Millom in the Dock Read online

  Nowadays I am, as you know, not a direct physical member of the M community although, I did spend the first thirty years of my life there so, I am fully qualified and thrilled to be doing this job. There in mind but not in body it could be said although, I do still have a physical connection in a way, because of my mother, Mrs Joan Lassut’s continued presence as the Queen (Ice) of Queens Park plus, old friends of course. The years which I had the pleasure of being a resident were enjoyable although, unfortunately, in the end M did not hold the possibilities of the experiences my life demanded and so, I had no choice but to leave, though not quite in the manner described so brilliantly by M’lud. I feel very fortunate though in being brought up there and experiencing both the community and, also the countryside, which is very beautiful and well worth a visit for anyone with a spare weekend. I do also remember the ironworks in action which, once again, qualifies me to feel fortunate. My father, Frank Lassut, actually worked there.

  I would, as part of my task, like to communicate to you M’lud, you, the learned Jury and especially ‘you’ dear reader the positive points of such a badly situated town. There again, it is actually on the doorstep of the world famous Lake District, a definite bonus (as I rewrite this, the DVD of Miss Potter is on sale … it’s been a few years since this project began … so be it).

  There is also an untapped fountain of ingenuity in the town, as I’ve already stated, not to mention sporting talent, acting talent, song writing talent, artistic talent etc. Have I already said this? Well, if I have, repetition can be a useful tool to fix something firmly in the mind. My only concern is that there may actually be ‘too much’ to communicate in one short week, time being the enemy of the enthusiast but, I fully intend to do my utmost in the precious portion of time I am to be allowed. That ‘I can guarantee’. Maybe the town is crying out for investment or tourism (?) hence the lovely negative publicity to bring it to the attention of the world?

  Problems could then be seen as gifts (?) and not curses. It may be useful to know that the Chinese have two symbols for the word ‘crisis’. One means danger whilst the other, opportunity.

  So has this call for help been heard? I don’t think so. If it has, it fell on the deaf drums of those who don’t want to hear because no one has thrown a lifebelt! M always receives a refusal from the financial bodies, so I’m informed. No one is interested. Tragic M’lud, ladies and gentlemen of the Jury and dear reader. Yet, twenty four miles away by road, not as the ‘crow flies’, unless of course it’s been drinking with Chris, Craggy, Freddy and Peg in the Harbour Hotel in Haverigg, a small nearby village/town. Yes twenty four miles away by land sits, as I’ve already mentioned, Barrow in Furness, rolling around in a mud wrestling bath of investment money. But it will come if it’s going to, may I begin with the origins of the town M’lud?

  M’lud: “Carry on Mr Lassut”.

  Ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader; this is not the ‘official’ Copeland Borough Council version (not even in this dimension … theirs is boring).

  One fine day, a long, long time ago, a canny wee man from Dundee got lost on his travels and, for many days wandered aimlessly in the wilderness. He was bored was the wee Scot.

  He was also holding safely in his right palm a farthing and whistling en-er-geti-call-ly, so happy was he with being so minted and free! (In those days farthings were worth £3,000). The lad though was so out of tune that a rabbit with a headache raised its sensitive ears periscope like from a burrow in order to gain some insight into the cause of whatever it was that was shattering the peace and making his head pound all the more. Once located the bunny could give the perpetrator a vicious, wrinkly browed, buck toothed stare and hopefully, scare it off, thus returning the/it’s world to peace.

  You M’lud, ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader, may call it bad timing? Others among you may choose to call it fate but, our Dundee dude tripped! Over the top of the rabbit’s slowly turning furry napper. Upon his impact with terra firma as he kissed the dirt, the farthing was launched slingshot like from his hand only to disappear down another burrow some feet away. His panicked search was the accidental beginning of the iron ore mine and M Town. Whether or not the poor chap found the coin is anyone’s guess? Mine would be yes because, you see, no skeleton was ever found. Ahhh! You may laugh! Make of that what you will but, ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, M’lud and dear reader the real version as told to me in great honesty by local musician and singer, Willie (blue suede shoes) Farren, over many beers. At his insistence, I had to buy and did so such was my commitment to this case.

  M’lud, ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader the town of Millom was actually founded by Cornish miners believe it or not who then attracted other miners from everywhere, like a flora pollen pot would attract bees. Here is how they discovered the precious Hematite ore in the land that would eventually ‘sprout’ God forsaken M.

  ***

  Down in Cornwall one sunny morning around about 1866, about 93 years before Sharpo was kicked out of heaven for stealing the Pearly Gates ... during their measly half hour tea break which had been accepted by the weak union reps who were now a part of the management team, the mining guys and gals (yes, someone has to carry the load for the men) were playing a game of ‘Boundary-less football’ which saves time on throw ins and corners and, thus compensates for the short break. Through bad passing and lousy ball control they gradually worked their way up country, moving the goalposts frequently and, being forcibly stopped many miles later as a wave washed over Emlyn Hughes’s great, great granddad’s cousins brother’s feet. He shouted “stoooop!!!” just as some bright spark kicked a thirty yard shot to goal and, an early ancestor of Millom’s famous Frankie Forrest an old workmate of mine and, an amateur goalie … let it in! The ball consequently set off on the tide at a good lick for the Isle of Man.

