T’ Trouble Wi Marriage (Part 1 – The Male Viewpoint)

T’other day ah were stood at mi bedroom window, gazin aat across t’ allotments, wen ah noticed a moth bitten Union Jack bein’ raised on a makeshift flag pole attached ter one o’ t’ sheds.  ‘Ey up’ ah says ter me sen, “appen summat’s afoot!”

F’ nigh on twenty years, me an’ mi best mate Big Ron had co-owned t’ biggest garden shed on t’ allotment , an’ thru aat that time, unbeknown ter us families, there weren’t a single piece o’ gardenin’ equipment in it. Instead it wer’ used as a meetin’ place f’ Big Ron an’ me – an’ occasionally sum o’ us other mates like Joe Sykes an’ Bumpy Awkright – as a sooart o’ an unofficial  club ’ouse, fer chattin’ an’ puttin’ t’ world ter rights, far way fra t’ pryin’ ears o’ them indoors.

Inside, we’d med it reight cozy like. It contained four comfy chairs, a table, a dart board, a power supply, a rusty electric two bar heater, a kettle, a mixed selection o’ mugs diverted fra t’ scout jumble sale, an owd fridge,  tea an’ coffee facilities, 10 bottles o’ Old Peculiar, plus us own still fer mekin hooch. T’ flag pole an’ Union Jack ‘ad been added a few years back as a way o’ secretly signalling each other that we wer on-site. We’d nicked t’ idea fra ‘er Majesty t’ Queen – but unlike like t’ flag flyin’ ova Buckingham Palace, wen our flag flew at ‘alf mast ova t’ shed, it didn’t signal a deeth in t’ family, it simply meant sum form o’ serious discussion wer needed!

On this occasion t’ flag wer clearly flappin’ abaat at ‘alf mast, so ah grabbed me coit an scarfe an’ headed aat.

Ten minutes later, ah wer steppin’ thru t’ shed door an’ faand me sen slightly taken aback ter find not one, not two, but three o’ me muckers already in residence, an’ t’ kettle whistling away like buggery indicatin’ a fresh brew wer abaat ter be poured. Clearly, Bumpy, Joe & Big Ron wer jus abaat ter sit daan fer a caansil o’ war.  “Ey up youths” ah says.

“Dust tha think we’ll be safe ‘ere?” says Bumpy wi a cursory ‘ey up’ nod in my direction.

“O’course we will” says Big Ron, doin’ t’ same. “Appen this place is damn near impregnable. Yon lasses will still be yammerin’ wen t’ pubs oppen. They’ll not even notice tha’s missin’!”

“Onny road, we can allus mek a tactical retreat t’ Angel” added Joe.

“Wots tha t’ do?” ah asks.

“Bumpy reckons ‘e’s not cut aat ter be t’ marrin’ sooart!” says big Ron. “Appen ‘e’s ‘avin’ t’ jitters.”

“Marriage is not a word, it’s a chuffin sentence” says Bumpy immediately gettin’ animated. “Ah’d be signing me whole life away? Why does she wanna get married? An’ why nah?  Ah mean, if ah sign up ter play fer Leeds Rhinos, ah wudn’t promise ter stay wi’ em fer t’ rest o’ mi life, in sickness an’ in health, in promotion an’ relegation, wud ah? No ah bloody wudn’t!”

“Tha cud allus do a bunk? You know, run away like” says Joe unhelpfully.

“Ah aalmost did a bunk once” says Big Ron, “abaat eight years atter ah married mi Margaret.”

“Oh aye. Oo with” says Joe.

“Ah don’t right recall ‘er name nah” replied Big Ron. “Though ah do remember she ‘ad large cold feet like mortuary slabs an’ a rather bulbous nose on ‘er.”

“Wot? Not Olive Ferdinand – t’ butcher’s daughter?” ah asked.

“Aye, Olive Ferdinand! Thats wer ‘er.” says Big Ron. “She wer’ t’ ugliest woman in t’ cul-de-sac.”

“Too bloody right”, ah says. “She ‘d a fissog on ‘er like a bull dog chewin’ a wasp! Appen she giv’ anuther meanin’ ter ‘fitter than a butcher’s dog! ”

“Aye, she allus did look like a well smacked arse!” says Ron. “Ah used ter say ter ‘er, after we’d ‘ad relations like: ‘By gum Olive, appen they ought ter mek thee tek aat a license ter keep a face like yorn.”

“You ‘ad relations wi’ Olive Ferdinand? F’ t’ luv o’ God why?” ah says.

“Ter see wot it wer’ like wi a very ugly woman!” says Big Ron.

“An’ ‘ow was it?” interjected Bumpy who’d been paying particularly close attention.

“Same as wi a very pretty woman”, says Ron. “Slightly better than whippet racin’ but not as good as bowls!”

“Appen ah’ll nivver get t’ image o’ thee an’ Oliver Ferdinand aat o’ me heed nah”, ah says.

“Yes tha will lad” says Big Ron, “memory is like a pint o’ southern beer, allus flat an’ murky an’ it dun’t last forever – thank God!”

