Millom in the Dock Read online

  MILLOM IN THE DOCK

  Copyright Frankie Lassut 2015

  Published by Wonky Books at Smashwords

  EPUB ISBN: 978-1-910103-68-5

  EBOOK: 978-1-910103-69-2

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  MILLOM IN THE DOCK

  The Definitive Tourist Misguide

  A Caricature portrait of the small English Lake District fringe town of Millom and its people.

  Frankie said, on the internet ... “Millom can’t laugh at itself”. Is this true? A rather significant ‘member’ of the local community for more than fifty years, a Millomite, said, upon hearing this ...

  ‘We always do laugh at ourselves, but we are expert piss takers to those from over the bridge (Duddon) or from Marra Land and beyond.’

  Really? ‘We’? Everyone? Cool! A globalisation, but good enough.

  By the way:

  The Duddon? A river you have to cross on the A595 to go South e.g. to Barrow in Furness.

  Marra? Someone from the Whitehaven Workington area.

  A Fantastic introduction

  The North West of England is popular as it plays host to the Lake District which manages to attract several tourists every year just with sheep key rings, never mind the lakes, rivers, trees and mountains. Oh yes, and the real sheep which tourists can stare at, point at and take pictures of. Indeed, several sheep have found employment in the Welsh film industry (I am prohibited from mentioning the kind of films they appear in).There is a negative side ... try and park at peak season.

  There was thought of building a massive underground car park to cure this problem, but that idea was pinched and the nuclear boys and girls decided to use the pit as a nuclear waste storage site, which will be coming soon (free radiotherapy will be available to ramblers, but watch out for the local rabbits a hundred generations down the line).

  That’s the lakes anyway. If you decide to visit, first watch films like Deliverance and A Lonely Place to Die ... oh, and study Paganism and you will then understand the behaviour of the locals. If you’re travelling up to the lakes on the M6 for instance, if you see a big truck with a large figure covered in canvas in the rear, be scared, it may be a wicker man, for you.

  As the crow flies, which in The Lake District means ... after it has landed on a pub garden table and entertained the tourists by drinking a half pint of Bluebird bitter, down in one) ... the nearby radioactive coastline plays host to several fringe towns (and you thought the glow was Blackpool ... LOL!).

  Barrow in Furness, famed for ship building at Vickers, and for producing the late Emlyn Hughes, England footballer, a real nice chap. Ulverston, the birthplace and home of Stan Laurel. Whitehaven (Rum), Workington (erm), St Bees (probably beekeeping?) ... and the King of North West coast towns, MILLOM! That’s where I lived from just after birth in Ulverston (same place as Stan), so I really have had the Millom experience.

  I now live in Coventry. People ask me ‘why move to this dump from somewhere so nice? Well, I keep the local therapists busy, so it’s good for the local economy (I pay Geoffrey Robinson’s and Dave Nellist’s expenses). If it’s true that the people we attract are the result of our inner feelings, then therapists must be really messed up (it is and they are).

  Millom was just like any other North Western town, plodding along, heading for more plodding along on the road called life’s great journey. It was hanging onto its claims to fame, The Ironworks, which the town was built on and a semi famous poet, Norman Nicholson (he said hello to me once!). But still, due to lack of revenue, the pub signs kept falling off, or at least some of the letters did.

  The Castle became the Ca le. The Ship, The hip (a decent joint). The Red Lion? The Red ion. It was always full of scientists after the L fell off, which totally confused the locals because they were used to talking about the weather, not the covalent bonding of the hydrogen molecules in cumulonimbus clouds. The Devon became The De on, etc. So, it was dozing away, and the good people were wondering what had happened to it and what day was it? And why did all their calendars say it was 1560?

  There was a reason, and you probably won’t believe it, because it’s hard to believe, but, here it is anyway ...

  Pre Big Bang

  QUITE A WHILE AGO:

  REALM: HEAVEN

  LOCATION: THE KITCHEN IN GOD’S PARENTS’ HOUSE.

