Royal Ponderings

“Appen most folk wer reet patriotic back when ah wer a nipper“ ah announced ter me mates Big Ron an’ Joe Sykes, ovva a pint o’ Bull Mastif Son Of A Bitch, daan t’ Angel Inn.

“Aye” agreed Big Ron, noddin’ sagely. “Reckon it wer t’ memories o’ t’ war wot did it!”

“T’ youth o’ t’ day dunt know theyer born!” added, Joe Sykes doin’ is best Michael Palin impression.

(Sometimes it wer very easy ter forget that Joe Sykes wer considerably younger than Big Ron an’ me. An’ sometimes it wer just bleedin’ obvious!)

“Ah reckon jus’ abaat ivvery ‘ousehold  ‘ad buntin’ tucked away fer special occasions” ah continued. “Sum even ‘ad t’ Union Flag. An t’ whole blinkin’ lot would cum aat at t’ drop o’ a hat given ‘alf an excuse!”

“Aye” says Big Ron agayen. “Me mother wud insist on ironing ours afore it cud be hung up. She used ter say, ‘We might be pooer, an’ we might ‘ave bugger aal, but we can allus show us pride!’ “

“Sounds like she wer a smart woman, your mam” says Joe Sykes.

“She wer as batty as a bag o’ rats wot’s bin sniffin’ methane daan t’ sewers” replied Big Ron.

“Does tha remember t’ year o’ t’ Jubillee” ah asks? “When t’ whole village agreed ter hold a street party, an’ we wer aal expected ter do us bit!”

“Aye!” says Big Ron. “My job wer t’ shovel aal t’ dung fra t’ lanes – which ter be honest,  ah didn’t mind as ah knew I’d get a few pennies fer it at t’ Nunnery. Appen theyer garden reeked summat rotten but their root vegetables wer legendary.”

“Ah remember t’ day o’ t’ Jubilee” ah says. “It wer warm an’ bright, wi’ enuf blue sky ter mek a happy dray-man a pair o’ pantaloons an’ probably a pullover as well!”

“That’s right” says Big Ron. “An t’ first part o’ t’ jollification wer to elect,  an’ then crown, a King an’ Queen fer t’ day, fra t’ folks wot lived in t’ village.”

“Yup” ah says. “Mi dad got one o’ them owd Thunderbox contraptions med by Thomas Crapper & Co, mounted it on an owd kipper crate an’ painted t’ lot red white an’ blue. ‘e said, ‘Nah that’s wot ah call a royal throne!’ Later it wer installed at one end o’ t’ marquee on t’ village green.”

“So oo wer crowned t’ King & Queen?” asked Joe.

“It wer a Mr & Mrs Athena” says Joe. “They ‘adn’t been livin’ in t’ village aal that long, an’ ran a picture framing business fra home. Betty Goodbust. oo lived next door, said they wer reet hard workers, that wer often heard bangin’ away late into t’ night!”

“But ah think they wer chosen” ‘e added, “’cause Mr Athena ‘ad a pretty decent beard – an’ so ter be fair, did ‘is wife. They were t’ spittin’ images o’ t’ royal family!”

“They both wore red white an’ blue cloaks med fra a set o’ curtains purloined fra t’ church vestry” ah says. “Mrs Athena stood next ter ‘er husband as ‘e sat on t’ Royal Throne wi a painted golden ballcock in one ‘and an’ a golden loofer in t’other.

“But jus’ then” says Big Ron picking up t’ story agayen, “as Betty Goodbust bent daan ter place t’ crown on his head (med fra a Thunderbox seat covered in sequins an’ t’ odd plastic jewel) she accidently let one go! T’ Reverent Toucher immediately cum to ‘er rescue by tekkin t’ first note, an’ humming t’ National Anthem. O’ course there wer tittering an’ smirks fra rest o ‘t’ villagers, but nowt further wer said.”

“Then wot ‘appened?” asked Joe Sykes. “Was there a parade?”