“If only marriage wer’ t’ same”, ah says. “25 bloody years ah’ve done. Now she wants ter give me t’ ultimate punishment – a second honeymoon. Ah says ‘why? Ah dint think much o’ t’ fust bloody one!’”

“Some women are terribly hard to please” says Bumpy wistfully.

“An t’ rest are impossible” added Joe.

“Appen she wants me to renew our vows” ah says.  “Ah told her, ah’m not chuffin mekkin t’ same mistake twice!”

“T’ trouble wi thee youngsters  ter day” says Big Ron pointin’ a gnarly thumb at Bumpy an’ Joe, “tha gets carried away wi ter glamour o’ marriage. Nights in t’ boudoir, see-thru negligees, ows yer fatther afore t’ pubs oppen on Sundays. But tha forgets one fundamental fact abaat it....”

“Wots that then”, says Joe?

“...it involves sleepin’ wi a woman” says Big Ron.

“No?” ah says with only t’ merest hint o’ sarcasm in mi voice.

“Wot Bumpy  dunt realise yet is that as soon as tha falls asleep wi a woman atter marriage, she automatically doubles ‘er body weight! Tha can bank on it as shooer as eggs is eggs. No sooner ‘an  she shuts ‘er eyes an’ starts snorin’ on t’ honeymoon neight, she’ll keel ova on top o’ ‘im an’ jus’ like that it’ll be like sleepin’ under a sack o’ spanners.”

“Big Ron’s right tha knows”, ah says. “Me wife cum ‘ome one day an’ says, "Look honey, ah’ve lost 15 paands.” Ah said, “If tha looks behind thee, tha'll find it.”

“Actually lads” says Bumpy, “tis t’ sleepin’ wi a woman bit ah’m worried abaat mooare than t’ actual marriage. Ah’ve nivver done it afore like.”

“Wot???” says Big Ron an’ me in unison.

“Appen ah nivver ‘ad thee daan as batin’ f’ t’ other side like!” says Joe.

“Wot? No. Ah’m not chuffin gay!” says Bumpy gettin’ agitated agayen. “Ah’m a virgin!”

A moments silence followed this ‘ere revelation, as eyes moved araand t’ shed faster than a game o’ pass t’ parcel in an Israeli bar.

“Ow old ist tha?” says Joe very slowly, wanting ter re-check ‘is facts whilst givin’ issen time ter assimilate onny new information.

“Forty two!” says Bumpy.

“Kinell” says Big Ron.

“Well ah’ll go ter t’ foot o’ our stairs!” says me. “A virgin in Topcliffe!??”

“An tha’s nivver done owt wi yorn lass”, asks Big Ron?

“Beyond t’ odd fumble – no!” mumbled Bumpy. “Says she wer savin’ ‘erself f’ us weddin’ night! To be totally honest, if it weren’t  f’ t’ local pick pockets ah’d ‘ave ‘ad no sex life at aal. Ah allus keeps a few coins in me pockets nah like, just in case!”

“Too much information!” says Joe.

“Well that wer a shirt-flap ripper an’ no mistake!” says Big Ron.

“A wot?” says Bumpy.

“T’ equivalent o’ one o’ them big unexpected farts that stuns a room in ter silence!” replied Ron.

“Well it certainly did that aalright!” ah says.

“Not aal men are fools!” commented Joe. “Appen there are still some bachelors left. And bachelors know mooare abaat women than us married men! An t’ proof o’ that is that they’re still not married.”

“Wot’s sex like?”says Bumpy ignoring him.

“Well” says Big Ron, “mi wife says mi lovemaking is like a news bulletin. Brief, unexpected an’ usually a disaster!”

“It’s been that chuffin’ long since ah had nookie”, ah says, “reckon ah’ve forgotten oo ties oo up!”

“Dust tha remember tha fust time?” says Bumpy. “People say tha nivver forgets tha fust time?”

“O' course ah do”, ah says. “Ah wer' daanstairs. Me mother an' fatther wer' sitting across fra me. Ah give our lass a nudge an' says ter her reight quiet like, that ah wer' feelin' mooare than a tad amorous an ah dint wanna wait onny  longer ter do it. Well as luck wud 'ave it, appen she wer feelin' t' same! So we sneaked up stairs – an’ boy did we go at it. Ivvery position we cud think o’ like. Huffin an' a puffin, like two elephants on a trampoline. When we'd finished we cum back down an' t' whole bus just clapped!”

“I remember mine” says Joe. “Ah took ’er  t’ pictures first, then ‘ome f’ a quiet drink. Ah'd left t’ electric blanket on so t’ bed wer nice an’ cozy. Ah remember lying theyer ‘avin’ a cigarette. Ah wer in ‘eaven. Good job mi fiance didn’t know – she’d o’ ‘ad me goolies f’ earrings!”

“You wer’ unfaithful then?” says Bumpy incredulously.

“T’ reason men lie is coz women ask too monny questions an’ get us aal confused” says Joe. “Ter be honest, mi fust engagement turned out to be a rest period between romances. Then ah met Paula an’ settled daan.”

