Fourth series, episode 14
All 146 episodes are available here on the HebWeb.
In the latest episode, there’s a scoop about disappearing buskers, Kamala Harris and Donald Trump, sex on legs and sixties gangsters, litter literacy and Le Grand Depart.
Summer in the square
I was enjoying coffees and chat with a friend on a sunny day in George’s Square, when an amplified, miked up busker blasted a song across the square. Our quiet conversation was drowned out. Loud speakers make quiet chatters shout. Then someone in authority acted and mic in hand the busker appealed to her public.
"I’ve been told I’ve got to stop!"
There was a short pause, before a muttered ‘Good!’ was audible from most tables.
She looked gobsmacked.
Taking pity on her, I shouted advice, Turn it down."
"Turn it down?"
She hadn’t thought of that.
Since this policy has been imposed by our elected parishioners, I’ve enjoyed having the choice of listening to or ignoring a variety of acoustic musicians. I’ve even, on occasion, thrown coins into their upturned hats. But some think the Council has gone too far. They wonder what happened to the regular visits by guitarists who turned up their amps and American accents and ear wormed us through repeat repertoires of loud easy listening but impossible to disregard soft rock anthems from the 60s and 70s.
Well here’s the true story …
Nymphs – and buskers come away
Now, you know about Nymphs - and their mania -
From Greece to Mesopotamia
But Nymphs Anglo Saxon
Got just as much action
That’s why our Nymphs chose to remain here.I wouldn’t tell this to reporters,
But Nymphs still inhabit our waters,
I know for a fact –
On a rolling contract –
Are Nixie the Nymph* and her daughters.It’s buskers they like to despatch,
But each cull is done with great tact.
Our Nymphs say, ‘You’re so cool!’
To each amplified fool,
Then wrap t’ amp lead around t’ vocal tract.But you don’t need to witness this ‘crime’,
Nymphs sneak through a snicket in time!
As you sip your latte -
At a George’s Square café -
They take out young men in their prime.
Some say it’s a monstrosity that young men’s curiosity at Nymphs’ voluptuosity should lead to such atrocity. But I just shake my head and shrug, say, ‘Do they think about our lugs? If amplifiers they’d unplug, then would be Dylans and Jake Bugs might get more generosity!
*Folk lore note, Nixie: an old Anglo Saxon word for river Sirens
Rah-rah, Kamala!
At a local pub, the tables had been pushed closer together to make room for a curtained off nettle soup tasting convention. Each to their own. I was tucking into my classic fish and chips with mushy peas combo when I got pinged! by a Guardian Notification:
"President Biden announces he will not seek re-election."
In response, I threw my arms in the air, then passed on the news to PW. Then we shared a toast to Kamala, "Comma-la!" Harris.
Hearing my reaction, the mansplaining guy at the next table blurted to his partner, "Can you believe it! Typical bloody Hebden Bridge!"
I wasn’t totally surprised. It’s remarkable how many Brits support Trump, including a workman we use, several relatives on PW’s side, a couple of assistants at Jude’s home ("He tells it like it is!"), and the more media savvy crew of anti-vaxxers, conspiracists, Liz Truss, Boris Johnson, Nigel Farage and GB News.
So, I quickly changed the subject by decrying Ed Davey’s role in the sub postmasters scandal.
School versus army
In ’68 Ellesmere Port GS beat the Army Cadets in a cross country race around their barracks. The course included climbs over obstacles in almost true harrier tradition, except we heaved ourselves over shaky wire fences rather than five barred gates.
Recently, Dave Jackson’s wife Lin looked at this old news cutting of our triumphant team and commented, ‘Mmm … Sex on legs!’
Ollie Nicholson almost caught me that day as I wobbled over the final fence. He went on to be a decent club runner and coached young runners up to international level, but he died in his fifties. After we visited Ollie’s wife last week, I remembered those far off days. One weekend, we stayed at my sister’s flat on the outskirts of Ellesmere Port, whilst Sue was away. We went for a run over the only hills in the district and over the lush fairways of the new community golf course. But when we returned, true to form, I discovered I’d taken the wrong key. We were locked out.
So we borrowed a wooden ladder from a nearby half built housing estate, marched along with it above our heads and propped it below our Sue’s slightly ajar bathroom window. Ollie told me it was my fault, so I should do the break-in, despite me having no head for heights. I was half way up the ladder when the woman from the ground floor flat across the way came out and commented on our activities in a sardonic manner. "Yous two breaking in to Sue’s flat are yer?"
