Millom in the Dock Read online

  It also helps your ‘see through the hill’ eyesight if you stop in the rest home and actually drink the food they serve as; it contains lots of tasty radioactive Barium trace elements which help the nursing staff to monitor our sloth like inner movements by stripping us off and watching us closely in a dark room. I’m actually live on Russian satellite radar as I lecture you” (he didn’t actually say that but it sounds good). Then his mind flipped and he went into automatic normal ‘non-divine intervention’ mode …

  “Huh! Don’t know you’re born you young uns! Get a proper job and keep off OUR bloody crown bloody bowling green until you are a crusty dusty!”

  “Is that all?” I asked on behalf of both/all of us.

  “Not quite my son, you must also be a jammy old sod with great consistency and, occasionally roll your ball with some vigour at other groups … ‘groupings’, smashing up their formation! It annoys them, keeps one young. If they complain and start shouting you must yell back … ‘sorry! Very sorry ladies and chaps!” in a slow raspy voice then continue with … “I was just trying to hit the composer Elgar who had snooked onto the green when it wasn’t his turn and, was striding dangerously close to your pack … humming some new tune. They usually end up thanking you for this … ‘thank you so much for saving our balls!’ They say. If they’re really grateful you are then in line for a free raspberry flavour fizzy Barium drink, with a dash of the old M balm fluid to give it a little bite, like a Bloody Mary with atrocious attitude. Nice to sip while you’re reading the well-worn Tibetan book of ‘Death and Hereafter’ back in the common room”.

  “Oh! Right then”, I replied, “so we’ve got no chance of ever getting a weighted ball at a competitively measurable distance from the jack then? Because we’re far, far too young, practise not nearly enough, will have to get a ‘proper job’ soon to be normal and, woe of woes, we don’t have squeaky shoes, dry skin, a raspy voice, liver spots, watery eyes, family plundered pensions or, dust on our clothes?”

  “That is correct my son. Now would you both kindly buzz off out of my way, I’m trying to impress that young filly over there”.

  The young filly was old enough to be my grandmother! It was the first time I’d seen a 110 year old trying to impress a 90 year old by showing her what he could do with his bowls. Hmmmm! My grandmother Nellie Irwin! I must mention this wonderful lady M’lud, ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader, because she was very important to the town and therefore this story. First though a little, ‘little’ known local history. Ahem! In both dimensions.

  Around the M and Haverigg peninsula lays a shoreline and an estuary. The water had to be halted in its tracks at certain places both to avoid the flooding of the mines and the ruining of people’s living room carpets, literally.

  Alternate dimension.

  Now, as local Royalists thought Arthur to be their King … Ferguson that is, not Pendragon. Mr Pendragon by the way was the first and last King to own a lottery company (think about it), now there’s a bit of history for you. However, the Royalists felt that he, King Fergie, had the power to halt the troublesome tide so, a strategy was devised by the keenest royal supporters, who were afraid of the carpet wetting effect of rogue waves. King Ferg’s most loyal supporters were the ones who ‘refused’ the discount by the way. The strategy was simple; he was sat on a deckchair throne on the marshy shorefront in order to demand the tide go no further than his feet … he got his socks wet, his trousers wet and his Ys wet. He would have got his nose wet too if they hadn’t waded in and rescued him. He was so grateful that he had acquired his clothing at trade price from a passing merchant with HIS Royal automatic ‘doozer’ of a discount. His Kingship was merely dampened, not destroyed, by this small tidal, TsNo-nami tragedy. All Arthur did to save his reputation was, firstly not panic and, secondly suggest the construction of the Banking barrier and the sea wall (the blocks) after which, he was almost sainted much to the jealous rage of the Reverend whose divine (!) self we shall meet later … guaranteed.

  By the way some information for all you relic hunters in Court today, the Holy Grail is in King Arthur Ferg’s kitchen cupboard, it has Malvern Sea Salt engraved on its side, framed by jewels. Trust me. Canute was foolish, he should have had the throne moved back past the high tide mark and then said … “there you go dudes … owzaaaaat! Waheeeey!”

