Millom in the Dock (11 page)

The church
however is sticking to the story that the picture was the work of
the Devil and, therefore worth a few pence a week into the tray as
protection money (chink, chink. Hee! Hee!) Togo’s roof by the way
had a large gaping hole in it! They had been abducted by actual
Martians, which I think were / are Slade. It would certainly clear
up any doubts about Dave Hill and, not forgetting Noddy Holders
intergalactic top hat (mirrors used for light overtone travel). May
be not?

They were both
taken back in time to the heyday, just before the (playing with
genetics and becoming slaves to technology and greed, terrorism and
fear) decline of Mars, to save the planet. Ooops! Error! … Look at
all these books and programmes now on TV (outside of M) … Mars, the
dead planet, say no more. They were then brought back. The Martians
came with them as they didn’t really have much choice. It goes to
prove that the Jobstart programme doesn’t work on other planets
either. They had been missed only by the Job Centre staff, ‘missed’
possibly not being the correct word, as it isn’t always accompanied
by relief. Years after the abduction which seemed like a month to
the social staff, actually one Millom light year, yet one week in
reality, and a while in this other dimension ... they both marched
into the Job Centre and said, in unison … “Sorry we didn’t sign on
last Thursday, we were abducted by four aliens collectively known
as Slade, taken through a couple of interconnecting curved space
interstellar wormholes to Mars. We were taken to Martian HQ and
asked to use our intelligence and therefore halt the demise of the
troubled planet and, now we’re back”.

The remaining
lady, guess who? My mother, the late Joan Lassut! That’s how I know
all this, said … “yes lads okay, whatever you say, are you both
available for work?” In unison … “NO!” … (gulp).

And the rest of
the staff as this was going on? Kill with a stare yet full of fun,
Dot Cartwright, lovely Enid Bowes and the late Meg Atkinson,
another lovely lady and wife of a local Police Sergeant! also
passed. Their son, Norman, is now a Police Sergeant! (But now,
2012, I have no idea where they all are). Well, Meg and Dot ran to
the loo always and forever in twos, to water their noses and powder
the hydrangea and feed the Triffid, only God knows what with? Beef
flavoured UB40s dipped in fresh rabbit’s blood perhaps? And not
forgetting to check the hen’s eggs which they would try and hatch
on the radiator … it was a local non-military coup.

Enid, being an
out of town farmer’s daughter and, therefore a consultant on this
radiator chicken coup, had had to muck out and milk the cows and
climb trees all her life since birth and was therefore, well fed
and energetic, with her own unlimited free fuel supply, shaw kite
bedside light (!!) had climbed athletically onto the roof, stuff
the torrential rain and, nearly fallen through the large gaping
hole in the process.

“Oh well … it’s
Jobstart then” … said my old girl to the pair. Oh my God … what of
the Earth? (Me thinking out loud now). Brick actually contacted me
through Friends Reunited, called me names, and then threatened me
with death or something. I told him he should be f*****g honoured
to be chosen as good enough to be in MY work. He then became
friendly, then the next thing I hear
d
, he
died ... at least now his memory is remembered ... he was an ok
guy.

Back to the
folk museum, zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

There is though
another odd thing about the photograph. Visitors have commented on
the strange and mysterious Ley Line which runs the length of the
town. Is it some mystical Sun Worshippers line up with the Pole
Star? The landing strip for? (Slade?) Actually it’s a ditch. Cable
TV should have checked first.

Our tourists
are then prodded into the back room where there is a mock-up mine
with a scary dummy of an indifferent looking miner, pipe in mouth
and a tape playing of ‘ironworks mine sounds’ Oooh! This is what my
dad used to listen to, is what I used to think as I did the pipe.
There is also a mock-up of Cissy and Arthur Ferguson’s first living
room which makes Angela’s Ashes look like Space 1999. Locals have
become inebriated, climbed in the museum window quietly so as not
to wake the wife, then wonder why all they can hear is the
ironworks in full swing when they wake up in the morning … and why
has the missus been out and bought a new ultra-modern settee from
Stollers without discussing it with them first? Typical!

M’lud: “Thank
you Mr Lassut, alien abduction! I find that very exciting you know
life elsewhere. Shopping, I must admit sounds like fun in
Sharpo-Ville”.

Oh it is M’lud,
even for the lonely.

M’lud: “For the
lonely? What do you mean Mr Lassut?”