“At mi age, ah've begun ter regret t’ sins ah didn’t commit”, says Big Ron ruefully.

 “But marriage definitely changes passion”, continued Joe. “Suddenly it’s like tha’s in bed wi a relative! F’ example, ah recently says ter Paula that ah thowatt it might be good f’ us ter ‘ave a bit mooare variety in us sex life. She told me ter use mi other hand.”

“Appen ‘e’s reight tha knows” says Big Ron. “Margaret nah not only fakes orgasms, she fakes cooking an’ ‘ousekeeping too.”

“Ah thowatt that women wer’ t’ kind o’ problem ah wudn't mind wrestling with” says Bumpy, “ but nah ah’m as confused as a baby in a topless bar!”

“Look ‘ere” says ah ter Bumpy. “Marriage is a relationship in which one person is allus reight an’ t’ other is a husband! It’s t’ process o’ findin’ aat wot kind o’ man tha wife really wanted, an’ then failin’ ter live up ter ‘im. Tha’s got abaat as much chance o’ gettin’ it reight as strikin’ matches on tripe.  An let’s not forget, only a married person can get divorced. Ah reckon tha shud find thissen a woman o’low voltage instead!"

"An buy 'er a house!" added Joe. It's much cheeper in t’ long run.”

“Alternatively, tha cud allus marry t’ lass an give ‘er a vibrator as a weddin’ present” say Big Ron.
“A wot?” says Bumpy.

“A vibrator” repeated Big Ron. “Don't pretend ter look so shocked lad. Tis wot young lasses use nowadays. No need fra us blokes like! Appen ah might jus’get one f’ mi Margaret! Ah'm told theyer mooare reliable. Maybe ah cud even retire fra t’ whole process altogether like?”

“Tha'd  'ave ter find one that takes diesel then!” says Joe.

“Ah reckon tha shud think abaat joining  Bachelors Anonymous afore thee meks onny serious decisions abaat sex ooer gettin’ married?” says ah.

“An’ wot’s that then?” asks Bumpy.

“Ivvery time tha feels like ‘avin nookie ooer gettin’ married, they send raand a 30 stone puddin’ in curlers ter continuously nag t’ crap aat o’ thee!”

“That’d  work!” says Ron an’ Joe together.

T’ Real Story O’ Frank N Stein

Back in t’ 18th century, wen men wer men an’ women wer reight grateful, there wer this one exception by t’ name o’ Robert Walton, oo bein’ a sailin’ ship captain, wer abaat as camp as a row o’ pink tents. At t’ time o’ this ‘ere  tale,’e wer attemptin’ ter sail ter t’ North Pole...

Nah bein’ dyslexic as well as gay, ‘e wer abaat as gradely at navigation as an epileptic is on skates - so appen it wer aalmost inevitable that t’ muppet gets ‘is ship stuck in pack-ice ‘undreds o’ miles fra onny land. O’ course aal ‘is men ‘ad tried theyer very best ter get t’ ship free like, but it wer frozzen as tight as a fleas arse’ole. So aal they cud do wer hunker daan an’ wait f’ t’ spring thaw!

Wi’ bugger aal else ter do ‘till then like, Captain Walton decides ter write ter ’is sister back in blighty, hopin’ ‘is letters wud aat last ‘im if ‘e nivver med it off t’ ice. Appen tis coz o’ ‘is scribblings that this story can nah be told.

Most o’ wot ‘e wrote cud ‘ave bored t’ balls of a buffalo, but t’ gist o’ it wer that ‘e wer desperate f’ a male friend ter keep ‘im warem at neight - t’ current ship’s crew bein’ beneath ‘is lofty standards an’ well past their sell by dates. Appen wi such rope-worn rough ‘ands, they wer a bit too butch f’ ‘im anaal.

Then one blizzard struck atternoon, Captain Walton’s despair wer interrupted by t’ inexplicable sight o’ a man, aat on t’ ice, riding a dog-sled! Needin’ a natural comfort break like, t’ stranger steers f’ t’ ship, an’ soon is on board, cadgin’ a Jaffa Cake an’ a cup o’ Yorkshire Tea ter warm ‘is frozzen assets. Walton wer reight ecstatic like – believin’ ‘is silent prayer f’ a new chum ‘ad cum true.

Several days wi aat rest travellin’ by dog sled, ‘ad left t’ man terribly frost-bitten; an’ having jus’ left half his arse stuck t’ sled, it took an additional 2 bottles o’ t’ captain’s finest rum an’ a rub daan wi warmed whale blubber ter thaw t’ pooar bugger aat enuf  f’ ‘im ter tell ‘is story. Unsurprisingly, Captain Walton took t’ latter duty upon issen.

