Millom in the Dock Page 3

  Feeding them really well and limiting exercise

  Clipping their flight feathers and

  Hypnosis

  All this history and evolution from M … boring eh!? (Mind you, we are in another dimension).

  The chickens by the way were sold as boilers or roasters (I don’t know the difference) ‘with’ giblets! Because they were good big fit birds, he had a sign on the counter next to them … GM chicken here. It stood for ‘Get More’ chicken for your money here. It was in preparation for the competition. It may have meant something else if he had owned a chemistry set and a devious, sinister mind and, been in another dimension. He also ventured to Haverigg, a small seaside village one mile from M, built a boat and thus created the local whaling ‘fleetlet’. He would sit quietly on his boat and ride the swell and, when he spotted a sperm whale pod (named because of the spermaceti oil which is derived from the beast); he would attract the mammals by throwing bits of bread into the water and waving his arms. He also had one of the first washing-up liquid bottles in the town which, he used to shoot a jet of water into the air just like a spouting whale, in order to attract the pod over for a bit of social spouting.

  The bread was made in a clay oven in a baker’s shop on Holborn Hill, by another early settler (and earlier riser), Ken Thompson, a local master baker (great bloke Ken!).

  The whale meat was sold on the quayside. Local fishwives would cry at his prices, he would say “Oh stop blubbering will you!” another M first (boring eh!?). He would then, because of the recently settled Harveriggite fishwives incessant wailing, drop his prices on some of the less popular cuts such as fins. He would then proceed to lay them out on the boats sail, after first removing it from the boat of course. This clever action stopped the fishwives wailing and, caused a buying frenzy. These frenzies happened in January hence ‘January Sails’. Yet another M first! Zzzzzzzz!

  Arthur had been sustained all this time with good cooking by his lovely wife Cissy. I don’t know too much about Cissy’s origins except to say that I once heard a story that she was the runaway daughter of a trader from the American Deep South … The Mississippi Delta to be exact. She became known as … Missy Cissy from the Mississippi Delta. If customers to the shop managed to say it perfectly 6 times, quickly, they received the whopping discount. Arthur would try his utmost to distract by waving his arms and dancing a jig hoping the bemused customer would become confused and lose the discount. Cissy, a generous soul who loved giving THE discount, would just batter him one and, send him sulking into his office at the rear of the shop where, he could spy on people and shop assistants through his mirror strips. They built a big detached house on top of a hill by a track, what is now called Fairfield Road, it has a turret so that Arthur can regularly survey his kingdom (customer base). Cissy and Arthur have two children Mark and David (Dave is one of my biggest fans). Mark’s was a normal uncomplicated birth, except for the fact that his moustache tickled a little … according to Cissy, whom I interviewed under deep hypnosis. Dave’s birth though, during a violent electrical storm, was via an immaculate conception. Dave would agree to this except that by immaculate conception I mean … Cissy used Immac and Arthur was late each time coming home from the shop (which I’ve put down to nerves). Cissy nagged him a little for making her wait but, nonetheless, some souls demand physical life in order to have the experience of giving less discount hence, Dave Ferguson was cruelly unleashed into an unsuspecting consumer world.

  Gee! Thanks Cissy and Arthur.

  Dave has three nines on his head now, which were sixes as an adolescent and mere threes as a cute child. Well, I think they’re nines now? Or … maybe I looked from the wrong side of his cranial circumference the last time he bowed to me in grateful thanks for something or other? Just for being his friend, guru, mentor and psychiatrist most probably. Who knows? Still perspective can be a dangerous thing depending on how you look at it. For the slower among you the last sentence was a very sophisticated joke. Worry not though they don’t get it in Coventry either. But that’s how it all started, unfortunately though the town evolved so far without any Divine help, maybeeeee ooohhh into the Victorian era? History not being my strong point … then stopped M’lud!

  M’lud: “Very interesting Mr Lassut, thank goodness for Cissy and Arthur Ferguson and their huge profitable shop on Millom’s Wellington Street. I think we should give them a free advert at this point”.

