Millom in the Dock (3 page)

I would, as
part of my task, like to communicate to you M’lud, you, the learned
Jury and especially ‘you’ dear reader the positive points of such a
badly situated town. There again, it is actually on the doorstep of
the world famous Lake District, a definite bonus (as I rewrite
this, the DVD of Miss Potter is on sale … it’s been a few years
since this project began … so be it).

There is also
an untapped fountain of ingenuity in the town, as I’ve already
stated, not to mention sporting talent, acting talent, song writing
talent, artistic talent etc. Have I already said this? Well, if I
have, repetition can be a useful tool to fix something firmly in
the mind. My only concern is that there may actually be ‘too much’
to communicate in one short week, time being the enemy of the
enthusiast but, I fully intend to do my utmost in the precious
portion of time I am to be allowed. That ‘I can guarantee’. Maybe
the town is crying out for investment or tourism (?) hence the
lovely negative publicity to bring it to the attention of the
world?

Problems could
then be seen as gifts (?) and not curses. It may be useful to know
that the Chinese have two symbols for the word ‘crisis’. One means
danger whilst the other, opportunity.

So has this
call for help been heard? I don’t think so. If it has, it fell on
the deaf drums of those who don’t want to hear because no one has
thrown a lifebelt! M always receives a refusal from the financial
bodies, so I’m informed. No one is interested. Tragic M’lud, ladies
and gentlemen of the Jury and dear reader. Yet, twenty four miles
away by road, not as the ‘crow flies’, unless of course it’s been
drinking with Chris, Craggy, Freddy and Peg in the Harbour Hotel in
Haverigg, a small nearby village/town. Yes twenty four miles away
by land sits, as I’ve already mentioned, Barrow in Furness, rolling
around in a mud wrestling bath of investment money. But it will
come if it’s going to, may I begin with the origins of the town
M’lud?

M’lud: “Carry
on Mr Lassut”.

Ladies and
gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader; this is not the ‘official’
Copeland Borough Council version (not even in this dimension …
theirs is boring).

One fine day, a
long, long time ago, a canny wee man from Dundee got lost on his
travels and, for many days wandered aimlessly in the wilderness. He
was bored was the wee Scot.

He was also
holding safely in his right palm a farthing and whistling
en-er-geti-call-ly, so happy was he with being so minted and free!
(In those days farthings were worth £3,000). The lad though was so
out of tune that a rabbit with a headache raised its sensitive ears
periscope like from a burrow in order to gain some insight into the
cause of whatever it was that was shattering the peace and making
his head pound all the more. Once located the bunny could give the
perpetrator a vicious, wrinkly browed, buck toothed stare and
hopefully, scare it off, thus returning the/it’s world to
peace.

You M’lud,
ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader, may call it bad
timing? Others among you may choose to call it fate but, our Dundee
dude tripped! Over the top of the rabbit’s slowly turning furry
napper. Upon his impact with terra firma as he kissed the dirt, the
farthing was launched slingshot like from his hand only to
disappear down another burrow some feet away. His panicked search
was the accidental beginning of the iron ore mine and M Town.
Whether or not the poor chap found the coin is anyone’s guess? Mine
would be yes because, you see, no skeleton was ever found. Ahhh!
You may laugh! Make of that what you will but, ladies and gentlemen
of the Jury, M’lud and dear reader the real version as told to me
in great honesty by local musician and singer, Willie (blue suede
shoes) Farren, over many beers. At his insistence, I had to buy and
did so such was my commitment to this case.

M’lud, ladies
and gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader the town of Millom was
actually founded by Cornish miners believe it or not who then
attracted other miners from everywhere, like a flora pollen pot
would attract bees. Here is how they discovered the precious
Hematite ore in the land that would eventually ‘sprout’ God
forsaken M.