  “Ah!? What shall we do now?” asked one of them, this being a great question in the circumstances you must admit M’lud, ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader.

  “Well” replied an espouser of wisdom, a sage amongst them … “as we’re miners and as our slightly extended break is now over and, as we’re lost beyond doubt and most probably hope too? Furthermore, because we can’t even play soccer now because nob over there kicked the ball into the sea after double-nob over there let it in … easy save as it was … how about we dig for something mineable? Might be something worth a pastie or two under the ground right here?” (He jumps up and down listening for a hollow sound, I bet). This was hailed as a great idea and the following cheer: “Hurrah!” sort of dissipated into the nothingness of no M. They had therefore found what was as good a spot as any, well away from a certain burrow and a well relieved rabbit with a bad head (must ferment dandelion juice?) which had been rudely woken by the cheer and the low level Richter vibes from the jumping up and down. It is all because of those big sensitive ears you see. They, the ex-Cornish miners, started to dig without further ado with their hands (Foreign Legion stuff). This resulted in broken nails which just wasn’t good enough for the women and, as the men couldn’t stand them just sitting around advising naggedly, a new plan was needed. It was unanimously decided to go to a place next to Barrow in Furness called Biggar Bank, quite fitting really and get a huge mammoth of an interest free loan and, eighteen months free banking, easy in those days of low cholesterol, sorry collateral, I do apologise for the mistake M’lud, ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader.

  M’lud: “Forgiven Mr Lassut”.

  Their representatives sat in the Biggar Bank Manager’s office, fingers crossed, hoping.

  “You want to dig for Hematite iron ore where?” asked the Biggar Caring Bank Loan Manager.

  “M”.

  “Where is Millum?”

  “Mill-h ‘o’m – just over the water, jutting out there (pointing out of window), at the bottom of that big hill called Black Coombe”.

  “Where did you get the name M from?”

  “One of our a
rtier thespian miners who we affectionately call “The Bored Bard” stood on his head this morning and composed a poem called ‘I sat by a Weeping Willow’. He was trying to impress one of the mining women whom we even more affectionately call ‘miner birds’.”

  “Oh really!?” he replied, bemused yet fascinated. “How much money do you want then? Just name your amount. I’m satisfied with your inspirational business plan, very impressive! Your arty thespian poet should consider getting a proper job though as he’s obviously a little disturbed. I’m also going to be extremely insistent on waiving the ‘set up’ fee and, I’d also like to give you eighteen months to ten years free banking, if that’s okay with you lot?” (Would anyone like to borrow my Universe/dimension machine?)

  “Yes that’s fine with us lads and lasses. Hmmm? Around two hundred quid ought to do it”.

  “No problem, pay it back if and when you can we won’t bother you with threatening letters and Biggar Bank charges so don’t adopt worry as part of your life experience, simply laugh instead. Erm … will you build a Police Station?”

  “Maybe, although we probably won’t need it, being model citizens and all that and, maybe it’s a bit pinnacle-ish for a Police Station? But, we will anyway, it may put the town on the map one day, you just never know.”

  ***

  That was it easy eh? Nothing’s changed much as the Banks even all these years later are fantastic establishments, I’m sure you agree … seriously.

  Well M’lud they quickly built the ironworks foundry and, in order to protect themselves against the inclement weather (courtesy of Scotland and the Irish Sea), banged a few wooden huts together thus forming a main street which they named ‘Wellington’ after their football footwear. They also built a few larger three and four bedroomed scattered dwellings here and there for those poshies who fancied the detached lifestyle away from commoners. Everything seemed perfect.

  Ahhhhhhhh!

  The minority majority, the ‘miner birds’ though, being very aware, noticed a tidgy widgy sub-atomic, nano quantum flaw in the town plan. Each time they went shopping in Wellington Street, no matter how hard they all searched, no shops could be found. This disaster meant that they were all getting cold, hungry and bored because of their inadequate clothing and, as of yet, poor rabbiting skills. The original rabbit became anthro (man) phobic and wouldn’t come out of his burrow any more … poor wee thing. So the miner who sat by the burrow for ages with a shovel raised above his head waiting was really wasting his time. He should have gone fishing instead. Were they doomed then? Was it all over so early and after so much effort? Naaaaa!

  THE KING OF MILLOM ARRIVES

  King Arthur

  Earrrr-ly one mor-or-ning, just after the Sun had ri-i-sen, their saviour arrived and walked Royally over the brow of a beautifully lit Black Coombe. He was dragging his large handcart behind him which was all the heavier, but not that much, because his lovely wife Cissy was sat atop the bric-a-brac mound. However he noticed the distant dwellings and out came the ancient brass telescope. Arthur Ferguson surveyed Wellington Street at twenty times magnification and thought to himself … Shiiiiittttt!? But! Where there’s Shiiiiittttt there is money, so they say.

  One hundred? Two hundred years or so ago when all this drama happened animals, which now reside on farms, were neither evolved nor domesticated in M. Also, by the way, M’lud, ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader, Arthur Ferguson is ‘ageless and infinite’ (and a friend of mine so I should know) which is the perfect excuse for the previous sentence.

