Millom in the Dock Page 9

  It was actually a lot of fun M’lud, ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader to ignore the actual on field slaughter and instead watch the supporters stood around the outside shouting obscenities and instructions. Occasionally, someone would bend down, pick something up from the ground and put it into a little tin. I found out later that they were collecting the gold teeth, knocked sportingly, professionally fouledly (same as friendly firedly) from visiting players mouths. These they use to make necklaces for their wives.

  There is a guy in attendance at each game, Tony Storrs the local jeweller. Tony’s granddad had worked at the ironworks as a furnace man and, now he was using the skills he had learnt from gramps to run a small side line business … literally. He had made himself a mini gold nuclear smelting factory from an old, lead wrapped paint pot, a tablespoon and a little missing Uranium ‘borrowed’ from a certain nuclear fuels plant a mere hop skip and jump up the rail line. I tell you M’lud, ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader these nuclear plants may get a bad press but, they really are useful for little glowing odds and ends. He would take the gold tooth/teeth and make a necklace for the supporter’s wives Christmas boxes. Shapes were as follows … Sheep? Cow? Chicken? Peg? (Limited edition) Rugby ball? Boxing glove? Cosh? Knuckle dusters? Banking Allotment carrot? One fifth actual size … a snip at £3.00, to name but a few.

  To create these shapes he would use a number of modified fishing weight moulds, fishing being a popular Millom pastime. Local fishermen found it convenient to strip the church roof at night and make their own weights using these moulds … much to the disturbance of the Reverend who, duly condemned them all to the Job Centre and fined each of them a piece of highly collectable bone china, rare paintings and a bucket each or … Hell keenly awaits!!!

  Tony was a very popular guy during the chilly autumn matches as he managed to produce some fierce heat from the Uranium. People would gather around, warming their hands and roasting their chestnuts; saved them a fortune on haircuts too … ask any Russian from the already mentioned small town of Chernobyl. Here too M’lud, ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader is a bonus. At least one other famous sport had been accidentally derived from Millom Rugby League. I may have already mentioned it ... wotevaaaa.

  One day at a particularly tough game someone on the side line was getting a little critical of the state of play. A local labourer, George ‘Piggy’ Newton, decided he’d had enough of the hollering and bad mouthing so, he strolled casually on over and hit the guy with a piece of three by two. The wood, now in the local Folk Museum (door frame), became known as the Critic Bat which, didn’t mean much by itself but, still the lads celebrated the new concept that night by having a party which, turned out to be a ball so the job was sussed. It took a little while to take off due to the bales. It was a little cumbersome using large tied bundles of straw, until someone came up with the idea of smaller wooden ones. A sport was born. It was only called cricket much later when it was found to be difficult to say Critic Bat quickly six times after twelve pints (a little offshoot game … I’ve just tried it and it’s not too easy sober either). I’ve told you about solo critic haven’t I?

  To end this rugger story it is worth mentioning what would be considered a good night out for the Leaguers. Let the local populous see your exposed nob then, hope your parents don’t find out. For the one mile away Unioner … six pints instead of five … (shandy).

  M’lud: “Yes Mr Lassut, unfortunately no one really in all honesty wants to know so long as they don’t miss their dose of Eastenders. Court will now end for today and begin again at 10.30 a.m. tomorrow morning.”

  “All rise for M’lud!”

  ***

  M’lud: “Good morning everyone. Mr Lassut I understand that you would like to begin today by addressing the remark; I quote “Main landmarks include the library and Police Station”.

  Thank you M’lud, yes I would. This is a little unfair ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader. Surely if the accused are going to pick on landmarks, why choose two that aren’t really landmarks at all? There are better examples which will guide people to their destination with greater ease. For example, just up the road from the Police Station is the St George Memorial. Nearby, St George’s Church where the famous Reverend likes to chill. The church can be seen from miles around as can the sign hanging from the zenith cross, I quote … “Leaky Roof, Donations Welcome”. In the market square there is, as one aware and erudite child has described ‘The Chocolate Miner’, brilliant! It is brown (ish) and looks like it’s been made from chocolate. Exhibit A.