  DAY: TUESDAY? (Might have been Wednesday as the bin angels had just been … late as usual)

  TIME: TEA TIME!

  CONVERSATION: THE USUAL CRAP KIDS HAVE TO ENDURE.

  God’s Mum: “Well God, what did you do at school today?”

  God: “Practical Creation.”

  Mum: “Really?! What did you create?”

  God: “Oh, we’re all doing England, different bit each. When it’s finished and if it’s good enough we’re presenting it to the Council to get it passed for the Big Bang festival and, I’m the schools rep! I’m supposed to finish my part off for homework by designing part of the West Coast of Cumbria which will start out as Cumberland, but I can’t be bothered.”

  Mum: “Never mind can’t be bothered! If you don’t get a good mark how are you ever going to get a ‘proper job’ like your father?! Now come on! You’re almost one million, billion, trillion, quandrillion years old now and I can’t support you forever. I work my fingers to the bone as it is. Go design your bit of the West Coast, create a little town to put on it. Somewhere nice by the sea of course; it being a coast.”

  God: (Brightening up) “Oh okay. Can I create a nuclear plant near it too?”

  Mum: “Of course you can, that’ll be ideal for good jobs to help the local economy. Now eat your greens! Or no divine raspberry ripple ice cream for you and, that’s final!”

  God: “Ohhhh Muuuuuuum!”

  BUT …

  Is it a good idea to put a white topped work desk in a child’s room? The homework effort was a little half-hearted and, the pencil tip, controlled by a half-hearted hand just happened to … slip off the edge of the paper … leaving poor old M on a desktop! In the lurch! Out on a limb! In the middle of nowhere! At the END OF THE LINE!

  Millom, Cumbria, the little Northern town which God then forgot all about.

  Oh Dear!

  And time passed, and passed, everywhere else on this good earth, but Millom was left in what could only be described as a curved time warp.

  Oh Dear x 10.

  Now though, we must step into the world of woo woo stuff. The people of Millom wanted change and so the mass minds sent a signal out to the world via the ether, a Rocket of Desire for recognition (a silent vibrational request, like a radio signal). The only problem was, desires are usually answered by God, but ... God had forgotten about Millom and so, confused by this signal, sent all the goodies to places like Barrow in Furness, Whitehaven etc., which is where the Deity thought the very ‘give us goodies and recognition’ desire signal had come from (oh dear). Then one day, God was snoozing and a picture of the white topped table with the pencil mark on it popped into his head and he realised with a sudden feeling of dread what he had done.

  What does God say to God? ‘Oh my God?!’ Hmmmm? How about ‘Oh ME God?’ But, God was a bit ashamed and a large bit guilty and thought ‘Better give them something to pull them out of the poop. Hmmm? I know, publicity!’ God likes a good laugh and so likes entertainment. He noticed the behaviour of the people of Mi
llom and though ‘My ME! It’s a bloody Pantomime!’

  So God began to inspire a few people and hatched a vast Divine plan. His idea was, ‘I’ll put them on the bloody map! Oh yeah!’ God was as good as his word as always, well, read for yourself (he then forgot again as building future Universes requires a lot of focus and concentration). It all happened about fifteen years ago. I got word when I was ...

  Millom

  The town is on a pinnacle, sea on one side and a nearly mountain called Black Coombe on the other, so it’s kinda trapped, a little ‘on its own (at the end of the line). Let’s hope the Scots don’t attack OR roll a giant haggis down the hill, although it would be good for the local building trade. This project began about fifteen years ago (its 2015 now) when synchronicity (you may call it fate, or coincidence?) a Police Sergeant, a Mr Terence McGlennon was moved to the town (I’ve tried a few times but never managed to make contact with him). He didn’t like it and said it was a joke in the force and that he was being put out to pasture by the force; he was a laughing stock. He sued and won fifteen grand. He, or the National press, said Millom was the end of the line, a dull crazy place. The locals were up in arms and the mayor at the time was pissed off (which made a change from being pissed up courtesy of the rate payers). I got wind when I found a used newspaper on a bus, which I believe ‘found ME’. I thought ‘maybe it’s ‘much’ worse than some news reporter who has no idea of the place realises, how could he or she? I began to word sketch my caricature of the town with the reason for why it is, I can’t help writing in that style, it comes naturally, my muse is a fun entity, so I am too. So, why would my version of the town come to me in a way which was so hilarious to me that I ended up literally blowing a gasket laughing (I gave myself a hernia). Hang on just a second though. One character you’re going to meet is my old mate, Sharpo. People sometimes wondered where the hell he came from. I can tell you ...