T’ stranger’s name wer: Frank N Stein. A reight nob fra Geneva. Comin’ fra a long line o’ bankers (wot allegedly started wi t’ bloke oo nicked Judas’s 30 pieces o’ silver) Frank wer born into a life o’ immense privilege. ‘e nivver ‘ad ter scrimp an’ save f’ owt. Ivverything in ‘is early life wer handed ter ‘im on a plate. Appen ‘is parents even went s’ far as ter adopt a young lass named Elizabeth - so ‘e ‘ad sum one ter marry wen ‘e wer older – a rare an’ precious gift indeed! She wer a reight gud sooart an’ a proper bobby dazzler too! So reight fra t’ off, ‘is life seemed aal laid aat an’ assured!

As ‘e got a bit older, off ‘e goes ter college ter study philosophy, chemistry, alchemy an’ aal t’ other sciences. Theyer, ‘e not only excelled but quickly surpassed t’ knowledge an’ skills o’ ‘is tutors an’ professors! So much so that ‘e wer given t’ nickname o’ Frank Einstein.

‘e particularly liked biology an cuttin’ up cadavers, an’ puttin’ em back together agayen - an extention o’ an old childhood habit wot started wi ‘action-men’ dolls an’ moved on ter mooare complicated things such as ‘is grandad’s old time-piece or frogs fra pond. Sum times ‘e’d even swap parts araand jus’ f’ t’ fun o ‘it. An ter keep issen amused whilst workin’, ‘e’d sing a little ditty whilst practisin’ t’ various knots an’ stitchin’s. “Tha puts t’ right arm ‘ere, t’ left arm theyer....”. Atter abaat two years ‘e’d even figured aat ‘ow ter bring a body med up o’ pieces o’ different human corpses, back ter life! In shooart, e wer a reight gifted smart-arse wi t’ whole world at ‘is finger tips. 

Abaat this same time, young Frank wer experimenting wi ‘is own sexuality, an’ hadn’t yet decided which side ter bat fooar. ‘e’d enjoyed playin’ “Doctors an’ Nurses” wi Elizabeth, an’ fettling her on a number o’ occasions too – so ‘ad given serious thowatt ter becomin’ a gynecologist - but sum wayer in t’ back o’ ‘is noggin, a nagging voice told ‘im ‘e wer missin’ aat on summat. So one fateful night, atter far too monny flagons o’ Absinth, ‘e decided ter mek issen a man!

Accordin’ t’ narrative told in ‘is later letters, appen at this point Robert Walton fell off ‘is captains stool wi excitement, tho t’ bulge in ‘is moleskins nearly didn’t.

Not satisfied wi mekin’ jus’ onny man, Frank N Stein wanted ter mek a man’s man. A big bugger! T’ kind wot jus’ dared thee t’ kick sand in ‘is face. So ‘e set aat ter create an adonis o’ gigantic stature, abaat eight feet in height, 3 shovel handles across t’ shoulders an’ proportionately large ivvery wayer else anaal. Appen atter havin’ formed this determination, ‘e spent chuffin’ months securing an’ preparing aal t’ materials an’ body parts required. Neight atter neight, ‘e addled until t’ wee ‘ours, missin’ aat on meals an’ slowly mekin’ ‘imsen ill in t’ process. So ironically, as ‘is masterpiece took shape like, ‘is own neglected body decayed! But atter monny months o’ toil, one dark an’ stormy neight (ter be precise it wer November t’ 4th  - Mischief Night) Frank N Stein wer ready! 

‘e stood theyer nervously laikin’ pocket billiards an’ waited f’ lightening ter strike t’ yowge weather vane ‘e’d errected on t’ roof -  an f’ electricity ter stream daan thru a set o’ industrial jump leads in ter ‘is creation, via bolts inserted on either side o’ its neck. ‘e knew t’ hewmunguss power o’ jus’ one lightnin’ strike, wud be enuf ter give life ter ‘is dream man!

So ‘e waited. An ‘e waited. An ‘e waited sum mooare. Then ‘e waited aal ova agayen. Aal araand ‘im t’ storm raged wi aat striking t’ weather vane once. ‘e wer gettin’ reight niggley an wer jus’ abaat ter sod off wen BOOOOOM it appened! ‘is hair stood on end as blue sparks an’ smoke filled t’ room, along wi t’ smell o’ roasted cat. Pooar Lucky, ‘is faithful moggy ‘ad silently padded in ter ‘is laboratory jus’ at t’ wrong moment!

Frank N Stein stood theyer wi bated breath, ‘is gob oppenin’ an’ closin’ like a fish aat o watter, waitin’ f’ t’ smoke ter clear. As it thinned, ‘e suddenly saw t’ dull yellow eye o’ ’is creation flicker oppen. It breathed hard, an’ a convulsive motion agitated its limbs. It turned its head slowly towards ‘im, an’ in a creaky voice so low it cud rattle aat fillings - it said,“Daddy”.

By now tears wer freely flowing daan Frank N Stein’s face as ‘e recounted ‘is  story ter Captain Walton, oo assumed wrongly, that they wer tears o’ joy. But appen they weren’t. No! In ‘is eagerness ter mek ‘is perfect bloke like, Frank N Stein ‘ad forgotten t’ mushroom principle. i.e. No matter wot size o’ mushroom tha chucks in t’ pan, once tha’s applied heat an’ oils, it allus cums aat a fraction o’ t’ size. And theyer on t’ laboratory table, ‘is creation wer nah a chuffin midget!

