will be fresher ‘an  they wer at cousin Winnie’s funeral last Whitsuntide. Amen!”

“Amen!”

“So young lady” says Mary turnin’ ter Sally, “tha must be that spotty oik Bumpy Awkright’s fiancée then?”

This wer not t’ opening comment Sally ‘ad bin expecting fra such a supposedly virtuous citizen!

“Yes maam” says Sally.

“Well ah ‘ope tha ‘asn’t got a big bust under that frock young lady!” says Mary.

“Ah beg tha ardon?” says Sally, a tad tekken aback f’ a second time.

“Ah can’t abide young women wi big busts! Big busts allus addle lads minds!” says Mary.

“In my day, young women dint ‘ave big busts!” agreed Mable, nodding continuously.

“Really?” says Sally, “What did they ‘ave then?”

“Modesty” says Margaret. “Appen they waited until they wer married ‘till they ‘ad big busts!”

“Well tha dunt ‘ave ter worry abaat a big bust wi aah Sally” interjected Paula. “An appen Bumpy’s got that well in hand onnyroad!”

A silent look o’ disgust rippled up an daan t’ settee like oil in a wave machine!

“Does ‘e treat thee reight?” says Mary.

“Oh yes!” says Sally. “In fact e’s quite t’ gentleman! ‘e opens t’ door  f’ me, ‘e takes me coat an’ ‘angs it up f’ me, an’ ‘e allus pulls aat a chair f’ me in restaurants. Ah reckon ah’ve landed a good un theyer!”

“The dirty bastard!” say t’ three women in chorus.

“Wot? Wots tha mean dirty bastard?” asks Sally, (nah genuinely in shock).

“That’s aal put on!” says Mary.

“ ‘e jus’ wants ter play hide t’ sausage” says Margaret.

“Nooo! Not aal men are sex maniacs tha kno’s – especially Bumpy Awkright.” says Paula. “Jus’ gi Sally ‘er chance ter speak! Wot is t’ Bible says? Oh aye – ‘let she oo ‘as not sinned, cast t’ fust stone’.”

“Oh, very well” says Mary.

“Ah can’t wait ter get married” says Sally tryin’ ter move t’ conversation along like. “I can’t sleep f’ thinkin’ abaat it. Hour atter hour, tossin’ an’ turnin’. Ah can see ‘im walkin’ daan t’ isle wi me on ‘is arm, in ‘is best starched white shirt, an’ Conny Watkinson lookin’ on livid coz ‘e chose me ova ‘er!”

“Aww, that’s nice!” says Mable.

“Atter t’ church, ah’m  plannin’ a pucker sit daan reception wi triangular Salmon Sandwiches, Parkin, Yorkshire Brack, an’ enuf room f’ tha elbows! An atter that, a full scale honeymoon, wi clean pajamas an no holds barred -  wayer we can jus’ be us sens an get crackin’.”

“Get crackin?” says Mary almost spillin’ ‘er tea on t’ cat. “Wot a way ter describe it. T’ world’s greatest love poets ‘ave worked theyer fingers ter t’ bone, tryin’ not ter be so direct an’offend t’ ears o’ t’ Lord - an’ wot does tha cum aat wi? Get crackin! By ecker like, tha’s only bin engaged a shuart while an’ tha’s not got a scrap o’ romance left in thee aalready.”

“Oh sorry, ah didn’t mean nothin’ by it” says Sally lookin’ at t’ floor f’ inspiration. “Appen ah jus’ meant ah’m keen ter start a family like!”

“Ahh, so tha likes children then?” says Mary. “At least that’s summat!”

“Ah wer a child once” says Mable, “tho ah weren’t onny gud at it! In one single year ah had mumps, measles, whooping cough, scarlet fever, suspected chicken pocks an’ three broken limbs. Appen ah wer’ lucky ter survive!”

“T’ good Lord does indeed work in mysterious ways!” says Mary.

“Oh yes!” says Sally. “Ah want three bairns. One o’ each kind, like. Appen they bring summat reight special in ter a home: laughter, tears, love, bonding an’ family values!”