  Back in Heaven ...

  God: “Peter! Come here! Please.”

  Peter: “What’s up?”

  God: “Look! He’s taken them again! The little bastard! Platinum with mother of pearl inlay by soul Michelangelo. What does he do with them? What’s the bloody point of nicking things here?”

  Peter: “I think he gets a kick out of it.”

  God: “Well I’ve had enough! I’m trying to create Universes and stuff and all I think about is that irritating little shit all the Non-time, it’s a good job we don’t get blood pressure. Send him to earth please.”

  Peter: “He will just do the same things there. Fighting, nicking stuff, chasing rabbits, chasing female souls around ... he will upset people and the police.”

  God: “So?! ... Just bloody send him, NOW!”

  Peter: “Ok, calm down. Where to?”

  “That place I forgot about. The one I remember occasionally and then conveniently forget about straight away. The place with the crazy Reverend who is always hassling me, scary human that one, thinks he’s my boss. What’s it called again? You know, whatsitsname ... erm ...”

  Peter: “Millom?”

  Sorry about that ... where was I. Ah! The locals won’t read it, never mind buy it ... maybe you can enjoy it for them? It’s a caricature work of Friction i.e. fact and fiction. On other lesser sites it is advertised as fiction, but they don’t have a tick box for friction, I think that’s unique to Wonky Books. So, if you’re visiting the Lakes, make sure you visit Millom and tell the locals why ...Russell in the Bridge cafe would be delighted if you did that (say hello from me). Now let’s get on with the caricature real life pantomime. 99% of the characters you’ll meet are real. Some have said, why use the real people? Well, because they’re part of Millom, they are Millom (or were) ... and apart from that, if I’m to tell the caricature truth, how can I use anyone else? And apart from that, if I’m to get my cute, shapely ass sued off, we may as well have a good day in court. Since this ‘banging my head against a brick wall’ session began, quite a few of them have died. The bright side of that is ‘there are now less of them to sue me’.

  Popular Characters

  The usual bunch of vagabonds you’ll probably find in any town. For e.g.

  The Reverend Joe: He was head of the local church. God was actually in awe and a little fear when it came to Joe.

  Arthur Ferguson: King Arthur. He ‘founded’ the town (in my panto) with his wife Cissy.

  Sharpo: A local vagabond hero, always fighting, always chasing women, catching rabbits and other furry things. Head of the local flower arranging club.

  Peggy: She’s the horse (one horse town).

  Brick: Oh Dear.

  Togo: Oh Dear.

  Freddie Hunter: Owns Peg and drinks in the Harbour Hotel at nearby Haverigg.

  Chris Mayne: Landlord of the Harbour Hotel.

  Look out Millomites! Low flying newspaper articles!

  This next cutting was my gift of Manna.

  As Millom was highlighted in a court of law, I thought it would be nice to defend it in a court of law, which seems fair enough. A full testament of defence because the prosecution have already had their pound of flesh (albeit a while back now but, these things take time). So ... “I’m going to need a good Judge, is anyone out there?!”

  “Over here Mr Lassut! Justice Robert Jackson, I’m a hip Judge, I was Chief ‘Justice’ at the Nuremberg trials. I’ll listen to your Defence. I also have a Jury with me, they’re all in the pub at the moment getting hammered, they’re bored you see. We all need something interesting to do.”