  It took a child to make this lovely resemblance; I believe that all children hold genius as their birth right … most adults act as robbers. Plus the fact that an adult would most likely discard the gift of creative imagination, which makes such enchanting observations possible. But no! Things like this, which really belong in the towns surviving visual heritage are overlooked to make way for a couple of faceless pile of bricks which you would possibly miss. There again, it is probably of more interest, bordering on entertainment to know what activities these places promote. May I enlighten the Jury M’lud?

  M’lud: “Carry on Mr Lassut”.

  Thank you M’lud. Okay ladies and gentlemen of the Jury I will start with the building which helped prompt this case to begin with …

  THE POLICE STATION

  In the real world, police claim to be fighting crime, which I think is a load of old baloney. If it wasn’t for crime, police wouldn’t have a job, so really, police love crime ...

  Sharpo, according to some of the stories he would tell me, was always in trouble with the police, so, instead of giving him a hard time (although he did make and lie in his own bed most of the time), they really should have had him on their Christmas card list.

  The first thing that curiosity driven visiting outsiders may possibly notice even if they are only partially as aware as the chocolate child are the two Penny Farthing Police bikes in the car park outside, should the officers be in residence and not outside waging a war on crime i.e. Sharpo.

  The officers are also extremely A level qualified for the job at this supposedly high level of public service. Rumour has it that Peggy once collapsed of exhaustion in Catherine Street, the bored bobby who came to sort the blockage out and made the ‘Official Report’, dragged her snoring contentedly into King Street which, he could actually almost spell … “The orse wos sleeping in kign strret.”

  The Police, not liking too hard or boring a time and would rather settle for the elusive bit in between have tagged the elusive and famous Mr Sharp by placing tape around his wrist which displays his name written in illegible ink. They were then faced with the problem of how to track him from base, having no actual machine which would detect the particular polycarbonate from which the sellotape was constructed. Ooops! The solution to this dilemma came from Barrow Constabulary, better known as Barrow ‘Back’ Yard, home of those with their fingers on the pulse of civil disobedience, keeping control for the elite. It was so simple, it literally stank of genius. They simply pin pings tag a lag and bobtail into the map board.

  To be honest, to save time, the constabulary managed to get a home improvements grant and built a nice little granny flat on the back of Sharpo’s house, which saved time walking or biking to his residence when they wanted to interview him, or search for stolen goods etc. Before this had happened, I told him about it during a social moment somewhere with others ... he just looked at me in a very loving fashion usually seen in the eyes of couples tying the knot in civil partnerships, and said, “Frankie, you’re a fucking case.” and shook his head. Everyone else in the group thought it an excellent idea! I think he warmed to it, and decided to give them free tea with laxatives in it and lock the toilet, so was his love of the law.

  When one of the allotment Muscovy ducks went walkies (or was that squalkies? Or quakies?) they simply tied a piece of string to one pin, pulled it around the outside of the rest i.e. the ‘whole ma
p’ and said (officially of course) … “We believe strongly that Mr Sharp and the duck must be within this area!” Wooooow! Makes Columbo look like a Keystone Cop! Personally M’lud, ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader, with gumption like this in existence I’m so surprised ‘we’ve’ actually only managed to get a man to the moon and no further!

  The map was drawn with great unease by Brick and Togo, using a set of crayons and joint memory double recall for enhanced accuracy, enhanced that is with some free ‘bribe’ beer to really sharpen the ‘two minds acting as (n)one’. Ah well, beggars don’t choose since God cocked up, especially where cartography is concerned. No one except my Mum could work out how they knew what Millom looked like from that height? Even then she wasn’t really convinced, being Catholic and far too sensible for my own good (cute little rebel that I am).

  This was followed by another amusing ‘official’ statement … “There is a definite pattern to his movements”.

