Millom in the Dock (7 page)

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!
Hehhehhehh … 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?)

So M’lud,
ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader … one main road! As
for the town centre itself, one bridge in, one bridge out, too durn
big! To shake it all about! Yow! And one ‘Bridge Café’, thank you
Mr and Mrs ‘Russell’ Townsend. Yes! As good as ‘cut off’ from
civilisation as we know it! So … how would the big wiiiiide world
ever learn of the completely un-versatile Gammawave oven for
example?

I will now
verbally list for you the Jury and you the reader just a few of the
fascinating local inventions from this one horse town. If any of
you good people are business angels or, just fancy a dabble with
your nest egg it may be worth you taking notes for future
reference.

1: WIND POWERED
FLIGHT (Circa 1980) ... (for Chris, Freddie and Arthur)

Freddie Hunter,
a rich Haverigg farmer, actually made the first Cumbrian one
horsepower flight. Good old Freddie! Mate of mine … honest. It’s 1
a.m. and Peg’s at home in bed, she doesn’t do night flights. Yes
that’s iced tea (and Fred’s the Pope!)

Local Hero of
Haverigg (just outside the border of Millom)

The horse,
called Peggy, who we’ve already briefly met by the side of the
bowling green, was a rather suspect buy from an ex fairground
gypsy, an ‘old’ mate of mine called William Taylor, better known as
Sir William of Haverigg … knighted by King Arthur for services to
Hick town entertainment. He now renovates fairground organs,
beautifully it must be said. Do bow in his presence if the fancy
ever takes you but, never when you’re stood in front of him looking
away, cos he’s quick I hear. He one lazy late summer evening in the
Harbour Hotel in Haverigg, over some of the last of the previous
delivery beer, recounted the story of Peg’s ‘surprise’
conception.

Listening
intently were Fred, Craggy, my uncle Arthur and various other
omnipresent local yokels. He told, in all honesty, how she had been
sired by the Greek God Thor’s magnificent stallion. The romantic
episode had occurred during a holiday which her, Peg’s mother that
is, had been enjoying immensely in Athens. She had tagged along as
William’s companion in the absence of any friends. I should make
the point clear M’lud, ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear
reader that I mean William was devoid of friends; the horse had
plenty.

Well, she had
felt extremely thirsty through trying to keep up with William on
perpetual motion Ouzo sessions and had wandered off in search of
water. She synchronistically found a handy trough just adjacent to
the Parthenon and, proceeded to stand innocently in front of her
stone oasis, head lowered, slaking the craving. Now, according to
William, Thor (Virgin flight 2347834 probably) just ‘happened’ to
appear in the sky from behind a bank of ‘well fluffy nimbus clouds’
riding proudly and with great skill his fine handsome stallion.
They landed, did a little ego rearing around for a while to impress
the crowds, received a round of applause and … but then, it, maybe,
perhaps, things would have probably, possibly, have been different
if … but …

Thor neglected
to tie him to something immovable e.g. a 50 ton earthmover before
appearing in a ‘dis’ sort of way into a local boozer to slake his
tormenting thirst or more to the point, maybe? To calm his troubled
mind? Because I actually thought it would be damp flying through
clouds so, why get thirsty? Just lick up the drips as
the
y
fall off your nose, like snot when you
have a cold.

M’lud: “Mr
Lassut! Yeugh!”

Sorry
M’lud.

M’lud: “Carry
on but get yourself a hanky please, just in case”.

I will M’lud,
where was I? Ah yes …

The bored
stallion to put it simply, was way short of a little entertainment
and ‘love’. You see Gods such as Thor tend to not be luvvy duvvy
huggers, mane caressers, sweet talking horse whisperers or, soppy
hoof holders, this is just in case their mates see them and take
the P. High SS, which can play havoc with the weather to say the
least, so as humans, we’re damn lucky the Greek Gods are hard. Yes
the stallion was feeling lonely, unloved, unhugged, ungroomed,
unwhispered to and very, 101%, bored. Not to mention as horny as a
… as a … hmmm … bored stallion! This was the wrong state to be in
when he noticed, in his amplified peripheral vision, this pretty
female, with nose immersed in the refreshing water trough, her eyes
closed in ecstasy(!?).He did really well not to clip clop as he
(snooked up) approached, breath held, with no intentions of
chatting up or foreplay I may add!!! (I may also add foreplay is
great). Well no one likes rejection do they? (Also it’s hard to
masturbate with hooves, I would guess, having never tried). Because
owner William had been on the Ouzo all day when this event happened
plum direct in front of his schnozzle, the story was a little
suspect to ‘all’ the wise Haverigg folk … “Our families have had
doggy goods problems with Fergie in the past, so we’ve learnt our
lessons and we’re not falling for it again!”

A Lovingly
made model of Peg who went to God and St Peter some years ago.
Modelled showing her lovely personality.

Well ‘all’ that
is except the world wise Freddie Hunter who, was always milking
when Ferg was selling. He snatched the unbelievable bargain quicker
than you could say shaw kite! The locals called her Suspect Peggy
or, Peggy Sus because of her dodgy origins. Her pedigree name
became Peggy Sus Haverigg Farmer following in the great British
poncy tradition of having stupid pedigree names for interbred
animals. The whole idea behind the historic maiden flight was due
to the fact that Fred couldn’t be bothered to walk home wobbly
afternoon after afternoon, night after night, after week after
month … ad infinitum from the Harbour Hotel (owned by my old guitar
student Chris Mayne). Now, as she couldn’t outrun the local op cart
to save her life (pulled by a penny farthing’ed End of the Line
officer I may add). “Outrun the cop cart? Why would a horse want …
?” You ask M’lud, ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear
reader?

That’s Chris
and myself with Freddie looking on jealous of Chris for knowing
well the ‘rightful’ King of Millom (don’t tell Sharpo, he may want
to defend his crown jewels) ... Freddie is actually hanging off a
coat hook and that’s iced tea he’s supping.

Well Peg likes
a few bevvies too you know, like mother like daughter, alas though
drinking and trotting in charge of a merry ‘hic!’ farmer is an
offence for rural horses up North in Hick-ville so, in order to
avoid him being pulled over and hassled, Fred was given a useful
gift, a beautiful set of almost fairylike gossamer wings for Peg.
The frames were made by my late uncle Arthur Irwin who, was a
skilled carpenter, from plywood and bent coat hangers with the main
wing ‘skin’ provided by split flattened out condoms. Arthur
actually had the ingenuity to remove and discard the rubber rings,
no point in having the extra ballast. The condoms were stitched
together with ‘catgut’ because, to glue them would have involved
killing Peggy to make such a fluid and, as she was the only horse
in two neighbouring towns come villages that would have been a
little stupid even for End of Liners. I mentioned before that Peg
has lots of friends so, how is this if she is the only horse in
town? Well, horses can be friends with other things, animals and
humans too and, of course, they make a better job of making friends
than humans. Yes the day was saved because there are always plenty
of cats with guts wherever you go, one less now though. The fur was
useful too, as a tea cosy in the Harbour Hotel kitchen and Chris
always goes to local fancy dress parties as … “Evening Chris! Davey
Crocket again! How original!”