  Okay sir, thank you, you’re all hired. What should I call you during proceedings?

  “Something simple. How about … M’lud?”

  Fine, can we start the defence on Monday morning M’lud? Give me the weekend to get my papers together and my overly busy head sorted.

  “That’s okay by me Mr Lassut. I’m going to the pub now to join the Jury, see you Monday, ten a.m.”

  Bye M’lud!

  The Trial Begins.

  It is a lovely Monday morning and in the imaginary Court, the people waited with baited breath.

  Day One: King Arthur (for Ciss and Arthur. Oh and Dave and Mark ...)

  Arthur Ferguson run (or ran) Ferguson’s shop on Wellington Street and, has a nice house at the top end of M. He has two sons, David and Mark … I once hung out (so to speak) with David.

  A rare shot where he is showing off. He moved the chair and sat on his wallet. He loves me very much and would never dream of moaning about having his picture displayed.

  ***

  MONDAY MORNING 10 a.m.

  We are in the Crown Court, it is full. The Jury are in place and the Court Clerks are ‘sober!’ and ready. Is Sharpo here? Naaa, he spends enough time here, he’s having a few days off. I once suggested at work, because we worked at the same place ... ‘Stephen, why don’t you build an extension on your house so the cops can move in, save them coming down here every other day?’

  Clerks: “All rise for M’lud!”

  He comes in and takes his seat.

  M’lud: “Good morning everyone. This week we are going to be, as you already know, listening to the case of M town -V- the Police and the press. M was accused of being the End of the Line! The place where visitors are said to fear falling off the edge of the world!

  The defence will be conducted by an ex-Millom man who was driven to, and liked it (!?) … Coventry of all places! So, may I introduce Mr Frankie Lassut who, I shall refer to formally as Mr Lassut throughout the hearing, which is scheduled to last the whole week. So without further ado … Mr Lassut, are you ready to tell the truth, the whole truth and your caricatured version of the truth? Helped enthusiastically by God of course? Please do put your hand on the Bible, you probably won’t get blisters but, there again, reading these notes you have kindly supplied … dear me!”

  ‘Of course I’m ready to tell the truth, the whole truth and my learned version of the truth M’lud, ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, what else? After all I can’t afford a spin doctor to
sex up my documentation. As for the Bible, there is no problem with me touching its well leafed pages … look watch …

  No smoke or smell of burning human meat … Karma you see … I’m a goodie! Sharpo has tried this several times in Court and each time the Bible has upped and legged it (what’s he like!?)

  Still, I may have to go to confession this weekend with the Reverend, just to ensure a safe seat (Halleluiah!).

  Well M’lud! I have a lot to say so, without further ado, I would now like to present the case of Millom -V- the National Press and the local Police.’

  M’lud: “Carry on Mr Lassut”.

  Thank you, M’lud. Firstly I feel it necessary to enlighten you the Jury and you the reader as to the actual beginnings of the town of Millom. M is geographically situated on the West Coast of England in the County of Cumbria. It lays opposite Barrow in Furness, the two towns being separated by an estuary, which plays host to the Irish Sea which uses the estuary as tide practice. I sincerely hope that this short history will act as a useful ‘prelude’, allowing me to then explain the significance of such an ‘end of the line’ dwelling which, according to the prosecution, the ‘usefulness of which’ ended in the sixties when iron ore production ceased. Only the most cynical of humans could write off a community just because an industry comes to an end. You see ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader ‘change is everything’ although we humans tend to despise it. Yet nothing stays the same even for a moment (cos even though a shoe may not appear to be moving the atoms, which comprise it, are … so there). To fight change is to fight yourself. Hodbarrow’s Hematite ore, when in production, was some of the finest iron ever to be mined, I may add. As for the ‘fishing industry’, mentioned by the prosecution, all will be revealed. I will also sing the praises of some of the great, as yet ‘undiscovered’ creative, talented minds in the town, the shopping opportunities, local landmarks and the mind boggling entertainment enjoyed by the citizens etc.