  This pin border became known as the ‘MILLOM RECTANGLE’ named after the Bermuda Triangle because every time Sharpo entered the zone he disappeared. I’m seriously considering dropping a note to Barry Manilow, you just neveeeeer know?! There have been occasions when Police who have just been moved to Millom as an ‘End of the Line’ Punishment … commendations or not have, in their first couple of weeks of Hitleristic keenness, booted down innocents doors and then run into their houses shouting … “This is a raid! We’ve come for the stolen television!”. The locals look bemused and say “Stolen what? Would you like a cup of tea and a rabbit and banking allotment vegetable sandwich Officer?”

  Once they actually took in as evidence a suspect Gamma wave oven. Someone had removed a chair from inside this oven while the door was left ajar. The oven was dusted (using real dust) and found to have Sharpo’s fingerprint on the periscope lens. The lenses are quite large in diameter, as that of a big tea mug. All he was actually doing was having a breath of fresh air with his lovely little pedigree Yorkshire Terrier, one of those little yappy, shivering things with masses of hair making it difficult to know which end to kick when stressed. He combated this by typing clumps of it up with red ribbons (Ferg had no pink in stock).

  Well as he was walking along talking to little Fireblade Jackal Jaw, he just happened to spot the oven (they’re hard to miss actually, even from a thousand metres with less than perfect eyesight) sitting unattended in someone’s garden whom he knew by the way. They had popped out so he simply climbed atop and looked through the periscope to get the model number so as he could get his mum one for Christmas from Fergies. He simply loves his Mummy. However, he made the grave error of putting his hand on the glass to shield his eyes from the unpolarised light. What wasn’t taken into account was the fact that he had saved the chicken and rabbit casserole which had been left uncovered on the garden path and was about to be worried by the neighbour’s dog. Luckily for him, yet unluckily for the Police, the oven wasn’t turned on. The real thief struck that night through the open door.

  Anyway after the Feds decide to confiscate and impound the evidence they somehow managed with a great deal of effort to load the two ton oven into the cart which is pulled by two Penny Farthing’ed Officers (complete with un-stabilisers). Peg just sits down on her haunches and refuses point blank to move, she’s no fool. The microwave at one point in the journey was switched on by a hole in the road (an incredible feat for a hole). This affected the Officer’s brains and they arrived back at the station with an IQ. Suddenly they are found to be somewhat unsuitable for the Millom Constabulary, for what reason I couldn’t even begin to assume?

  Because, by my own admission, my personal IQ is unquestionably by my own choice, zero. You see, if you’re clever they ask you to do complex un-human things such as think using common sense and make decisions, then, all hell breaks loose when things work and jerk-offs then have to justify their existence by blaming you for the chaos you’ve caused in their miserable little lives. So it’s best to choose un-clever as a lifestyle. Clever is a curse, just look at Brick and Togo for instance, world famous bored stiff millionaires now! (Ok, one of them). Are those two clever or what?! … Worked again hasn’t it? (10% guys? C’mon, I’m bankrupt and on the street now because of this, with folk after my imbecile blood and … I’m starving!)

  The Officers though, were saved from the scrapheap by being headhunted by the cleaners at the Elbeo Stocking Factory, a local industrial unit now a book publishers.

  ***

  A rather sweet moment in Stephen’s life i.e. showing disrespect for authority, and doing what more of us should.

  Scene: Whitehaven college (that’s where we went on block release from Sellafield).

  Lecturer: “What’s the answer to this, Sharp?”

  Stephen: “It’s Stephen.”

  Lecturer: “Look Sharp, answer please!”

  Stephen: “It’s Stephen ...

  Lec: “It’s Sharp in here.”

  Stephen “Stephen.”

  The lecturer finally gave way. Quite admirable in a world of scaredey cats with no self -respect.”

  ***

  THE LIBRARY – Millom’s catacomb of wisdom.