***

Down in
Cornwall one sunny morning around about 1866, about 93 years before
Sharpo was kicked out of heaven for stealing the Pearly Gates ...
during their measly half hour tea break which had been accepted by
the weak union reps who were now a part of the management team, the
mining guys and gals (yes, someone has to carry the load for the
men) were playing a game of ‘Boundary-less football’ which saves
time on throw ins and corners and, thus compensates for the short
break. Through bad passing and lousy ball control they gradually
worked their way up country, moving the goalposts frequently and,
being forcibly stopped many miles later as a wave washed over Emlyn
Hughes’s great, great granddad’s cousins brother’s feet. He shouted
“stoooop!!!” just as some bright spark kicked a thirty yard shot to
goal and, an early ancestor of Millom’s famous Frankie Forrest an
old workmate of mine and, an amateur goalie … let it in! The ball
consequently set off on the tide at a good lick for the Isle of
Man.

“Ah!? What
shall we do now?” asked one of them, this being a great question in
the circumstances you must admit M’lud, ladies and gentlemen of the
Jury, dear reader.

“Well” replied
an espouser of wisdom, a sage amongst them … “as we’re miners and
as our slightly extended break is now over and, as we’re lost
beyond doubt and most probably hope too? Furthermore, because we
can’t even play soccer now because nob over there kicked the ball
into the sea after double-nob over there let it in … easy save as
it was … how about we dig for something mineable? Might be
something worth a pastie or two under the ground right here?” (He
jumps up and down listening for a hollow sound, I bet). This was
hailed as a great idea and the following cheer: “Hurrah!” sort of
dissipated into the nothingness of no M. They had therefore found
what was as good a spot as any, well away from a certain burrow and
a well relieved rabbit with a bad head (must ferment dandelion
juice?) which had been rudely woken by the cheer and the low level
Richter vibes from the jumping up and down. It is all because of
those big sensitive ears you see. They, the ex-Cornish miners,
started to dig without further ado with their hands (Foreign Legion
stuff). This resulted in broken nails which just wasn’t good enough
for the women and, as the men couldn’t stand them just sitting
around advising naggedly, a new plan was needed. It was unanimously
decided to go to a place next to Barrow in Furness called Biggar
Bank, quite fitting really and get a huge mammoth of an interest
free loan and, eighteen months free banking, easy in those days of
low cholesterol, sorry collateral, I do apologise for the mistake
M’lud, ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader.

M’lud:
“Forgiven Mr Lassut”.

Their
representatives sat in the Biggar Bank Manager’s office, fingers
crossed, hoping.

“You want to
dig for Hematite iron ore where?” asked the Biggar Caring Bank Loan
Manager.

“M”.

“Where is
Millum?”

“Mill-h ‘o’m –
just over the water, jutting out there (pointing out of window), at
the bottom of that big hill called Black Coombe”.

“Where did you
get the name M from?”

“One of our
artier thespian miners who we affectionately call “The Bored Bard”
stood on his head this morning and composed a poem called ‘I sat by
a Weeping Willow’. He was trying to impress one of the mining women
whom we even more affectionately call ‘miner birds’.”

“Oh really!?”
he replied, bemused yet fascinated. “How much money do you want
then? Just name your amount. I’m satisfied with your inspirational
business plan, very impressive! Your arty thespian poet should
consider getting a proper job though as he’s obviously a little
disturbed. I’m also going to be extremely insistent on waiving the
‘set up’ fee and, I’d also like to give you eighteen months to ten
years free banking, if that’s okay with you lot?” (Would anyone
like to borrow my Universe/dimension machine?)

“Yes that’s
fine with us lads and lasses. Hmmm? Around two hundred quid ought
to do it”.

“No problem,
pay it back if and when you can we won’t bother you with
threatening letters and Biggar Bank charges so don’t adopt worry as
part of your life experience, simply laugh instead. Erm … will you
build a Police Station?”

“Maybe,
although we probably won’t need it, being model citizens and all
that and, maybe it’s a bit pinnacle-ish for a Police Station? But,
we will anyway, it may put the town on the map one day, you just
never know.”