  So, to combat this salt water problem Arthur’s inspired suggestion of a sea wall was built. Part of this defence was constructed next to the bottom end of Sharpo-Ville on the edge of the marshland. It’s called the Banking as I’ve already told you M’lud, ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader … a man-made grassy bank. People have allotments and pigeon lofts nearby which, we will hear about later. I’ll bet you just can’t wait can you. I’m itching to tell you … that’s how much I care.

  The other barrier is between Haverigg and another place called ‘white rock’ locals call it the blocks because, it’s made from large cubes of concrete. People dig worms from Haverigg shore and also collect softy crabs and go fishing off the blocks. Lots of these blocks contain specimens of ancient fossils; some of them still have the jack in their hand. On the other side of the blocks there is a water-ski lake / centre. This is very popular in the summer months. You ought to see the guy rowing the Coracle trying to keep that skier on the surface … and the juuuuump! When someone decides to attempt it is an education.

  NELLIE IRWIN

  Well, my long deceased Gran, Nellie Irwin, would take me for walks along the banking and on the marshes when I was but a cute little thing (and she didn’t mind me playing with my … ding a ling a ling!) which was nice of her. As we strolled along, she would say to me … “David, rightful King of M, move your cute little ass and don’t step in the shaw kite!” a general term she used for the used grass fibre wadding from both cows and sheep. I enjoyed it though, the fresh stuff that is as it was nice as it squidged through my toes (don’t knock it till you’ve tried it).

  I ought to mention here (in this dimension) that when I was younger, on a Saturday morning when my mother wanted to go shopping, she would drop me off at the Workies where my Gran was a cleaner. The beer glasses weren’t cleaned up on the night but, were left on the tables until the next morning when the cleaners went in. I ‘still’ don’t like the taste of beer but, with me being a sensitive and very emotional person to a fault, I enjoyed helping my Gran by making the glasses lighter; I still find beer … funny. I was a happy child on Saturdays and, because of this, the local child psychologist would come to ‘me’ for a session, boy did he have some troubles I had to help him sort. Gran if you’re aware of this writing, thanks xxx

  The shaw kite she warned me of was quickly claimed as Royal property. Arthur had / has employed a number of bored teenagers who have just left school and are therefore looking for something to do in order to earn rabbit skins for their mums to make new clothes etc. Arthur sends these manifestations of keenness out into the fields with bags of miniature billboards mounted on sticks. When they find a fresh country pancake they claim it much like a conqueror of Everest would claim victory over the mountain. The boards say … “Royal Poop! Property of King Arthur. Hands off!”

  Thus rendered safe it is later gathered by one or more of his heraldic shop assistants, placed in large refillable 48 hour jars, or larger one week size blue barrels (later copied by Calor) and used as the towns power supply … Methane. Electricity in the other dimension, M, forgotten by God … you having a laugh O great Divine one? People then had two choices of lighting. The poor generally used this natural Methane, whilst the middles generally used candles. They wouldn’t be seen dead with a jar of kite on their living room windowsill, not even if it were obscured by the light reflecting talent of a net curtain. Our gang’s cassette recorder had a jar of the stuff in full view; the middles hid their kite under a floral tapestry silk blanket. So that was it, Nellie Irwin, MY Gran, the labeller of the town’s energy supply. Get your refillable jar or barrel of Shaw Kite from Ferguson�
�s!

  Back to the bowls then M’lud, ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader … we, Gary Maggs (sometimes Mouse) and I, realised then what the trench around the hills was for. It was to stop ‘our’ bowls speeding off the side of the green and onto the road, therefore stopping a grisly accident should the local rag and bone cart, pulled by the local horse, Peg (on a bit of a side earner), come trundling by.

  Cars?! What? Come on! This is a small Northern town back in the days of Slade and forgotten by God. Someone local had just invented the pushbike but, no one had the heart to tell him the bad news about the age old Starley technology from Coventry. He later moved to London and invented the clockwork radio but, only because he thought that London was like the North therefore, batteries, unknown to his conscious mind, were still a concept, existing in another realm … awaiting their cue … ‘necessity’.