  Yes M’lud, ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader, Millom’s catacomb of wisdom, the halls of knowledge. There are the usual small libraries two dozen bookshelves for the locals to browse and do a little mind expansion. Obviously there is no science section, automobile maintenance section, plug wiring and toaster fixing, build your own tungsten filament light bulb section etc. Or for that matter, one of those newspaper racks. Now, if you want Mrs Beeton’s ‘Rural Pick ’n’ Mix Roast & Allotment Stew Combinations’ you’re in luck. If you want to read quietly at a table you’re in luck. Not bad at all really is it but … listen carefully. There is also some ‘modern luxury’ available because Millom Library boasts nothing less than a state of the art … ‘Audio Book Station’. Altogether M’lud, ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader … one, two three … “HOOOooooooo! Dead up to date and posh!”

  I know what you are thinking … electronic! Well, I’m sorry to disappoint. The ABS is actually an old confessions booth acquired from the Reverend, as a donation! Very decent of the fellow! Sure to go to Hell for a bit of a slap for being that nice. (After all, why would the Devil punish bad people if he’s supposed to be a lawyer himself? That one begs a pretty good answer, think I’ll email the Vatican). The booth was donated very, very cheaply as a matter of fact only three gold teeth (large molars) from the Rugby League side line and, one point seven seven five percent of Tony Storr’s side line jewellery trades gross profit margin as related in gross deficiency to the Reverend’s share in the DOW ... ager Jones’s windfall after her husband’s ‘gravity aided’ fall due to the wind when fixing the roof, one hour after closing time, ten years back. Pluuuuus free Rolex service and repairs, including parts, on an on-going basis. Pluuuuuus ten, no, no (loooong argument) … ten point zero one five percent of Royalties if ever, ever eevvvver (never, never land) Snow White should succumb and demand (now she’s a REAL movie star) a bit of a six foot rough jewellery dealer in her next video? Now that’s a great dogmatic deal, a steal, as it still would be at twice the price. So, how does the booth work? Well … (it’s fascinating). The listener steps into the Sinners side of the booth (take your pick when installed in a church), puts 10p in the tin can (they do have tin openers in Millom, from Fergie’s, call them axes in your part of the world). He or she then requests a set book through the ‘guilt grille’. The readers, eight or so at a time, cram into the other side with the days available titles. Excellent!

  This is quite a prestigious job in Millom and there are always a lot of applicants should a post become available. Because of the cramped conditions, the interview is in two parts. Part one couldn’t be simpler … read! Part two is probably simpler even although it couldn’t be according to the previous sentence but it does take a tad longer. The applicant must eat a plate of rabbit and banking allotment veg sarnies then go h
ome. 24 hours later they return to the library, strip off and sit in a tin bathtub of hot water for another 24 hours. If there are any bubbles within that time frame the applicant has failed. The first hours are the most comfortable while the water is warm. Whatever the temperature though, no soap is allowed because of the confusion of ‘Decoy’ bubbles. To combat inevitable boredom the applicant may bring a duck along to play with. A lot of applicants choose to do this; some even bring the yellow plastic variety.

  If the batch is good (applicants that is not duck eggs although … sometimes … “Sorry Togo everything’s been cancelled today mate and tomorrow and, every other day until 2007”) say for example, that the final three interviewees are gas free fantastic readers which is the actual MLVQ qualification i.e. Millom Library Vocational Qualification. They are required to return on a cold Northern day (brrrr!) for a sudden death, wrinkly bummed sit in (the undertakers always turn up?). The tubs are one again filled with warm water (Ahhhh!) and then dragged outside onto the pavement (brrr!). No distractions such as ducks are allowed, the last one in their tub is awarded the certificate by the Mayor (how come no one voted?) and local postie, Freddie Gleaves, who kindly closes their frozen fingers onto the calligraphed card. The photos, usually a group with the person in the tub in front, smiling a very humourless World Leader type fixed grimace are taken by the local cameraman Howard, an old mate of mine.