“ An’ noise, carpet stains, a variety of odours!” added Margaret quietly.

 “An’ tha’s  planning a honeymoon?” says Mary, a little haughtily like. “In my day tha wer lucky t’ get a honeymoon!”

“Yes, appen ah wer thinkin’ abaat Spain!” says Sally.

“Spain, Spain?” say Mary getting aal agitated agayen. “I wudn’t recommend Spain! Tis far too ‘ot is Spain!”

“Heat inflames t’ passions an’ rouses t’ desires!” says Mable, doing t’ nodding thing agayen.

 “Tha shud go sum wayer reight cowd” says Margaret adding ‘er ten pennies-worth. “Big Ron an me scrimped an’ saved for years ter affoard a week in Scarborough in mid January. Ah didn’t tek me mittens off until t’ last neight!’ An that wer only t’ mend a puncture in Big Ron’s sidecar.”

“Ee, just t’ thowatt o’ Scarborough in mid January meks me feel reight parky” says Mable. “Ast tha got onny Sherry ter warem a pooar Christian soul oo’s feelin’ a tad nesh?”

“Ere, ah already ‘ad it ready an’ waitin’ f’ thee!” says Paula magically materialisin’ next ter ‘er wi a decanter an’ three very large, very full, Sherry glasses!”

“Ah’ve  often wunded wot it’ll be like on t’ fust neight o’ us honey moon?” says Sally (ignoring t’ three paragons of virtue oo wer neckin’ theyer glasses faster than a whistler oo’d bin eatin’ crackers in t’ desert). “Ah’ve got it aal planned aat! They’ll be mandolins playin’ in t’ soft Spanish moonlight. We won’t be eatin’ no garlic, coz we’ll choose a hotel wot does real food wi thumb sized chips an’ a choice o’ veg’. We’ll eat on t’ veranda o’ us hotel room underneath t’ twinklin’ stars, ova lookin’ us private swimmin’ pool, whilst suppin’ real champagne wi real bubbles. An then later, wen we’ve drunk us horlics an’ taken us iron tablets, ah’ll nip int’ bathroom an slip in ter me wet look negligee, then climb int’ bed an’ watch ‘im get undressed, mekin shuer ‘e turns ‘is back on me at t’ last second – so ah don’t see ‘is surprise!”

“A surprise? Well ah’ve ‘eard it called sum things - but ‘appen that caps t’ lot!” says Margaret, her words already sounding mooar than a tad slurred!

“So ‘e’s a bit of a show off like?” asks Mary.

“Oo Bumpy?” says Sally shocked. “No ‘e’s really quite innocent. In fact, appen we’re both virgins!”

“Well ah’ll go ter t’ foot o’ our stairs!” says Mary.

 “Kinell! Two virgins in Topcliffe!?? Oo’d a believed it?” says Margaret, now on her third glass o’ sherry.

“Men prefer to marry virgins” says Mable matter o’ factly, “tis coz they can’t stand criticism!

“Dust tha think me ‘an Bumpy are a couple o’ funny-ossities then?” asks Sally

“Ow dust tha mean, lass?”says Mary, whilst givin’ Margaret t’ evil eye f’ usin’ bad language.

 “Plannin’ on goin’ ter us nuptial bed wi aat ‘avin’ tried ter goods fust?”says Sally.

“Ah reckon t’ Lord ‘ll be reight praad o’ thee f’ waitin’ lass!” says Mable.

“Well if tha wants my opinion, tha dun’t buy a car wi aat ‘avin’ a trial run fust like! “says Margaret. “Wud be a bit o’ a bugger if t’ piston wudn’t fire ooer t’ ball joints fell off at t’ fust try! Reckon it’d be a long night on t’ hard shoulder if that ‘appened!”

“Ah jus’ wanna be loved” says Sally, exasperated. “An appreciated. An’ tekken aat a bit! Is that too much ter ask fooar?”

“Ah once ‘ad a sheep dog like that!” says Margaret. “It wer easier ter train than me ‘usband . Took me years ter get Big Ron ter bring me mi chuffin slippers!”