  That’s the end of my care in the community through relaxing activities provided by the Council M’lud.

  Bananas an orange and a bow ... seem to stop the tin beast getting wrathful.

  This M’lud is the usual effect a car has on a local, may I pass it round the jury M’lud?

  M’lud: “Of course Mr Lassut, it’s amazing! Well, Mr Lassut, what a very extraordinarily interesting way of taking part in a game of bowls and, how nice to see such good positive interaction between the aged, crusty, dusty, squeaky shoed mob themselves and the younger socially conditioned generation. How nice also of your Gran Nellie to have named the lower common classes lighting and cassette player fuel supply. I’ve played bowls myself but, only ever on the normal surface, I must visit Millom and try my hand”.

  Just you watch out for relatives of that composer Elgar M’lud.

  “I will Mr Lassut. Well now everyone, it is 14.30, Court will recess for one hour, back at 15.30, I’m famished”.

  “All rise for M’lud!”

  ***

  Monday 15.30

  Court Clerks … in perfect unison (still drunk from the night before?) …

  “All rise for M’lud! (Hic)”

  He sits.

  M’lud: “Hello everyone and welcome back, what’s next on the agenda Mr Lassut?”

  Well M’lud, I would like during this session to praise the natural, prolific, inventive creativity of the good people of this ‘End of the Line’ town who, sadly know nothing of what financially satisfactory good fortune may exist for them in the outside world. Yet, despite this non-perception their self-contained product list is nothing short of amazing and, I feel sure that this talent pool should be recognised in the outside world, maybe for the ‘good’ of the outside world?”

  M’lud: “Very well then, carry on Mr Lassut”.

  Thank you, M’lud. Well ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader, I would now like you to cast your minds back once again to the days of Slade, to the days when Dave Hill wore fantastic costumes and when everyone thought that guy with the moustache from the group Sparks was weird. Then, as always, the inventors, the creators, made sure the world kept turning because they knew that the day they refused to accept and act on the inspiration they received, despite all the ‘negative things’ people said to and about them concerning madness, the world would cease to (R)evolve, hmmmmm? The strange thing is M’lud, ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader, every human on this planet is a powerful creator yet most choose to deny or even remain ignorant of the fact through no fault of their own. Parents, peers and teachers can and, usually are, unwitting, closed minded terrible enemies (there is no worse enemy to this planet than a closed mind).

  All human knowledge is nothing more than remembered memory. We ALL know ‘everything’ … scary or what! Yet not as scary as a system which would create closed minds and suppress that knowledge. However, this small forgotten Northern settlement, M, has its fair share of actual ‘realised’ genius (although they don’t see themselves that way, it’s just normal). The only trouble is, a lack of communication with the outside world which, would give these people a chance to spread the inventive wing and share what they have with the rest of the world (in the God forgotten dimension that is).

  Well, I mean, look at what the press had to say about their main arterial highway, I quote:-

  “The main road into the town passes through two farmyards.”

  Hmmmm? Does this little observational remark, fact or not (?), which was displayed in the National press put valuable people off visiting? It is said as though such geographical features are a crime in themselves. “Yes this road obviously passes through Hick-ville … keep out whatever you do! The Beverley Hillbilly’s poor cousins live here!” Oh what a pity everyone doesn’t live in big cities with all their refreshing delights. Crime on the streets, trash covering the streets, muggings, murders, gangs of hoodies walking around intent on destruction and assorted lunatics racing around in fast cars; and walking the pavements. Cities!? Breeding grounds for crime and ignorance! But … each to their own.

  I class myself as fortunate indeed; I have / have had both. Yet you may choose and a very good choice it is too … to live in a small town, surrounded by idyllic countryside and with the sea right by your side but, whatever you do, watch very carefully where your main through road is laid … tut tut! But come on now M’lud, ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader what could be handier for fresh untampered farm produce. Indeed! For eggs, potatoes, vegetables and hooved things … how about a cow for the deep freeze ladies and gentlemen of the Jury? Hmmmm? I know you good people may find such a task easy to accomplish? Have it butchered and delivered perhaps? Just a phone call away; am I correct? You take it for granted? You wouldn’t in M. You see, in God forgotten Hicksville things are done differently. Oh yes.