Words cannot describe pooar Frank’s emotions at this ‘ere catastrophe, ooer delineate t’ wretch whom wi such infinite pains an’ care ‘e ‘ad endeavoured ter form? F’ this creature’s limbs wer not long an’ athletic as designed – but wer short an’ stubby. It’s skin, far from milky white, wer yellow an’ transparent, scarcely coverin’ t’ knots o’ muscles an’ arteries beneath. It’s hair, wer not a lustrous raven-black but a sort o’ dog-shite braan flowing daan it’s back. It’s teeth wer not sparkling white marble tablets but lay grey an’ rotten like broken grave stones, barely hidden behind thin lips wot wer as black as t’ very coals o’ hell. Clearly young Franky ‘ad well an’ truly dropped a bollock!

Then Frank N Stein noticed t’ creature wer speakin’ agayen.

“If thou ith my Daddy! I am thy thon! Ah can thee what ah am made up o’ different body partth. Gradely, that meanth tha can replace bitth o me if ah wear aat. Tha crothth thitchin’ ithn’t that bad either, ah’ve theen much worthe! Part o’ me wer an undertaker afore like, an’ anuther part a profeththional theamthrethth!”

Struck wi t’ awful realisation that instead o’ mekin imsen a reight ‘andsome Adonis like plaything, ‘e’d actually created a hideous little short-arse wi a lisp, Frank N Stein’s body relinquished t’ last ounce o’ its inner strength whilst ‘is mind immediately capitulated an’ give up its slim grip on reality. Smack in t’ middle o’ sayin’, “Tha’s no chuffin son o’ mine!”,‘e fainted, hitting t’ deck as gracefully as a freshly laid cowpat; in t’ process knockin’ ‘issen in ter a fever-sum coma wot lasted monny weeks.

Lucky f’ ‘im, ‘is college class mate, ‘Henry’, enters  t’ story, an’ nurses ‘im back ter health. ‘ow ivver, o’ ‘is creation, ther’ is’ no sign. In fact, ivvery time Frank tries ter mentioned t’ creature ooer tell ‘is story, Henry wud say, “Hush nah, tis jus’ tha fever talkin’ agayen. Tha cud nivver stoop so low!” So in t’ end like, Frank jus’ stopped tryin’ t’ talk abaat it an’ simply waited f’ t’ shit to ‘it t’ fan. ‘e didn’t ‘ave ter wait long!

Soon atter, Frank’s younger brother William, is brutally murdered – an’ t’ family servant, Justine, sum ‘ow gets t’ blame. Frank kno s in ‘is ‘eart that it wer ‘is creation wot did it really - but fearin’ that nobody wi a full shillin’ wud believe t’ line "me dwarf did it", ‘e says nowt, even wen t’ pooar lass is ‘anged.

So racked wi grief an’ shame abaat ‘is own cowardice like, Frank takes issen off ter t’ Swiss Alps ter find issen agayen; an’ p’rhaps tek part in a tad o’ lederhosen thy slappin’ ter help wi t’ healin’ process. ‘ow ivver, life is a bitch an’ she’s got puppies, an’ it wer’n’t long afore ‘is vertically challenged nemesis tracked ‘im theyer an’ confronted ‘im abaat t’ terrible crime.

T’ midget tells ‘im a reight sad an’ movin’ story, abaat ‘ow it wer Frank’s fault that ‘e ‘d been alienated fra t’ world (“bein’ a corpse-parts conglomeration can do that ter thee”) an’ ‘ow ‘e killed t’ lad aat o’ revenge; pissed off that ‘is maker created ‘im ter be aal alone an’ miserable in t’ world. Then ‘e asks Frank ter create f’ ‘im a female companion as monstrous as imsen, so that they cud live aat t’ rest o’ their lives in peace an’ ‘appiness, away fra man, in sum forgotten corner o’ t’ world. “She cud be my Valenstein” ‘e says.

At fust, Frank refused sayin’ that ter creature “clearly ad a chuffin screw loose”, but atter much persuading an’ t’ mooare threat agayenst t’ other members o’ ‘is family, Frank N Stein eventually agrees to ‘is tormentor’s demands. Ah think it wer t’ line, “A stitch in mine, saves thine!” that did it.

Frank decides that ‘e needs total an’ utter isolation ter build a new creation an’ settles on t’ isle of Orkney ter do t’ dastardly deed. On route, ‘e drops off his mate Henry in Ireland, by way o’ a thank you ‘oliday f’ lookin’ atter ‘im earlier. ‘e then travels on to Orkney ter do ‘is worst.

Theyer, in an attempt ter get t’ gruesome task completed quickly, ‘e addles  aal hours o’ t’ day an’ neight, once agayen deprivin’ issen o’ much needed kip an’ grub. But appen each day, in ‘is ‘ead, ‘e starts ter fight a second battle – a growin’ belief that ‘e is mekin nobbut a ‘bugger’s muddle’. Ooer put mooare simply, spawnin’ a monster wot together wi t’ dwarf cud bring abaat t’ destruction o’ humanity.