“There most certainly was!” ah says. “Aal t’ junior school chilerns  did a sort o’ march-by dressed in various shades o’ red white an’ blue, an’ ivveryone cheered an’ clapped as they passed. Big Ron’s brother Chip marched along holdin’ an owd piece o’ metal on a string – an’ occasionally struck it wi a nail. It med such a sweet sound. Bumpy Awkright din’t ‘ave an instrument so ‘e just slapped t’ back o’ ‘is neck as ‘e marched along. One owd soldier played t’ Last Reverie ova an’ ova on ‘is bugle because it wer t’ only tune ‘e knew.  By t’ time t’ parade ‘ad marched twice raand t’ village green we wer aal sick o’ it – so us thowats turned quickly ter food an’ t’ feast that wer awaitin’ us.”

“Feast?” enquired Joe Sykes.

“Oh aye – feast!” says Big Ron. “Some-ow aal t’ tressle tables in t’ region ‘ad bin gathered together, an’ layed aat end ter end, in a big long row, starting at t’ village hall an’ finishing at t’ church. Agayen they’d bin covered in red white an’ blue table cloths, blankets, ooer just owd newspapers. An tied ter each table wer garden canes holdin’ up t’ bunting – that stretched t’ full length o’ t’ scene. Ah reckon ah‘ve not seen owt prettier, before ooer since, ‘cept wen ah went aat riding one night in t’ moonlight wi Mable Johnson. But that’s another story.”

“Onnyroad” ah says jumpin’ in. “ Aal t’ tables wer groaning under t’ weight o’ t’ food that us mams ‘ad bin preparin’ f’ days. There wer triangularly cut salmon sandwiches, curly piccalilli sandwiches, boiled eggs, growlers, kale chutney an bowls of steamin’ brawn. There was diced swede, rabbit drumsticks, barbeque’d road kill an’ goodness knows wot else.  Oh, an’ gallons o’ free Apple Scrumpy donated by t’ nuns.”

“An’ Ivvery last morsel was eaten!” said Big Ron wi a kind o’ pride on ‘is fissog. “In fact it wer quite a hubbub until we wer called to order by PC  La Strange pulling out his enormous truncheon an’ pounding it on t’ table. Speeches wer then med by a few know-it-aal parish councillor types afore t’ serious drinkin started in earnest  – and t’ nuns had to wheel down some more barrels in their handcarts. To my surprise ah noted that they wer drinkin’ aalmost as much o’ it themselves!”

“It wer a shame that aal t’ decent musicians in t’ district had been gamefully employed elsewhere that day!” ah says. “We ‘ad ter mek do wi t’ Reverend Toucher’s wind-up gramophone an’ ‘is odd selection o’ records! Many o’ which contained music fra aal-male choirs in countries ah’d nivver even heard of.  I think Llandudno was one!

“Appen ah cannot fer t’ life o’ me, recall now, ‘ow t’ day ended!” mused Big Ron.

“Ah do recall dancin’ ter that owd classic, ’Ah feel so gay’, wi one o’ t’ younger nuns” ah says. “That wer t’ fust time ah kissed a girl. Ah nivver realised tha has ter use tha tongue! Next thing ah knew ah wer wakin’ up, freezin’ cold in t’ allotments, wi a head that felt like it’d been stuffed wi suet. Ah’d some’ow lost me new waistcoat an’ aal t’ buttons on me trousers were undone. But ah felt strangely satisfied.”

“An if tha tells that ter t’ youth o’ today” says Joe Sykes, “appen they’ll not believe thee!”

“Nope” says Big Ron an' me in unison. “Nor wud t’ Queen!”

 

T’ Incident In Badger’s Chuff Wood

T’ other week ah wer labourin’ up at Highfield Farm coz me mate Big Ron wer short staffed. After a long 'ard day, we decided ter chill aat by tekkin an evenin’ stroll t’ look at sum owd badger sets.  It wer a pleasant warm evenin’ wi flecks o’ pink just appearin’ in t’ sky .

Atter abaat a 15 minute walk, we cum ter a little wood , that encompassed a bronze-age ‘henge’. In t’ centre o’ that, wer a raised circular mound an’ t’ remains o’ an owd stone circle. It wer 'ere that t’ badgers ‘ad dug aat a few sets. It med fer a stonkin’ undisturbed habitat f’ aal t’ local forna an’ wildlife.

