Millom in the Dock Page 8

  Master of the house Chris ...

  “Another pint of Forget Me Not? Certainly Kevin”.

  At the end of the night, the couple are loaded onto Peg and carried home where they are sat, by Freddie, against their respective doors. Somehow they wake up in their beds late the next morning with crashing hangovers and, of course, neither can remember anything about the night before. The whole process then starts over again.

  M’lud: “Very interesting Mr Lassut. Did you by any chance ever use the service?”

  Quite a few times M’lud.

  M’lud: “Any luck?”

  Never received a reply M’lud.

  M’lud: “That’s very strange for someone whose face makes Tom Cruise’s look like a blind blacksmith’s thumb.”

  Why thank you M’lud you are obviously a man of fine taste and a good eye.

  M’lud: “True Mr Lassut, true. Now I do believe that you are going to talk about another Millom pastime which is, as far as I can see, ‘self-created entertainment’ on the topic of which you will be going into in more depth at a later stage. You are now going to enlighten us concerning the Millom version of the popular and healthy sport of Rugby. Something for the young and fit before the day comes when they become crusty dusties and take up the jack”.

  ***

  THE FEARED MILLOM RUGBY LEAGUE ...

  Yes M’lud, Millom Rugby League, an exponent yourself sir in your younger days?

  M’lud: “Yes, played against Millom once; ours was a good team too, we were certain we would ‘explain’ the finer points of the game to the competition, give them a bit of a slapping and, have a bit of a laugh at the same time. Hmmmm? Never forgot it. Taught me not to count chickens. I was the lucky one, got injured early and was carried off. Oh dear, it hurts me to think about it. Watched the rest of the game in sheer amazement from the relative safety of the clubhouse steps … anyway you explain”.

  With pleasure M’lud. Well ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader …

  I, being of a delicate nature was never really attracted to playing Rugby League a là Millom as I valued my teeth, my nose and my inner organs etc. I actually become magnetised to injury every time I go near a competitive sport of any sort, let alone Rugby. It doesn’t even have to be competitive come to think of it. I once poked myself in the eye with a snooker cue whilst playing green baize solitaire. I say solitaire because no one would play with me and, why should they; it gets boring watching someone constantly produce 147 breaks.

  I once twisted my ankle playing Solo Critic (Millom version dear reader, the spelling is okay). Solo Critic is the version played in Millom when the person has managed to wangle a sick note from Poggy and, all the other critic players are at work. The player bowls to an empty wicket, then runs, overtakes ball, reaches the crease, grabs the bat, turns and clouts the ball, being careful not to fall over the stumps because, it’s a long way to the clubhouse only to have to walk all the way back onto the pitch again. (I reckon that rule should be changed but I could never make it onto the committee) … I actually caught up with the ball which was travelling at approximately four and one half miles per hour, stepped on it, tripped and the old ankle went. Luckily I avoided falling over the stumps. I actually only did it for a laugh too, after drinking one too many when socialising with the Amateur Operatic All Stars. How’s that for bad luck?

  In reality, critic bores me and I don’t go near dartboards. So then you can understand why Rugby League in Millom or on any other planet in any other Universe will always be out of bounds to me. However, a softer version is available. One mile away in Haverigg there was and, still is, a Rugby Union Club. These lads seemed more … more … ehrm … what’s the word? … Human … than the Millom League mob i.e. they actually cooked/cook meat before they ate/eat it, used/use the alphabet, didn’t/don’t go to the dentist and have to be tranquillised with a rifle before having a tooth removed, if they happened to have any left that is? Should you be a toothless Rugby League player in Millom, you can usually see your ex set round some other player’s neck at some point during the weekend’s social activities. Didn’t/don’t ruin pair after pair of gloves in winter because of ‘knuckle to floor drag- producing cow hide destroying friction’. As you can guess by this factor, King Arthur Ferg loved the League players more than the Union soft lads who only used one pair of warm woollen mittens each … each winter to rub off the snowflakes which landed on their noses and eyelashes, so their fingers didn’t get cold and wet. Bless!

  I knew, on a friendly basis, most of the lads who played both varieties way back then through the annoyingly opaque mists of time but, let’s talk League for a while. The first team would be almost immune/used to, yet still crave, whatever pain they could get, especially you know who. Someone told me that some of the players who visited would ask upon arrival, “who’s this Sharpo?” ... his fame had spread, not necessarily because of his skills.