Racked wi contradictin’ worries, ‘e uses a number o’ reight powerful drug an’ alcohol concoctions ter keep issen on ‘is feet an’ block aat t’ endless nightmares. But one neight, reight close ter t’ completion o’ ‘is labours, ‘e loses control ter ‘is inner demons - an’ in a hissy fit o’ despair tears up t’ new creation an’ throws its body in t’ sea.

T’ dwarf sees ‘im do t’ terrible deed an’ swears revenge on ‘im agayen. Adding, “Thith ith not over. Thould thee ivver get hitched ter yon pretty lathth back ‘ome, ah will be prethent with thee on thy wedding neight!” Then ‘e jumps aat t’ window an’ vanishes fra sight.

“Oh bugger!” thowatt Frank N Stein.

Nah wi nowt else to do like, ‘e heads back ter Ireland ter pick up Henry - but no sooner does ‘e land ashore wen ‘e is accused o’ murdering ‘is mate only hours afore. Clearly t’  bastard dwarf ‘ad kept t’ fust part o’ ‘is promise! At this news, Frank relapses in ter serious ill health an’ is hospitalised. This time, wi no Henry ter mek him better like, ‘is fatther cums ter visit – an’ wi t’ aid o’ sum bent coppers an’ a magistrate fra same Mason’s lodge as issen, gets aal t’ charges dropped!

In time, Frank returns ter Geneva – an’ several years o’ apparent peace an’ tranquillity quietly pass undisturbed. No news o’ t’ creature can be gleamed onny wayer – not even by t’ private detective agency employed by Frank’s influential fatther. So slowly, Frank starts ter believe t’ creature might o’ popped its clogs. Eventually, under t’ increasing pressure fra ‘is agein’ parents, ‘e  prepares ter marry Elizabeth in accordance wi their life-long wishes.

‘ow ivver, as t’ day o‘ t’ nuptials approaches like, Frank is filled wi an ever present sense o’ forbodin’, an bein’ t’ wuss ‘e’s become, starts frettin’ an mekin issen ill aal ova agayen.

T’ wedding itself passes uneventfully - but that neight as Elizabeth does ‘er ablutions’ in anticipation o’ a reight good rogerin’ that ‘oneymoon neight, t’ dwarf breaks in ter her bathroom an’ slits her throat fra ear to ‘ere. At this discovery, Frank loses aal self control an’ starts t’ slippery decent into madness. At t’ same time, ‘is father passes away suddenly, struck daan wi grief fra havin’ become t’ first man in t’ world ter lose both his adopted daughter an’ daughter-in-law in t’ same single murder.

Appen t’ monny years that follud these tragic events bleed into one another wi no concernable difference. Bent on revenge an’ finally endin’ t’ life o’ ‘is creation, Frank N Stein pursues ‘is adversary relentlessly! Year atter year, ‘e follas up ivvery clue that might lead ’im ter ‘is prey. An usin’ ‘is family’s vast fortune ter fund ‘is expenses, ‘e crosses countries, seas an’ continents in t’ single pursuit o’ ‘is quest. No rat hole, flee pit or whorehouse is left unexplored. As t’ madness takes total control, ‘is weight drops, ‘is once ‘andsome appearance becomes ragged an’ gaunt – an’ soon theyer is nobbut a gnats difference betwixt issen an’ t’ dwarf – ‘cept one appens ter be taller.

Having chased ‘is quarry raand t’ world monny times ova, Frank N Stein follas t’ creature in ter t’ frozzen hell that is t’ North Pole. Theyer ‘e chases t’ monster ova aal imaginable terrain gettin’ glimpses o’ ‘im ‘ere an’ theyer thru t’ blizzards – but nivver actually catchin up wi ‘im. T’ constant effort leaves ‘im nithered, spent an’ very near death imsen. An’ that’s abaat t’ time ‘e gets to Captain Robert Walton’s ice encrusted ship!

T’ recountin’ o’ ‘is full story teks Frank N Stein several days – wi Captain Walton notin’ it aal daan in t’ ships log. Sadly, an contrary ter Walton’s personal plans f’ ‘im, t’ effort o’ doin’ so, teks away ‘is last remaining strength, an’ thus in t’ relative comfort o’ t’ captain’s quarters, Frank N Stein slips in ter unconsciousness an’ then dies.

Captain Walton, has Frank N Stein’s body prepared for a ‘burial at sea’ an’ sewn into blankets in accordance wi tradition. It’s then left in t’ cold room, awaiting t’ spring thaw.

A few hours later, appen t’ Captain is woken by t’ saand o’ weepin’ cumin’ fra t’ cold room. Upon oppenin’ its dooar, ‘e is shocked t’ see t’ Frank N Stein’s creature crying ova ‘its master’s body.

Nah, wot appened next is t’ subject o’ great debate. Sum folks say that t’ captain drew ‘is pistol an’ shot  t’ creature deead. Others, that it jumped aat t’ window an’ raced off across t’ ice never t’ be seen agayen. But ah happen ter kno t’ real truth....