Wen ah say undisturbed. Wot ah actually meant like, wer that it wer undisturbed by most people. But ‘most people’ dint include t’ odd romantic couple lookin’ fer a romantic place t’ mek aat - ooer t’ local hunt wot regularly run havoc thru Big Ron’s land wi aat askin’.

“Appen there’s no badgers in these ‘ere sets nah!” says Big Ron. “They’ve buggered off yonder under them big oak trees on far side o’ t’ henge. T’ hunt brigade moved ‘em on by default by gallopin’ thru ‘ere chasin’ foxes wi hounds an’ horns, callin’ aat an’ mekin’ such a ruckus. But ah reckon t’ badgers got t’ last laugh, coz nowadays, wen t’ hunt is on t’ scent o’ a fox, it ‘ll often dart in ter t’ tunnels med by yon badgers, an’ cum aat in a different part o’ t’ wood. It confuses t’ hounds ter buggery an’ sum even get stuck an’ need ter be dug aat!”

“Well ah nivver!” ah says, gaining a new understanding as ter why foxes are called sly.

“Onnyroad, ah’ve ‘ad a complaint fra T’ Master O’ T’ Hunt” says Big Ron, emphasising the word ‘hunt’ wi mooer than a little distain! “Wants me ter fill in t’ sets!? ’e cum up ter me a couple o’ weeks back, on ‘is big white ‘oss, it snortin’ like buggery an’ stomping t’ graand like it wer ‘avin a paddy o’ it’s own;  an’ ‘e leaned daan slowly, an’ wi quivering lips like ‘e wer gonna cry, says ter us in a reet plumy voice, ‘e says, “I'll have you know you keep ruining my day old chap! Ruining my day!”

“Tosser!” ah says!

“Rich tosser” corrected Big Ron. “But ‘e ‘is a member o’ t’ Parish Caancil an’ is ‘e’s  got connections wi t’ famer’s union – so ‘e cud easily mek me life difficult if ‘e wants. So ah thowatt perhaps ah’d tek a butchers at’ t’ sets agayen f’ me sen.”

Ah wer just a baat ter say summat gay abaat men oo like osses, wen a reet posh lookin’ oss box pulls up in t’ lane on t’other side o’ t’ henge – an aat steps a pretty young thing an’ a much older gentlemen. T’ latter being clearly wealthy fra ‘is clothes an’ demeanour. Fra our lofty position on t’ henge, me & Big Ron could see t’ couple easily - but judging fra aal theyer furtive glances raand, they ‘adn’t spotted us.

“Well bugger me!” says Big Ron nudging me in t’ ribs. “Appen that’s T’ Master O’ T’ Hunt issen! Ohhh, an’ ‘is secretary!"

As we watched, T’ Master O’ T’ Hunt brings aat a big woollen blanket -  an’ she happily waves a packet o’ contraceptives at ‘im. Then quick as a flash ‘es ‘eplin’ ‘er ova t’ fence aal gentlemanly like, an’ she’s giggling like a pubescent school girl. Then they vanish in ter t’ bushes at t’ foot o’ t’ great oak!

“Appen ‘e’s giving her a riding lesson!” ah says.

“’e did do a little pole vault over t’ fence!” agreed Big Ron. “Good job it weren’t electric!”

“That wud be shocking” ah says nodding.

“Best us stay ‘ere f’ a little while” says Big Ron, “coz ah reckon yon badgers ’ll be cumin aat pretty soon. Tis abaat that time o’ evenin’ tha kno’s.”

So we did - an ah wondered wot ‘e wer gettin at. But ah didn’t ‘ave ter wait long ter find aat.

 It started wi a gentle moaning, then a heavy panting, then suddenly a hell of a noise that sanded like someone wer bein’ strangled ooer wer drownin’ in ‘is own blood.

Ah’m guessin’ tha’s probably nivver ‘eard t’ saand o’ a group o’ pissed off badgers at night time afore, well me neither, but ah assure thee it saands reet cruel. They can be mean buggers too. Willin’ t’ fight tooth an’ nail ter defend theyer home.

Well t’ bushes started thrashin’ abaat widely an’ suddenly wi’ aat warning, T’ Master O’ T' Hunt dives aat like ‘is arse was on fire, pants still raand ‘is ankles. ‘e does a commando roll, then ‘e’s daan t’ field an’ ova yon’ fence like a scolded cat. Next cums t’ lassie, naked fra t’ waist daan, blanket an’ knickers in one hand, shoes skirt an’ handbag in t’ other – runnin’ fer ‘er dear life.