  Despite this opiate lust they would also have a full team of substitute players but, not exactly to be used in the event of injury – i.e. head twisted around a là Exorcists or any other reason for a player leaving the field in a state of heroic grace. If the visiting team were particularly rough carnivores and, the odds were against our home team of mere Arnie/Silverback crosses making an impression, off they all came grumbling gutturally, yes even the contract killers who didn’t need a contract, just a victim, such as Sharpo and, onto the field would go the feminine touch just to even things up a little. This was an unwritten rule or … no game.

  The moustaches were real as were the hairy legs and, it wasn’t/isn’t at all unusual (expected) for the women players to bite off part of the opponents ears after a few of these naïve visiting players had pulled very, very hard on their top lip facial hair in a grim, griiiim, (oh dear me!), mistaken attempt to remove it, as part of a cruel humiliating rugby type stunt. Mike Tyson had obviously seen 8mm black and white footage of Millom Lass League game strategy. Evander was obviously screened by his parents. This is the first and only time that Sharpo was ever accused of being a tranny, when he donned a false Freddie Mercury moustache and tried to join the girl’s team so he could punch someone. He may have gotten away with it, but unfortunately, he lost a little concentration beforehand and while getting changed made the dire mistake of shaving his legs to fit in; he was spotted immediately i.e. his shapely white pins against the ladies, erm, well insulated pins ...

  And, I will tell you something M’lud, ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader, that scene in the original Jurassic Park where, the Tyrannosaurus Rex is chasing the scientists in the jeep? It would have been a different story if the Millom Rugby League girls (and Sharpo, after a re-grow of leg hair) had been on board, on yes sireeee! A handbrake turn followed by a fucking Barbie that’s what! It would have been the Rex in the crapper with Sharpo helping pull down the chip board wall panels, I can tell you.

  M’lud: “Mr Lassut! Language!”

  Oh, sorry M’lud, I got a little carried away there. Adrenaline rush.

  M’lud: “That’s okay, I’ve heard worse in the House of Lords concerning Jeffrey Archer. Carry on”.

  Okay, thank you M’lud. This particular local sport can also go leaps and bounds towards an explanation regarding this ‘missing link’ bollo … ehm … fiasco. The fact is M’lud, ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader there ain’t no missing link. Millom Rugby League have a cartload of Anthropologists dreams running around the pitch on a Saturday afternoon. I mean the men by the way; I wouldn’t dream of insulting the women, no way, as my words may upset them (especially if they are on heat and their hormones are all messed up).

  Nevertheless! I’ve seen Wigan Warriors run terrified from the field before the halftime whistle, which is allowed by the referee, who works in Millom slaughterhouse, so he erm, ‘understands’. Then they, Wigan, were too nervous to eat their orange segments, even after seeing the women’s team eat their quantity of Outspan with juice spraying relish … without bothering to pe
el them (the origin of marmalade by the way boriiiiiing! Zzzzzzz!). The box sometimes ends up in splinters too during the feeding frenzy which would make a group of hungry piranhas dining on some unfortunate beast look like camp tadpoles lapping baby bears porridge. The ladies B team by the way were away training young Hyenas new techniques to bring down adult Rhinoceros’, as their parents can’t manage the task. Ahem!

  After the half time relaxation session with the Vitamin C, the Wigan players then refused to re-enter the arena for the second half because of these feminine warriors who, now upright again, would make Amazons look like makeover teams for ‘Gay Eye for the Straight Guy’. They literally had to be pushed on by the proud mothers of the players. The poor ickle players were between pure carbon and a hard place. Then again, maybe it wasn’t just the threat of the game but, the soap and watery legend of the … communal bath afterwards?!

  “Are legends true?” asked the Wigan players to each other, with mucho nervousness. “If not in general … might this one just be the exception? Gulp!” Will Sod’s law rise from the depths to claim them as victims? The Wigan 7 sure hoped not. The rest of the players had climbed onto the clubhouse roof and no amount of stick and stones aimed safely, thrown by the ‘shown up’ mothers and partners could loosen their grip.