Frank N Stein’s monster now goes by t’ name o’ Jim Bob Walton an’ is t’ captain’s personal cabin boy, wi t’ rank o’ very able seaman. It seems that t’ mushroom principle didn’t apply ter absolutely ivvery thing!!

‘ow exactly do ah kno this? Well ah reckon, that’s f’ thee ter guess!

Happy Halloween!

 

Families

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.

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!”

Tardy An’ T’ Ex-Reverend

T' other day, me an mi mate Joe Sykes, wer' enjoyin’ a reight pleasant stroll in t' warm evenin' sun along t' side o' t' Cleckhuddersfax canal, when in t' distance cum a vision o' a man weavin' abaat fra left ter right like an angry blue bottle baancin' between two parallel panes o' invisible glass. Ivvery few feet 'e wud veer wildly fra t' bushes an' wall on one side o' towpath, ter watters edge on t' other, an’ then back agayen. Mutterin' an chunterin' ter ‘im sen like a demented friar, 'e'd clearly bin in a monumental battle wi' t' demon drink, an’ lost! It wer' a blessed miracle 'e 'adn't fallen in.

As 'e drew closer, ah wer' marvellin’ ter me sen 'ow sum in-built sense o' preservation wer' drivin' 'im on like a mentally deranged homein' pidgeon, whilst in a similar way ter 'ow me mate Big Ron wud get a sow back to 'er stye using wooden boards, an invisible pair o' angelic 'ands wer' preventin’ ‘im takin' an early bath! 

Ah wer' totally lost in this thowatt, wen Joe says ter t' approaching 'uman cyclone: "Ey up - tha’s swayin’ a bit lad. Ast tha bin on t’ communal wine agayen?"

Lookin' up in surprise 'e says, "Oh, ey up lad. Ah didn't see thee theyer!" An' pausing slightly ter correct sum o’ t’ slurring in ‘is words an’ collect 'is thowatts fra canal bottom, continued, "Aye, well, Sunday. Nowt better ter do nowadays. So sometimes ah ‘ave ter commune wi' t' holy spirit tha kno’s."

"Appen tha's got up close an’ personal like!” says Joe reeling backwards from t' alcoholic smog rising up fra t' stranger.  

"But it's only Saturday!" ah says wi aat thinkin'.

"Is it?" 'e says lookin’ at me thru eyes that wer' independently trying ter get of 'is 'ead in different directions. "Really?"

"Yeah" says Joe an' me in unison, winning t’ olympic gold in synchronised smirkin’.

"Bugger!" 'e says. "Appen ah'll 'ave ter di it aal agayen tomorrow."  

"Well careful, tha dunt tek a nose dive in ter one o' them locks", says Joe. "If tha falls in theyer, tha'll not bite tha nails agayen!"

"Ah'll be reight!" 'e says. "Ah've bin walkin' this 'ere canal since ah wer' knee ‘igh ter a grass 'opper, an thanks ter t’ good Lord, ah 've not fallen in it yet! Appen ah'll sithee anon." 

An wi a dismissive backward wave o' is 'and, ‘e carried on 'is sway-ward journey - still mutterin’ ter 'im sen as 'e went. "O’ course it ‘elps if sum bugger’s lurcher dunt nab off wi' tha shepherds crook walkin’ stick, wen tha back is turned takin’ a whizz in t’ canal. Ah bloody ‘ate dogs ah do. T’ animals raand 'ere 'ave no consideration f' people, nooer onny personal standards neither!"

As ‘e staggered off, ‘is diatribe continued unabated but Joe an’ me ‘ad stopped listenin’. "Tardy!" we says together, lookin’ a tad concerned!

Tardy wer' Joe's agein' an’ scruffy lookin’ lurcher, rescued fra a greyhound centre atter a life o' cruelty an' 'ardship several years earlier. She wer' a beautiful, gentle an' attentive dog, mild natured an' lovin' -  as long as tha weren't a cat or a rabbit. In which case, tha 'ad ter be bloody fast ooer lucky. She so rarely did aat wrong at aal that a bond o’ trust 'ad developed between t' dog an' Joe. As a result, Tardy wer' often let off ‘er lead ter go explorin' t' cannal bankin' by 'er sen - an' like a ghost wud magically disappear an’ reappear at will, ooer wen called.

"Does tha often get lurchers prowlin' ter canal banks o’ Cleckhuddersfax waitin' ter mug innocent passersby fooer theyer walkin’ sticks?" ah asked Joe.

"Stranger things ‘ave bin known", says ‘e, not really believin’ ‘is own words like.

"Well in that case appen ther's a high probability that yon pooch 'as nobbled yer man theyer! Does tha want ter say summat ter ‘im or does tha want ter wait until 'e's aat o' sight afore we find aat? Ah tek it tha knows ‘im onnyroad?”

“Ah do. But not closely like. That wer’ t’ ex Reverend Toucher” says Joe, “not a man ter get riled up. So ah reckon we shud wait a few minutes like. We cud be doin' Tardy a disservice by assumin' she's guilty when she's not! Besides, if ‘e’s ‘eadin’ ‘ome, pooer sod’s going in t’ wrong direction - so ‘e’s baand ter cum back this way eventually.”