Oh M’lud, this
is a subject close to my heart. You see M’lud, ladies and gentlemen
of the Jury, dear reader, with such a small closed community; it is
very easy to get left on the shelf. Elbowed out of the matrimonious
stakes, especially if you don’t play certain rough and tumble games
with a certain amount of vigour, which I will describe after this
little quip. The fact is, the population at last count, now in
2003, was 8,000. Not many at all as compared to most places. That
is … 3,000 of the younger generation and 4,998 married / engaged /
courting adults … which leaves ‘two’ lonesome folk, whom as luck
would have it are male and female of roughly the same age. For
privacy’s sake and to hide embarrassment, we’ll call them Kevin and
Doris. So just for the likes of these two, Millom boasts …

THE IT TAKES
TWO, TO TANGO Dating Agency

Shopping for
Luuuuurve! This is something Sharpo never needed, but I’ll tell you
about it anyway.

Very easy to
use, the weekly ad appears in Fergie’s shop door window. Are you
lonely? Looking for that one special person? …etc. The letters were
dropped in secret into a locked ballot box in Fergie’s shop. Each
Wednesday they were opened and read enthusiastically by Arthur.
Details of the prospective lovebirds were taken, including the
address of course and, the matches made through the supreme
knowledge of his subjects. The ‘this is me’ letters are then given,
in plain brown envelopes (under strict secrecy) to the Postman,
Mayor … Freddie Gleaves, who then delivered them to the prospective
couples homes (under strict secrecy) disguised as a window cleaner.
The replies were dropped secretly in a box in Fergie’s shop were
delivered by Arthur (who doesn’t read these particular sets of
private romantic coo-ings) in plain brown envelopes, to Freddie
once again, who … once again (under the strictest of secrecy),
disguised as a milkman, delivered these little bits of human heart
to the prospective couples homes.

I would hazard
a guess that the letters contain things about the couples likes and
dislikes etc., and, most importantly, what they will be wearing
when they meet on the wall outside the Harbour Hotel. The only
rules are and, they are good ones, no second names in the
correspondence and no Daguerreotype means of identification. This
helps keep that element of surprise when the couple meet. The cost
of using the agency by the way is £25.00 per week.

M’lud: “Isn’t
that a little steep Mr Lassut?”

Well M’lud,
it’s worth it, wait until I tell you what they get. Think of part
of the fee as a worthwhile payment to Arthur for running such an
agency of bliss production. It is also greatly encouraged by the
Reverend who has a marriage in mind, a nice little earner.

So then Kevin
and Doris meet on the wall and oh boy, do they like each other!
They then walk into the Harbour and are met by Chris, all dolled up
in his chef’s gear, they are sat in a romantic candlelit corner,
well away from the dart board. The delicious gourmet meal is then
served.

THE IT TAKES
TWO TO TANGO MENU

Starter

Prone
Cocktail

(Not written on
the menu but … Prone is not misspelt, it’s actually the recommended
position to take as you down this drink in one … a little warmer
upper).

A mixture of
gin, whisky, rum, coconut milk, Worcester sauce and a dash of St
George’s Church altar wine.

(Not on the
menu … courtesy of the Reverend … a little pre-marriage blessing
perhaps? Hmmmmm … if you like each other enough).

Or Soup

Locally caught
eel, jellyfish, plaice, mackerel, dogfish, edible seaweed and
dickey crab chowder.

Main Course

Rabbit and
Banking allotment vegetable casserole with Woodalls of Waberthwaite
Cumberland Sausage. With a side salad and clay cooked gypsy style
hedgehog.

Do I see mouths
watering among the Jury? Dear reader?

M’lud: “I’m
feeling rather peckish Mr Lassut”.

Me too M’lud,
what a wonderful menu, just look at the afters …

Sweet

Lakeland
Vanilla Ice Cream.

(My note …
simply the greatest!)

Coffee and
Mints
.

And the evening
draws on, are Doris and Kevin getting on well together? Remember
there is a lot at stake. The dating agency depends on these two
peoples continued support. It is unbelievable actually because the
couple both worked in Ferguson’s shop and, have actually fancied
each other for ages but have been too shy to say anything in case
of a humiliating rejection and, had therefore actually given up on
the idea and decided to look for other people … ‘Oh! This is just
too good to be true!’

The Reverend
however wants a marriage but, because it is good business for
Arthur and Chris, a little, sorry large, underhand manipulation
(learnt from a Government secret dossier, takes about 45 minutes to
read) is put into practice in the shape of a secret beer brewed by
Chris in his bedroom. It is a bitter brewed to 11½ % ABV and, has
the essence of a little flower added to it for such a romantic
occasion.

Kevin receives
one after the other, in celebration of such a lovely, marvellous,
memorable date … nine pints of ‘Forget Me Not’ bitter, while Doris
receives eighteen halves.

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?