  ***

  Sheep were not as you know them now, oh no! Armed with powerful fangs and razor sharp claws they were deadly hunters, making sabre toothed tigers seem limp clawed in comparison. They would crouch in the long grass and leap with deadly precision on who or whatever happened to be passing in order to feed, or just for a laugh! They weren’t fussy either, food and between meals punch-bags (which enhanced not ruined their appetite) came in many different and varying forms. If it moved and had bones … or not (?) it was dinner, or a sparring partner. They didn’t hang around in flocks either but, were independent ferocious woolly predators. Cows were similarly different. Back then bovines were tree dwellers, jumping from branch to branch and dangling with the use of a prehensile (bendy-curly) tail and gripping hooves. Cows tended to dangle above blackberry bushes and grab blackberry feeding blackbirds. They would then hold the bird above their open mouth and gently squeeze, swallowing the sticky stream of partly digested fruit which they loved. It also beat getting pricked to death on the bushes and you try picking blackberries with hooves designed for gripping thick branches. Not easy at all, be glad you have hands. Where they pooped, blackberry bushes would grow abundantly and the birds which managed to escape with full stomachs, the bovine clutches would in turn keep the natural rotation going. To this day some M cows still love blackberries and their milk is really nice I’m told. Unless they have discovered something they find nicer, like grass perhaps? But I don’t believe so.

  It is necessary to again mention here that the birds were not squeezed all that hard which ensured safe release. Well you can’t just chuck a dead blackbird away after you’ve squeezed all the berry mush from it as ignorant people do abundantly with plastic bottles … think of the environment. In fact the birds muchly enjoyed being hoof-hugged by a cow, you could tell by the way they squawked, it has been written in M folklore.

  It is a good job Sir Paul McCartney wasn’t in M around that time as “blackbird squawking in the dead of night” just doesn’t have the same ring to it does it M’lud, ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader. ‘Night time?’ You ask. Well some cows i.e. creative ones with insomnia were also nocturnal feeders, which kills boredom and gives the brain a natural sugar boost in those long dark hours you see (tell me about it). Chickens back then had six inch, toucan-like serrated beaks and preyed on mice and rabbits. These they caught by hovering above hedges and grassy knolls, dropping on their prey and killing it with their deadly talons and then dining using that beak as cutlery. It all started to go wrong for these birds and beasts when Arthur Ferguson began teaching himself sheep wrestling, a predecessor to Cumberland and Westmorland wrestling, started in M you see … boring place. Zzzzz. Let’s not forget Bovine Bashing, a predecessor to the now ‘feared’ M Rugby League Club, never mind wimps such as The England Squad.

  The King and I. He offered me a Knight hood, it had a bobble on top.

  ***

  For capturing the chickens he left an old wig on the floor and waited behind a nearby bush, armed only with a strawberry net, both of which he had brought in his Aladdin’s Cave of a handcart. Mind you, this hunting method made an awful mess of the hairpiece, which people who saw him hunting thought he wore afterwards, and for good reason. You see he just rubs his head a lot when working out discounts, giving him that shiny bit. So please, should you ever get to meet him, don’t whatever you do say “could I please have the chrome dome discount?” you see it isn’t big, it isn’t hard or even clever and you will definitely blow away any chance of actually getting the huge discount … which he managed eventually to decide on, not to mention come to terms with massive mental and scalp pain. This then was the beginning of Ferguson’s (almost the entire length of) Wellington Street shop. He did very well selling full body sheep wool overalls to the miners as it was freezing down’t pit. This is the origin of the M expression “Woollybacks”.

  For the wives he did a nice range of black and white handbags. Sometimes he would do a brown or brown and white designer range for the posher mining folk from such middle class mud tracks as Lowther Road. He also spent time domesticating the animals by strapping splints to their agile legs and, also to the cows’ tails. That is the reason why cows and sheep all walk rather stiffly now. It is a mystery how a gentle man like Arthur managed to tame the sheep, being the ferocious predators that they were. Up t’t North where all this happened, sheep farmers put rowdy sheepdogs in pens with ‘I take no shit from she
ep dogs and rams. I reckon, if he had been around and not causing grief upstairs, Sharpo would have been the man to put in a pen with one of these ferocious sheep. There would have been, as Sharpo would put it, blood, snot and wool flying, but you would receive a tamed, slightly traumatised sheep ... and so cheap at a groat a time. Can’t you see him in your mind, sat on a furious sheep’s back doing the Woolly Rodeo ... sometimes it’s useful being five foot seven. Just think if he had been banished earlier:

  God: “I enjoy these woolly rodeos, fills in Saturday afternoons.”

  Peter: “Agreed. We should start hotdogs, Butterkist and fizzy drinks.”

  The fangs and beaks he evolved by making the animals chew pork scratchings on a 24/7 rota. The pigs were similar to sheep in their habits, yet weren’t I don’t suppose, all too pleased at being the abrasive for fangs? The claws on the sheep and the pigs were dealt with by giving the breeding animals sandpaper boots over the years. Flight in the chicken populace was abolished by …