Ah felt reet sorry for her! T’ Master O’ T' Hunt didn’t stop ter help ‘er ova t’ fence that time. No, ‘e wer 50 yards ahead o’er. In fact ‘e wer back in t’ oss wagon wi t’ engine running by t’ time she got theyer.

Big Ron an’ me laughed until our sides hurt! An then we laughed aal ova agayen!

“Ah’m gonna really enjoy tellin' that hunting lot they can get stuffed, an’ ter keep off me land in future!” says Big Ron trying ter catch ‘is breath. “An’ if T’ Master O’ T’ Hunt gets aal haughty like, ah’ll remind ‘im o’ t’"incident at Badgers Chuff Wood" tonight. Ah’m shuer ‘is wife will be enthralled!”

“Ah’ll drink ter that!” ah says.

Well it wer reet late by t’ time ah finally got ‘ome. Ah remember feeling jiggered but ‘appy after a wonderful day o’ worrkin’  aat in t’ fresh air - and driftin’ off ter sleep thinkin’ o’ that young lassie an’ knowin’ ah’d be stiff in t’ morning.

Bumpy Awkright’s Christmas Present

“So wot did tha get fer Christmas then?”

Appen it wer t’ fust question on ivverybody’s lips wen Joe Sykes, Big Ron, Bumpy Awkright an’ me, met fer us post Christmas paant daan t’ Angel Inn on New Year’s Day.

Eyes travelled raand t’ room, fra one ter anuther, like a game o’ Chinese Whispers at a meeting o’ COBRA.

“Depressed!” ah says, answering fust.

“Bloody ear ache fra t’ missus!” says Joe.

“Pist!” says Big Ron smiling.

As six eyes landed on Bumpy, awaitin’ ‘is reply, ‘e remained unusually silent. In fact his silence wer very unusual! T’ musician an’ aal raand hell raiser amongst us, ‘e wer naturally allus shaatin’, singin’,  ooer mekin a ruckus o’ sum kind. So we instantly knew summat wer up.

“A tortoise!” says Bumpy eventually, 'is face as straight as roman road.

Six eyeballs suddenly swivelled in Bumpy’s direction.

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

“A chuffin tortoise!” repeated Bumpy.

Six eyebrows raised in question?

“Ah thowatt it maaght be nice ter ‘ave us a pet in us new ‘ouse” continued Bumpy, “summat welcomin’ fooer me an our ’ Sally ter cum ‘ome ter atter a long day at work!”

“But a tortoise?” says Joe incredulously.

“Well, ah wer thinkin’ o’ a kitten me sen.” says Bumpy. But ah’m not reet good wi livin’ things. Even plastic flowers die on me. So our lass says ah have ter prove me sen wi a tortoise an’ then work up’ard ter summat less breakable.”

“Ah picked up a tortoise once” ah says. “But wen ah I shook it - it fell aat! Appen they are really ugly naked!”

“Aye, like Ghandi wi a bus shelter on ‘is back!” added Joe helpfully.

“Not reight good wi livin’ things?” queried Big Ron. “Explain?!”

“Reckon ah’ve not ‘ad much luck wi lookin’ atter animals!” says Bumpy answering Big Ron. “Summat allus ‘appens ter ‘em....”

“One o’ t’ good things abaat tortoises...” ah says, “is that you can easily avoid them... unless you get a particularly fast one.”

“Once, wen ah wer knee ‘igh ter a grass ‘opper” continued Bumpy ignoring me, “ah faand a family o’ hedgehogs in trouble on t’ road near us ‘ouse. Appen pooar Mrs Tiggywinkle ‘ad bin hit by a car – an’ aal t’ little tiggywinkies  wer jus’ craaded raand, waitin’ fer her ter move – not realisin’ that they cud be squished by passin’ cars at onny moment. So ah picked ‘em aal up an’ took em ‘ome.”

“That wer nice o’ thee” says Joe.