"Ok" ah says. "We'll park us arses daan on ter lock gate until Tardy shows up. “Nah tha did say ‘e wer’ t’ ex Reverend? Do tell us mooar.”

“Aye, f’ years ‘e wer’ t’ vicar ooer summat daan in Slawit. But ‘e started drinkin’ heavily at t’ Twitchin’ Pig an’ suppin’ aal t’ communal wine on a Sunday. Appen, as ‘is drinkin’ increased ‘e got mooar an’ mooar disturbed, upsettin’ most people at one time ooer another. Mostly thru suddenly running up an’ shrieking at them ooer pokin’ ‘em in t’ ribs wi ‘is shepherds crook walkin’ stick.

Ah remember this one Sunday in church, when old Mrs Doodle wer queuing ter tek communion – as she tried ter get daan on her knees ter tek t’ holy bread, she let aat t’ loudest bum parp ah’ve ivver heard fra that day ter this. It echoed raand t’ alter an’ ricocheted off t’ ancient stone walls f’ wot seemed like an eternity. Ther’ wer’ a moment o’ perfect silence afore Porky Branning spat aat ‘is false teeth an’ howled wi laughter.  T’ whole congregation then collapsed in ter a helpless mass o’ hysterics until t’ Reverend screamed fra t’ pulpit, ‘GOD DOESN’T FIND FARTING FUNNY!’ and a few minutes later ‘I DON’T MIND HOW LONG I STAY HERE!’  Ah reckon, p’rhaps ‘e used ter be a teacher. O’ course this did absolutely nowt ter help an’ in fact only served ter throw fuel on t’ fire o’ merriment!

Rumour ‘as it that ‘e wer’ eventually defrocked wen ‘e wer caught introducing t’ game o’ Pooh Sticks ter t’ choir.

A few days later sum o’ t’ mooar senior villagers broke into t’ church an’ faand sum peculiar things. T’ big Bible in t’ pulpit had had t’ middle removed an’ contained a half bottle o’ whiskey, several empty pill boxes an’ a loaded revolver; t’ parish record books wer’ mostly blank apart fra a few pages which contained crude sketches o’ animals; and aal t’ robes in t’ vestry cupboard had gone. In their place was a suspender belt an’ a fireman’s helmet. Ther’ wer’ also several copies o’ Ooh Sir! laying araand t’ office  - which mysteriously disappeared later. Ah personally reckon t’ nun’s took ‘em.

Onnyroad, t’ pooer sod ‘as nivver moved on since  - an’ by aal accounts nah preaches ter anyone oo’ll listen daan at t’ Twitching Pig. Tis aal very sad!”

Ah wer’ trying ter think o’ summat sagely wise ter say in answer ter this tragic tale wen suddenly I felt t’ familiar feelin’ o’ a cold wet nose against t’ inside o’ me thigh. Lookin’ daan, ah saw Tardy waitin’ expectantly – wi a shepherds crook walkin’ stick layin’ at ‘er feet.  Once agayen she’d managed t’ materialise wi aat us noticin’.

“Appen theyers no doubt abaat havin’ a thief in us midst nah” ah says ter Joe. “Wot ivver shall we do?”

In answer, an’ wi a determined look on ‘is face, Joe jammed t’ shepherds crook walkin’ stick in ter a hole in one o’ t’ lock stones, wayer it cudn’t be missed by onny passersby. He then got an old bettin’ slip aat o’ ‘is pocket an’ scribbled a note on t’ back o’ it. Finally he attached it ter t’ stick wi a bit a Double Spearmint chewing gum ‘ed been savin’ behind ‘is ear f’ a few hours.

T’ note said, “Who so ivver shall removeth t’ walkin stick fra this stone, shall enter t’ Kingdom o’ Heaven forgiven o’ aal sins!”

“Theyer,  that shud do it”, says Joe stepping back. “Appen ‘e’ll find this on ‘is way ‘ome an’ be chuffed as mint balls!”

“God-smacked?” ah offered.

“‘e might even think ‘e’s got redemption an’ turn ova a new leaf?” says Joe. “Nah wudn’t that be grand?!”

Ah ‘ave ter say that ter thowatt o’ t’ ex Reverend bein’ given a second chance in life warmed me little  ‘eart  as ah made me way back ter Topcliffe later that night. In fact t’ followin’ morning whilst readin’ t’ early edition o’ t’ Yorkshire Prophet, ah wer’ still picturin’ ‘is smilin’ face upon bein’ reunited wi’ ‘is beloved shepherds crook walking stick on t’ banks o’ t’ Cleckhuddersfax canal.

Ah wer’ thus mooar than a gnats teken aback wen ah read abaat ‘ow, only minutes atter we’d seen ‘im, ‘e’d battered ter deeth t’ landlord o’ t’ Twitching Pig - oo ‘ad simply offered ter sell ‘im a lurcher puppy!

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?”