“Conjugal bliss ‘as a lot ter answer fer in t’ history o’ t’ worlds misery!” says Mary, stoically. “Tis a vastly over rated past time. All that grunting an’ groanin’!”

“But it’s damned good exercise!” says Margaret. “Baat a thousand calories a ...”

“That’s enuf o’ that!” says Mary. “Ah’ve ‘eard it said, that ivvery time tha ‘as a kiss, tha teks abaat a second off tha life expectancy! An if tha’s daft enuf ter enjoy sex, that’s a whole four minutes daan t’ swanny!”

“Well on them grounds appen tha’ll be bloody immortal!” says Margaret.

 “Ist tha plannin’ ter ‘ave children straight away like , ooer will tha be usin’ them modern condominium thingies?” asked Mary , oo’d bin tryin’ ter keep up wi Margaret in t’ swilling Sherry stakes.

“Condoms Mable” says Margaret. “Theyer called condoms!”

“Well... although ‘e’s still a virgin” says Sally, “Bumpy says ‘e’s against ‘em on principle!”

“Oh really?” says Mary wi ‘er nose up in t’ air like she’d caught a bad smell.

 “Ay, ‘e reckons it wud be like ‘avin’ a bath wi ‘is socks on!” replied Sally afore breaking into fits o’ giggles.

“Wot ivver’s got in ter thee nah lass?” snapped Mary, irritably.

“Ah wer’ just picturin’ ‘im wearin’ a condom” says Sally.  “It’d be like a little bank robber.”

 “Gi’ me t’ money or ah’ll shoot!” quipped Margaret.

“Ah can see t’ posters nah” says Mable allowing the alcohol to sweep her along wi t’ spirit o’ t’ conversation. “Wanted, Cyclops! Small but deadly, hardened criminal!”

“O’ course tha does realise, dunt tha lass” says Margaret,” if tha goes commando, t’ chances o’ becomin’ stagnant substantially increases!”

“T’ word is pregnant Margaret, not stagnant!” says Mary beginning to get rattled.

“Speak f’ tha sen!” says Margaret.

“Wot’s it like ‘avin’ kids?” asks Sally.

“Ah  remember bein’ pregnant wi me fust un” says Margaret. “Sick ivvery mornin’ fer months. Huge tummy, swollen feet, an achin’ back, an’ wen ah wer ready ter welp, ah wer in labour so long they ‘ad ter shave me twice.”

“Wot did tha’ ‘ope it’d be?” says Sally.

“ Big Ron’s” says Margaret.

 “Appen tha ‘ad it easy!” says Paula. “Our Eric wer’ 25 lbs, ‘e wer. Too big fer me ter deliver by me sen. T’ doctors cudn’t even get ‘im aat wi’ forceps. At one point ah thowatt they wer goin’ f’ a tow truck an’ a rope. By t’ end, me wotsit wer as wide as t’ arrivals gate at Leeds Bradford Airport! 125 stitches ah had. Appen ah cud walk daan both sides o’ market street at t’ same time!”

“Ladies, ladies” says Mary. “Tha’s gonna terrify t’ pooar lass into abstinence afore she’s even lost ‘er virginity!”

“Taking care o’ a newborn” says Margaret ignoring Mary, “means devotin’ tha sen, body an’ soul, 24 aahs a day, seven days a week, ter t’ welfare o’ summat wot’s only response, in t’ way o’ positive reinforcement, is ter honk aal ova thee on a regular basis!”

 “She’s not wrong tha knows” says Mable wistfully. “Appen tha dunt know wot love is ’til tha becum a parent an’ ‘ave ter fish a turd aat o’ t’ bathtub.”

This wer follud by a few moments silence .

“Tha dun’t need kids ter find ‘appiness” says Mary. “T’ word o’ t’ Lord is aal t’ sustenance one needs!”

“Bollocks!” says Margaret. “True ‘appiness is wen tha marries a bloke f’ love, an’ then finds aat later ‘e’s chuffin’ loaded!”