  KING ARTHUR FERGUSON’S SHOP

  WELLINGTON STREET

  Cow handbags ‘still’ a speciality

  Buy one, get one FREEsian

  Hurry offer ends soon, can’t last for heffer

  Farmer’s special: wild sheep training by Sharpo ... cancelled.

  Comfy horsehair foot cover sales on … while socks last

  Mentally excruciating 1% discount with this page!

  (Cancelled if … you know why)

  That must be the best AD you’ve ever AD Arthur.

  M’lud: “And now Mr Lassut, just before we finish this first session, could you please tell us the reason why the iron ore mines closed back in the sixties?”

  Certainly M’lud.

  Well ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader; again I have two short versions. The first one being …

  “The mines became uneconomical.”

  Pretty simple, straightforward and politically boringly official but … wrong and, not to mention … borriinnggg times ten.

  The true version which I will now recount was, once again, purchased by my good self using the popular local liquid currency. This time I did really well to hold the memory during a disturbed sleep in someone’s flower bed. As would be obvious any town which relies on mining is sat atop a honeycomb of tunnels. The closure was due to a ferreter of all things. He was out hunting rabbits one day and, found two holes in one of the fields. He had a minor problem though, one purse net … two holes. The problem was compounded by the fact that the holes were ten and one bit feet apart i.e. more than one body length. Hmmmmm! Luckily he was fairly clever and, placed the purse net over one of the holes. The other? Well in it he placed a brick which, was just a weeny bit larger than the hole and, jumped on it until it was about two inches lower than the surface. He then placed clay over the top and patted it down; the Incredible Rabbit Hulk wouldn’t have got out. In went the ferret, over the hole went the net and out came dinner … home went he; happy as a pig in sh …

  Well, over time down’t mine shafts, the miners ate their pasties, sarnies, pickles, spring onions, cockles, mussels etc., and in the evenings drank copious amounts of beer. This mixture does have an effect similar to an internal Hiroshima (or Sellafield) on the intestines with, a grand finale the next day. Similar to a reverse wired Dyson cleaner during a power surge. To allow for this a hole had been poked through the roof of a suitable shaft to allow fumes to escape into the atmosphere … it was the unbearable stink which caused the mines to shut down, plus the fear of having lit candles. They didn’t need canaries M’lud.

  So who knows what now inhabits the old, cold, long closed mine shafts? Does it / they (?) have a nose(s)? But then again, what does it matter? What is now important is the living community above the surface, the good people of M, not the ghosts in the honeycomb catacombs.

  M’lud: “Thank you Mr Lassut, it is now eleven a.m. Court will recess and resume again at one thirty”.

  Clerks: “All rise for M’lud”.

  ***

  ANYONE FOR BOWLS?

  Millom Bowling Green is the domain of the old wise ones (hold back a little on the wise, you have it). So what would be interesting in the other dimension concerning a bowling green?

  This section is dedicated to my old bowling mates Gary Maggs and James Wearing (Mouse).

  1.30 p.m.

  “All rise for M’lud”.

  He sits.

  M’lud, before I really get stuck into the Prosecution I would like to tell of the appreciative care given to those who (pear) shaped the town … the M old folk
. The loving care given through relaxing sporting activities provided by the Council is second to none because, these are the people who have managed to keep the town well behind the times (with no Divine intervention of course), therefore giving it the edge when it comes to romanticism and dark night ‘Shaw Kite’ lit dinners (pronounced Sh … how … ‘later’) not to mention, an extremely high skill factor in the noble art of ‘bowls’.

  M’lud: “Ah yes” Bowls! A very skilful game. What is Shaw Kite by the way? I haven’t heard that term before”.

  Ah! All will soon be revealed M’lud.

  M’lud: “Oh ok, very well, then carry on Mr Lassut”.