  Because the local Rugby lads (not even Sharpo, but he was very close to a sniff a couple of times) could not come anywhere near to satisfying even the basic sexual needs of these women, foreplay for instance involves a two person scrum, followed by that bit where they lift you up by the knack … ahem! Knickers, to grab the ball … say no more, very, very painful, especially as the top of your head crashes into the ceiling … so I’m told. So, as sexual partners, us delicate non Rugby, well after the link, homosapien ‘upright’ types had absolutely no chance at all and, then more often than not, had to live in sexual frustration sometimes for decades. Sigh! (I still am … S I I I I I I GH!)

  The visitors though, rough as the game was, were always very welcome especially if they were highly skilled, although it didn’t seem that way in the presence of the opposition and the ch(J)eering crowd. Ancient Christians would know what I mean. You see the Millom Females 11 saw them as suitable sexual partners if they, working as team, managed merely to touch the ball. If any of the visitors actually succeeded in running a couple of feet with it while at the same time giving a carry to a couple of thumping, biting, scratching ladies they, the ladies, wanted … no, sorry, ‘were having’ his body; end of story.

  Artist’s impression of Sharpo leaving the field at half time (if the men were still on) to get his segment of orange.

  The game was merely a warm up, score a try? No one knows as it has never actually happened. Hmmmmm, yes M’lud, ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader, I realise it is painful to visualise these things but I must continue with ‘the bath’.

  Like Orca, the women would herd the visitors into the corner of the bodily heated pool, creating small steam twisters to add to the confusion. It was then either soapy flesh to soapy flesh … moustache to moustache (if the guy was man enough to grow one) … or drown! Please yourself? With home so far away and, only one road passing through the hick town through two farmyards?! Well no one really wants to die, so physical and emotional exhaustion with limbs skew-whiff and your head jammed up your butt is far, far more preferable, especially with people like Poggy around to help heal you … foot on backside … rope around remaining bit of neck … pull … heave ho! … Pop! … Wash hair. A ‘free’ enema! A cranial pull through. Every cloud has a silver lining (except if it’s from Chernobyl). A relieved and grateful local audience huddled together grunting approval at the far end of the bath.

  Eventually the waters would go calm again and the mist would softly veil the lad’s usually 20/20 hunter’s vision. Was the mating over? How could one tell? Easy! So I’m told … by simply submerging one’s head and seeing, out of focus, the bodies lying dormant on the bottom of the bath … dead?! M’lud, ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader … No! Merely holding their breath and ‘playing’ dead, the cowards!

  All this play acting led to a Millom Women’s Rugby League style Holger Neilsen revival session at the end of the bathing session, which involved the jumping on the chest to expel water, plus a little mouth to mouth resuscitation. Sometimes a crunching sound could be heard during this kiss of life, which was simply dentures ending up as a snack which, eaten between meals, never ruined the ladies appetites. As far as this bath experience goes, I heard that sailing ships had been wrecked in less stormy seas, then looted by posh primitives from Barrow in Furness.

  I’ve seen the MEN’S district trophy fly through closed pub windows (why throw a trophy through an open one? Unless there’s a copper looking through maybe). I’ve seen players eat raw eggs then spit out the beak and feathers. The Union lads would eat raw eggs too but, only after they had been boiled for 4 minutes, as they didn’t want to catch that “Salmon Nellie disease thing” (nowt to do with my Gran Nellie) and end up with bad tummie wummies.

  Now M’lud, ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader, this you are NOT going to believe but, whether you do or not, it’s true. I heard once, you can guess who told me? The story of a legendary male player who could grab his testicles in the change rooms and turn the whole baggage around three times! A select breeding male specimen if ever there was one! Thus seeing an opportunity to become a popular local male with sex hungry females, I decided to do a rehearsal in the privacy of my bedroom before going public with a self-indulgent, extremely virile display of maleness. I would do four turns and they would just have to bow to me in servitude and, then I would be an eligible breeding male! Look out King Arthur; this would transform me into a G. o. d!

  Well there I was, stood naked in front of my dressing table watching myself in the mirror, as it is important to get the angles correct. My testicles though, gripped between thumb and forefinger began to get worryingly red and slightly tight, not to mention extremely tender, after just half a turn which, meant that the record was in jeopardy. In my panic I decided to try the quick method i.e. like tearing off a sticking plaster. I changed the angle of my hand and gripped what I could in my palm, counted three, grinned at myself then … twisted!