“On t’ way” continued Bumpy, “ah noticed they wuz infested wi little fleas an’ mites - so wen ah got ‘ome ah dusted ‘em in flea powder t’ mek ‘em feel better; put ‘em in a nice warem box, tucked ‘em in wi a blanket; an left ‘em ova night aat o’ t’ wind, in t’ shelter o’mi porch ter sleep off theyer trauma. But wen ah got up t’ next day, they wer aal deead. Seems ah’d used me father’s DDT instead o’ t’ flea powder.”

“Oh dear!” ah says.

“Easy mistake ter mek” says Big Ron. “An’ tha dint hurt ‘em on purpose like – so it’s not quite t’ same!”

“Aye, just a bit o’ rotten luck!” says Joe.

“Ah then got a budgie” says Bumpy. “But ah nivver really bonded wi it. It nivver talked. It nivver even smiled. It just sort o’ sat theyer aal t’ time glaring at mi an’ shiftin’ fra one leg ter t’ other. Muttering an’ mekin’ plans ter escape wi’ it’s reflection in t’ mirror. Whisperin’ wi’ its sen like a couple o’ jail birds - an’aal t’ time sharpenin’ its beak on piece o’ cuttlefish ready t’ fight its way ter freedom. Nonetheless ah looked atter it as if me life depended on it.”

“Ah dunt doubt it!” says Big Ron.

“Before ah went ter work” continued Bumpy, “ah ripped up bits o’ newspaper an’ put ‘em in it's cage so that it ‘ad summat ter read while ah wer away. Then ivvery night wen ah got ‘ome, ah’d talk ter it, an’ then ah’d bathe it. Ah felt stupid gettin’ in ter t’ bath wi a budgie ah can tell thee! But ah’d scrub it daan, then blow dry it wi a hair dryer. Then ah’d serve us both dinner. In fact ah give it ivverythin’ ah had - egg an’ bacon in t’ morning, meat, two veg an’ gravy at night! An’ guess wot? T’ little bugger nivver ate it. Jus’ turned its snooty little beak up at it. Ah did ivverything ah cud fer that chuffin budgie -  an’ does tha kno wot it did ter thank me? It died aat o’ spite!

“That’s reet sad that is!” says Joe.

“Tweet sad” added Big Ron.

“At least tha tortoise will smile a tad fer thee” ah added helpfully. “Ah reckon tha can allus see a tortoise grinnin’ a bit wen it's going fer a piece o’ lettuce, if you've got onny imagination, like.”

“So then ah got a goldfish” says Bumpy. “It wer grand! It’d swim raand an’ raand in it’s bowl fer ivver blowin’ bubbles. So naturally ah called ‘it Bob.”

(Six confused eyeballs roamed t’ room in search o’ clarification – but not findin’ onny, re-focused back on Bumpy.)

One day ah accidentally discovered that Bob cud break-dance on t’ carpet! So ivvery day atter that ah got ‘im aat for a practise. At fust ‘e cud only last abaat 20 seconds ‘till ‘e wer reet jiggered an’ wanted a rest back in ‘is bowl. But wi each day wot passed, ‘is fitness improved.”

“Noooo!” ah says, mouth agape like a goldfish aat o’ water.

“Oh aye” continued Bumpy. “Bob used ter luv ‘is daily excercise! In fact, ‘ed get right excited wen ‘e saw me comin’.  ‘is little eyes would bulge aat o’ ‘is ‘ead wi excitement, an’ ‘e’d swim raand an’ raand ‘is bowl like ‘e wer tryin’ ter aat run a fire.  Then e’d squirm wi delight as ah lifted ‘im aat o’ is bowl. ‘e got reet good too. As ‘e got fitter an’ ‘is exercise period passed t’ four minute barrier, ‘e started includin’ back flips, twists, tumbles, pikes an’ summersaults in ter ‘is routine. Proper champion ‘e wer. But then one day’ e flipped right in ter t’ fire an’ kippered issen.  It wer terrible sad, like. Appen ah still get whiffs o’ ‘im wen ah light ter fire today!”

“Ah’ve allus said smokin’ wer bad fer thee!” says Joe.

“Ah reckon it wer suicide!” says Big Ron. “Goldfish are known fer bein’ reet dour!”

