Millom in the Dock (13 page)

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 barefoot 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.

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 map’ 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”.