"Sue’s me sister."
"Mmm, a likely tale. I’ll have to give the fuzz a full description. The cheek on them officer, in full running gear they were, ready to make a swift getaway I reckon.”
Ignoring her, I’d just managed to get my torso through into the bathroom, when she said to Ollie, "Or he could have borrowed Sue’s spare key, if he’d asked."
That evening, 16 year old Ollie and me were enjoying the ale in a nearby hostelry - no ID required - when a diminutive local mobster, dressed like a Corleone and a dead spit of Mike from The Young Ones, entered with his tall, high heeled, full bosomed, cleavage baring, beehive bearing girlfriend. The pub regulars fell silent.
Strangely, no money was exchanged when they went to the bar. Drinks in hand, the pair sauntered around the tables looking for empty seats, but bypassed our table, causing Ollie to lean over and whisper, "Jesus, I thought they were going to sit with us!"
When Ollie leaned back they sat either side of him. It’s amazing how quickly his face took on a beetroot hue.
I was almost as discomfited, as I had just sipped up a gobful of ale and catching sight of the unlikely threesome, I had to turn away and, when my tightly compressed lips became a leaky dam, I legged it to the gents, hurrying past a sea of silent but highly entertained customers.
In the gents, I released the dregs of the ale into the nearest urinal. When I looked up I found that several other fellas had joined me. When Ollie darted through the door, the others fellas applauded, in a slow handclap sort of way.
"Did you see the knockers on the gangster’s moll?!" he gasped.
I didn’t respond.
One of the guys gestured us to come closer. We inched forward. He put his hands on our shoulders, took in our long hair and hip T shirts and said, "I’d get lost if I was yous."
We took his advice - and didn’t even go back to finish us pints.
Litter matters
The Times reported that North Yorkshire council are having to bin 800 anti-litter posters because they’d put the apostrophe in the wrong place: "Gerrit in ’t bin!"
The paper turned for advice to Rod Dimbleby, Chair of the Yorkshire Dialect Society and former treasurer of the Shaggy Dog Club. Rod said, "I try to be patient with such irritating errors." But confirmed that the correct punctuation should have read, "Gerrit in t’ bin."
If you want to support the use of local dialect you should use punctuation appropriately. I once had a friendly chat with the manager of the café opposite the park gates but realised she’d dug her heels in.
Later in the piece, Christa Ackroyd, formerly a well-paid presenter of Calendar and Look North, questioned why we should use dialect at all.
"We’ve moved on from flat caps, whippets and pit language!" …"We aren’t northern tykes anymore. We know how to spell, we know grammar and we know how to enunciate."
She talked of Yorkshire’s 'golden triangle', 'genteel' Harrogate, 'marvellous' Ilkley, and the 'gleaming spires' of Ripon and York Minster as evidence that the area has moved on from the 'deprived way' in which it was often portrayed.
"North Yorkshire has some of the wealthiest, biggest, stately homes and housing stock. So let’s not pretend we’re some kind of downtrodden, accented people living in the past."
I think there’s summat up with Christa’s response.
Yes, dialect words die out, an old Viking derived word such as laikin’ is not used by children these days whilst it was common in playgrounds when we moved here in the 70s. Many textile related idioms survive, such as, "spinning a yarn', 'get weaving' 'you’re framing' . And regional dialect has its own grammar. Yes, youngsters are empowered by learning to use Standard English alongside local dialect, especially when writing formal letters, but it’s appropriate for local kids to use the language and accents they still hear around them every day when socialising or working with other locals.
Tom Pidcock
So far, the most exciting performance in these Olympics came from this Leeds born mountain biker, who retained his Olympic title despite losing 40 seconds after his bike punctured. He’s an interesting guy. In a section of a documentary about The Tour de France called The Enemy Within young Tom refused to follow team orders to become the domestique to a Spanish rider. He said he’d ride for himself.
When he won in Paris, the Cycling Correspondent from The Times received an email from a shopkeeper in Horsforth. She always thought Tom would amount to something. As a lad, when his mum sent him to her shop for the groceries, when he got to the roundabout opposite the shop, he always rode straight across it.
Haworth Folk Festival
At the Cobbles and Clay restaurant, one of the pieces I performed was Le Grand Depart. It’s 10 years since the big bike race came to West Yorkshire, flashing through Haworth and Hebden Bridge on its way.
Le Grand Depart
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