  For a start you pay the farmer not the butcher then you go and collect your cow, which is guaranteed to be extremely fresh by the way, straight from the field fresh! The farmer, whose new found fortune goes straight to his head, goes straight to the pub with a wine to water conversion latter day ‘mini miracle’ buzzing around in his conscious mind, posing as a good idea! (Although he’s careful not to leak this in case the Reverend finds out and has him exorcised or worse exercised … whichever is cheaper).

  Ok, I’ll admit this ‘serve yourself’ method may sound a little perplexing but, fear is not an option, especially if the customer is famished. The farmer, by his very nature being a generous soul, especially with blunderbuss pellets for trespassers, will allow the customer to use his sheepdog and his spare whistle, for a small deposit on the whistle that is, just in case it is accidentally swallowed should the person trip while running! Luckily the local sheepdog’s multi-skill (saves on wages / dog food) and do other breeds too, because the fun starts when the customer wants a multiple ‘rural pick ‘n’ mix order’ – i.e. a cow, bull, a sheep and two pigs for instance. The procedure is usually as follows:-

  Pay the money – farmer disappears. The customer ‘confidently’ enters the field with dog and whistle. The animals, not surprisingly, sc – a – t – te – r.

  Cow: “Look out ladies! Everybody! Pick ‘n’ mix I think!”

  Customer still looks confident, yet worried.

  Customer: “Come by lad” … tweet!

  Dog: Stops playing and follows instruction; ‘come by’ is a common one which it recognises but, the customer only thinks they recognise (duuuh! It’s turn right isn’t it?) ... “Woof! Yelp!” as it runs obediently into the fence (very human).

  Customer: “Go hither lad” … tweet tweeeeeet!

  Dog: “Woof! Wuwu … woof woof (what?) Hehhehhehh … ehhehhehheh” (panting). Just runs anywhere, snaps at a fly, sniffs a kite (shaw), wee wees on a nettle, too close, Yelp!

  Customer: “Come thither lad! Lie down!” … tweeeeet tweet tweet!

  I know what you’re thinking M’lud, ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader and, yes, it does make Drabble’s Mob look organised (Phil Drabble used to present ‘One Man and His Dog’ years / eons ago).

  Dog: “Yelp! Hehh
ehhehh … ehhehhehheh?” As it hits the fence again.

  Customer: “Go awer yonder lad!” … tweeeeeeeet! Tweeeeeeet! Tweeeeet!!

  This goes on for some time, meanwhile, the cows and other edible (?) quadrupeds are sat in a group chewing chlorophyll and watching the action. Eventually the dog, face crisscrossed with wire burns and its little scrotum tingling with nettle venom, gets fed up! Who could blame it? So, making a conscious decision to, from that point on, live a life of ‘bliss’, decided to run off and go rabbiting.

  The confused customer is left with no choice but to give chase to his or her quarry on foot (like in the good old days of loin cloths and grunts ... and Raquel Welch!). Hours later, after some good healthy fell running, a bunch of amused bipeds i.e. the rest of the family, turn up, knowing instinctively what has happened (again!) and surround the (now depressed) goods. All in all, a good healthy days shopping which, by the way, I have decided to place in this section and not in the shopping section as, it is pretty inventive you must admit M’lud, ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader, in a ‘shaw kite fridge’ filling sort of way. Mind you, all Sharpo did was go out with his lurchers, which are pretty good fridge fillers too.

  The other point I would briefly like to take up here is the statement accompanying that about the farmyards made by PC Glyn Griffiths (I know Glyn!) …

  “A lot of families are related by marriage one way or another.”

  ?????????

  I hope the PC isn’t trying to imply here that … Nooooo! The people in M do not have misshapen heads and play banjo, the only bent objects in town being … (nick nick?)