  Well M’lud, ladies and gentlemen of the Jury and you, of course, dear reader. The older squeaky shoed generation would gather up the Recreation Park during hot, fly buzzy summer afternoons to roll a few jacks and listen, as we did, to the town’s most entertaining bird, an escaped parrot which had belonged to King Arthur, acquired on his extensive global pre-M travels no doubt. It was the only escaped parrot in the town incidentally and, thus very lonely. He would sit there quite happily on his favourite branch, singing one of its many memorised Slade numbers. Everybody in the world, nay, nay the Universe liked Slade, even stupid parents. The parrot’s repertoire was such, possibly because Slade were the only group we ever listened to ‘full blast’ on the gangs Shaw Kite cassette player as, we played on the swings and things. It is a very spiritually enlightening experience listening to a parrot performing a squawky version of ‘Cum on Feel the Noise’. We christened him Noddy Holder (Nod for short) of course.

  One day one of our number sent, at great speed, a golf ball down the chip and putt course which, is next to the bowling green. It isn’t an ideal place to see how far you can smack a ball yet, what the hell, we were young and adventurous (live each day as though it’s your last). It reached about thirty feet in altitude which wasn’t bad for the driving device was a bent, wooden shafted putter, quite impressive really. But, the ball caught Noddy in full song, producing a cloud of feathers which looked great in the sunlight as they floated to the ground, making a fantastic pattern both as they floated and, after they landed. How we ever managed not to hit any of the other sensible players still astounds me. We each kept a colourful feather as a bookmark to remind us of our little / middle sized friend. We also had him stuffed then, nailed him to his favourite branch.

  Noddy Holder

  About a week later a really well plumed, healthy looking female mynah bird turned up from somewhere or other. Possibly again from King Arthur Ferg’s aviary of exotic birds collected on his extensive travels? Well, she landed next to Nod, she must have known about him or, heard him singing because she began to warble a beautiful version of ‘Everyday’ to him. This was obviously a mating ritual, too late for poor old Nod though … thanks to Mouse (a good lad and a big Slade fan), who had to work on his swing after this in case another entertaining Slade espousing parrot happened to turn up. As for the Mynah, she must have been listening to someone playing Tina Turner and, we all grew used to listening to ‘Nutbush City Limits’ on a continuous basis as she chatted up Nod, ‘Everyday’ was obviously just a chat up line. It was actually quite pleasing though you know, knowing that we had stuffed Noddy so well using wire and wood wool that, he looked completely lifelike.

  One day though she must have just got plain fed up of receiving no response (I’ve had the same problem over the last 30 odd years in more ways than one), so she had one comprehensive final preen and, then flew tearfully away. It’s not that often you see a Mynah cry over a stuffed parrot so, on an ornithological basis, we were blessed indeed. One can bet Bill Oddie never observed such spectacles. Whatever though, Tina was no more. So M’lud, ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader, so much for stories of the wonderful natural entertainment I used to enjoy with my friends in my youth and back to boring old bowls.

  The Bowling Green

  If you were to get on all fours and place the side of your head on the ground at one corner of the bowling green and look diagonally towards the other corner, or any other point for that matter, you could see how the crown of the green gave the merest hint of a slope (NOT).

  Rumour has it that the ‘Ancient’s Bowling Club’ or the ABCs for short (that was handy wasn’t it), still argue like old wives with the fell walkers for ‘who’ uses the area at any specified time, as pre-booking is not allowed as it would ruin the fun of the arguments for the bored onlookers. There had possibly been, or still is, a massive ironwork’s mine fart gas pocket underneath the bowling area thought to cause such a lumpy landscape. So yes! M can boast its own National Park! A ‘mini Cotswolds’ none the less! Let’s hope the gas never ignites or, that will be something else which will be visible from space, for a few minutes while at least. Or even the world’s first bowling green in space!

  M’lud, ladies and gentlemen of the Jury and, ‘you’ dear reader, it is said in M pub ‘fuzzy’ folklore and possibly also Oxfordshire’s alcoholic establishments too (?), that it was here on this very bowling green that, Sir Edward Elgar received his trigger and inspiration for the Angina Variations and, not on the rolling hills of Oxfordshire, which cannot be dismissed as, they undoubtedly gave him the inspiration for the later, famous, beautiful ‘Enigma Variations’, although M’s Midland cousins may want to claim the former, more entertaining (?) work. Remember though, the M lot are well prepared to fight for them!