  The Aurora Borealis is sometimes seen up North but, never in a bedroom up North with the curtains closed! I think the spectacular light display I witnessed was a part of my brain fusing. A muscular spasm on the way to the floor caused me to grab the dressing table cloth, taking with me as travelling companions, priceless(ish) antique vases (don’t tell the Reverend) and other breakables which would have done really well now on Bargain Hunt. This combined thump and crash must have alerted my parents who, thankfully, managed to carry me to the local hospital which was very nice of them. I woke up with two nurses, gorgeous twins in fact (tastyyy or what!) attending to me. Actually it was only the one nurse, who wouldn’t allow me home until I read the eye chart properly … AA ... BB ... CC ... just wasn’t good enough for the NHS, sorry the MHS.

  Now, M’lud, ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader, childbirth Rugby League style.

  The doctors and nurses naturally form a scrum around the stirrups which, are borrowed from Freddie and Peg. The action usually takes place in the pregnant couple’s bedroom. You can imagine the actual birth, where junior is handed delicately to mum, who cuddles and kisses the new arrival. She then, with a practiced ‘pass’ sent around the room to say hello to everyone. It is said to be better than a smack and a great way to meet the full delivery team, whether junior wanted to or not. Rules are rules though … no forward passing allowed (Section 7 Paragraph 3).

  To be fair on the new ‘future’ player (especially if it’s a girl), there is rough tackling. In the case of the child being knocked on, a free kick is awarded by the midwife. The baby is then placed on a pile of sand and ‘re-sent’ to the mother by air mail … or air female if it has a facial hair shadow. Many bedside pot kite lamps have been smashed by lousy ba
refoot miskicks. The sand is washed from the baby’s nethers before the first nappy is worn; after all, it’s bad enough having the stuff in your socks after visiting the beach. Conception as you may imagine is a violent affair which usually leaves the couple with a large bill for new furniture.

  Preconception is a laugh. When the League women are in season they trim their moustaches and stock up with Pomagne and Mussels gathered from the local Mussel rocks. Yes M’lud, ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader … they get soppily romantic. Wide awake in Millom! (Zzzzzzz Boriiiiinnngggg!)

  The Union women shave only their legs as they, being more femininely inclined than their contemporaries, don’t sport facial hair. However, to make their particular legs smooth enough for a pair of their socks to slide sexily down their shin at a leg angle of thirty degrees to turn on the male, without tearing the weave in the hemp, they go over their pins with Grade 5 sandpaper. It usually takes a couple of sheets of the stuff due to rips. The girls you see are farmer’s daughters with genetic hairy legs which, make Velcro feel like silk, so I’m told by one of the husbands who had scratches on his mere ‘bum fluff’ covered pins. You see, the problem is that the hairs on their legs are very thick, which is nature’s protection, due to the harsh winters mucking out the cows and chasing local ‘non’ Rugby lads away from the sheep. (I have torn my jeans on many a barbed wire fence). However, the sheared leg hairs are useful … their fathers use them knotted together as boot laces. It works though if enough sheets of sandpaper are used together with a cork sanding block, available from Millom Builders Merchants or, the beach if you’re lucky, smooth legs result.

  So then Pomagne, Northern town vintage Moat and Chandon … yes Moat. There is a castle nearby. It is now a farm, one where that famous hick road passes through! Yes M’lud, ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader, Pomagne and Mussels. Northern Rugby romance! The League lads being harder than their counterparts will not swallow the slippery, slidey, slithery flesh. Too ‘Union’ darling. Our Leaguers don’t even bother opening the things; they just chew the shells as well. When the fangs travel across the Mother of Pearl it sounds like fingers dragging down a slate board … so I’m told. The girls swallow the oysters (they apparently enjoy doing that?) while nasally going “Mmmmmm!” and drinking the Pomagne sexily from one of their hobnail boots. But it sure does work, judging by all the mean looking kids who roam the town, occasionally diving to the floor and wrapping their arms around people’s legs. They make great shop assistants and would go down great in Coventry mobile phone emporiums and Computer World type supermarkets. Union? Just reverse what I’ve just told you, from … girls swallowing the oysters then, imagine loads of young kids some with hairy legs, bringing the cows in at milking time.