“But tha can’t go wrong wi tortoise!” ah says, seeking ter give Bumpy a modicum o’ comfort as ‘e wer clearly gettin’ a tad distressed.

“Aye, an they make great toys fer dogs wi no teeth!” says Joe enthusiastically. “'cos tha can throw ‘em, an’ if t’ dog can’t find ‘em, appen they’ll cum back aal by tha sens - eventually!”

“An they live fer a reet long taame” added Big Ron. “Like parrots - but wi aat aal t’ noise  ooer t’ mess!”

“Appen tha’d think so!” says Bumpy.

Six pupils collectively widened, then formed a sort o’ squint as they refocused expectedly on theyer unlucky associate.

“Ah reckon ‘e wer defective wen Sally got im fer us!” says Bumpy earnestly. “Appen she faand ‘im in a little run-daan pet shop behind t’ chippy on market street. Says ‘e wer aal alone in a cardboard box an’ painted on ‘is shell in tipex wer ter words, “20p ter clear”. Ther wer no food nor toys in ‘is box an’ wen she looked in ter ‘is little wizened eyes, she thowatt she saw a tear. T’ bloke be’ind ter caanter said, ‘e wer shuttin’ up shop fer good like an’ retirin’ ter Balearics fer t’ sun on ‘is arthritis. So unless ‘e went ter a good ‘ome sharpish like, t’ pooar little bugger wud end up as just another one o’ them little crunchie pies daan at Morrisons.”

There wer a little sniff fra behind me as Joe turned away ter get sum dust aat o’ ‘is eye.

“Well that wer enuf fer our lass” continued Bumpy, “she tuk ‘im fra t’ pet shop, tied ‘im wi a piece o’ string ter t’ back o’ ‘er mopped, an’ brought ‘im ‘ome. Appen ‘e wer greatful fer t’ tow like, coz she says she cud ‘ear ‘im singin’ aal t’ way.”

“Proper kind that is!” says Joe, recoverin’.

“Appen ah loved that little tortoise reet fra t’ off” says Bumpy. At night, ah'd place ‘im on t’ fire ter keep ‘is little feet warem. We’d both sit theyer glowin’ – jus’ happy in each other’s company.”

Another sniff – it wer Big Ron this taame.

“Appen ah taught ‘im ‘ow ter swim too!” continued Bumpy. “Ah wer so praad o’ ‘im! Ah’d chuck ‘im in ter t’ kid’s paddlin’ pool an’ watch ‘im sink. At fust ‘e just wandered abaat on ter bottom -  but then ah showed ‘im ‘ow ter use ‘is legs properly. An’ atter that ‘e wer a natural. ‘e’d spend whole atternoons bombin’ up an daan t’ pool doin’ t’ breaststroke , ooer simply floatin’ on ‘is back fer hours on end.”

“Aww, that’s nice!” says Joe an’ Big Ron together.

“But then yesterday, New Years Eve” says Bumpy, ‘is eyes gettin’ suddenly aal watery, “cum t’ day wot welcomes aal creatures great ooer small, sooner ooer later. ‘e wer aat side, bein’ t’ ball in a game o’ touch rugby wi yon kids daan t’ street, wen aat o’ nowhere cum a drunk driver. Unbelievably, as ‘is car bounced fra one kerb ter t’other, ‘e managed ter miss aal t’ kids (which is mooare than theyer parents did) yet hit my little buddy, smashin’ ‘im against t’ wall wi a terrific force like ‘ed’d bin shot fra a rocket launcher. T’ bastard dint even stop. By t’ taame ah got theyer, aal ah cud find wer bit’s o’ ‘is shell.”

“Ee that’s chuffin terrible, that is” says Big Ron blowin’ ‘is nose on a bar towel an’ usin’ it ter dab ‘is eyes.

“Aye, weird karma shit, that is” says Joe wi another sniff.

“Aye, weird karma indeed” agreed Bumpy slowly pulling himself together. “But appen aals well wot ends well”, ‘e says reachin’ fer ‘is paant wi renewed enthusiasm.

“Wot’s tha mean?” ah says.

“Appen, me an’ my little tortoise will be playin’ an’ singin’ t’gether fer monny a long year yet” says Bumpy. “Ah med ‘im in ter plectrums!”

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.