  However, whatever and, of course, ‘whichever’ he could only walk on the green musing and taking notes from his mind to be transferred as ink blobs (and sticks) on paper when the ABCs were not playing. No room for bloody ‘pomp and circumstance’ with the bowls club mob! Oh no! If he bothers them too much he’ll have his Nimrod inserted where the sun don’t shine. I hear that some of them can remove their teeth quicker than Bruce Lee could punch and, then at the same blur speed, administer a sloppy suck to the victim’s neck, leaving a multi-coloured erotica-less love bite the size of the inner diameter of a toilet roll tube. So M’lud, ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader, now that you know, never be tempted to write music on Ms bowling green, use one of the seats dotted around the edge (but beware of low flying golf balls) … U have been warned!

  I very recently (2002 … seems like ancient history now) watched the bowls players in the Coventry Sports Centre. It’s a lovely arena; deceptively flat with an invisible crown, almost like looking at the curvature of the earth, bathed in fluorescent sunlight … no parrot though, just a few old vultures with quiet shoes. The jack rolled in a straight line, then was placed in the centre of the particular piece of ‘green’ being used by that group. Then the rest of the weighted balls followed. There were some good shots played I must admit, perfect strength to cause bowl and jack to sit together. I talked to someone ten minutes later in the exercise class which I was attending about what I’d seen …

  “Yes a lot of skill involved isn’t there?”

  This made me wonder just how they would fare on the green back up North. I mean what do you do after the jack has disappeared over the first mound? Or rolled over the foot of the first pillock? The M players were running blind! Were they psychic? Could they see ‘through the hill’? That was just with the jack, which has no weight, i.e. bias on one side of it. But, to get a biased ball to roll smoothly to the side of this little white ball … that’s not exactly skill you know … that’s flaming Voodoo! There weren’t just the hillocks either, there were molehills too, and rabbit holes of course. It was a little like the Teletubbies set after a visit by the local territorials. Yes we tried to play, be it without much skill as such, did Gary Maggs and myself (my child and youth hood buddy), and occasionally Mouse.

  During the hiring of the sets of bowls from the clubhouse, the Park Keeper would glare at us suspiciously and ask “did you two nick two four irons, a putter and two reject balls from this establishment to use at Silecroft?” (Silecroft is a local seaside ((last)) resort caravan area and beach, with a large golf course, scared
sheep and, a tide that loves hooked golf balls on the first two tees).

  “No mister!” we lied.

  “Whatever” I’m going to see your parents in the Workies (M Working Men’s Club … local hotspot) on the next Acapella karaoke night!”

  That was it then our miserable, wretched lives over (without really ever starting) … on with the game though. The jack, after the initial scop (throw) would end up due west and the bowls, due east near sand city or, to use local terms … M and Haverigg town and village centres respectively. To avoid having to take these long, time consuming, retrieval walks I asked one of the nearby old fogies home resident ‘experts’ how it was really done? He looked at me through his ancient watery eyes and said in a very dry, raspy tone …

  “You have to be very, very old and have squeaky patent leather shoes and not move very fast at all. You also have to practice for hours on end, using ancient Hen Buddhism (local farmer version), to train your mind in the art of seveeerrre concentration. If you are immeasurably old and infinite like me, one must cancel weeks in advance all boring family visits which really do make the prospect of hell most welcoming. Yet! Most important of all, try, try, trrrry by whatever means it takes, to get here before that pain in the bloody ass, boring bloody bleeding badass born again blasted displaced Midlands composer. But! If you have to work in order to save thousands upon thousands of pounds to leave to your children (?), you’ve had it because; you will not have time to dedicate to the art of M Hill Bowling.

  If the rabbits bother you, you must pay one of the locals to either ferret them out (watch it!) or, blast them to bits with a shotgun and then fill up their holes. As for the moles, we keep them underground by soaking their hills with twelve times normal strength nitric acid. You must be careful not to get the acid on your fingers and then go to the park toilets.