***

That was it
easy eh? Nothing’s changed much as the Banks even all these years
later are fantastic establishments, I’m sure you agree …
seriously.

Well M’lud they
quickly built the ironworks foundry and, in order to protect
themselves against the inclement weather (courtesy of Scotland and
the Irish Sea), banged a few wooden huts together thus forming a
main street which they named ‘Wellington’ after their football
footwear. They also built a few larger three and four bedroomed
scattered dwellings here and there for those poshies who fancied
the detached lifestyle away from commoners. Everything seemed
perfect.

Ahhhhhhhh!

The minority
majority, the ‘miner birds’ though, being very aware, noticed a
tidgy widgy sub-atomic, nano quantum flaw in the town plan. Each
time they went shopping in Wellington Street, no matter how hard
they all searched, no shops could be found. This disaster meant
that they were all getting cold, hungry and bored because of their
inadequate clothing and, as of yet, poor rabbiting skills. The
original rabbit became anthro (man) phobic and wouldn’t come out of
his burrow any more … poor wee thing. So the miner who sat by the
burrow for ages with a shovel raised above his head waiting was
really wasting his time. He should have gone fishing instead. Were
they doomed then? Was it all over so early and
after
so much effort? Naaaaa!

THE KING OF
MILLOM ARRIVES

King Arthur

Earrrr-ly one
mor-or-ning, just after the Sun had ri-i-sen, their saviour arrived
and walked Royally over the brow of a beautifully lit Black Coombe.
He was dragging his large handcart behind him which was all the
heavier, but not that much, because his lovely wife Cissy was sat
atop the bric-a-brac mound. However he noticed the distant
dwellings and out came the ancient brass telescope. Arthur Ferguson
surveyed Wellington Street at twenty times magnification and
thought to himself … Shiiiiittttt!? But! Where there’s Shiiiiittttt
there is money, so they say.

One hundred?
Two hundred years or so ago when all this drama happened animals,
which now reside on farms
,
were neither
evolved nor domesticated in M. Also, by the way, M’lud, ladies and
gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader, Arthur Ferguson is ‘ageless and
infinite’ (and a friend of mine so I should know) which is the
perfect excuse for the previous sentence.

***

Sheep were not
as you know them now, oh no! Armed with powerful fangs and razor
sharp claws they were deadly hunters, making sabre toothed tigers
seem limp clawed in comparison. They would crouch in the long grass
and leap with deadly precision on who or whatever happened to be
passing in order to feed, or just for a laugh! They weren’t fussy
either, food and between meals punch-bags (which enhanced not
ruined their appetite) came in many different and varying forms. If
it moved and had bones … or not (?) it was dinner, or a sparring
partner. They didn’t hang around in flocks either but, were
independent ferocious woolly predators. Cows were similarly
different. Back then bovines were tree dwellers, jumping from
branch to branch and dangling with the use of a prehensile
(bendy-curly) tail and gripping hooves. Cows tended to dangle above
blackberry bushes and grab blackberry feeding blackbirds. They
would then hold the bird above their open mouth and gently squeeze,
swallowing the sticky stream of partly digested fruit which they
loved. It also beat getting pricked to death on the bushes and you
try picking blackberries with hooves designed for gripping thick
branches. Not easy at all, be glad you have hands. Where they
pooped, blackberry bushes would grow abundantly and the birds which
managed to escape with full stomachs, the bovine clutches would in
turn keep the natural rotation going. To this day some M cows still
love blackberries and their milk is really nice I’m told. Unless
they have discovered something they find nicer, like grass perhaps?
But I don’t believe so.

It is necessary
to again mention here that the birds were not squeezed all that
hard which ensured safe release. Well you can’t just chuck a dead
blackbird away after you’ve squeezed all the berry mush from it as
ignorant people do abundantly with plastic bottles … think of the
environment. In fact the birds muchly enjoyed being hoof-hugged by
a cow, you could tell by the way they squawked, it has been written
in M folklore.

It is a good
job Sir Paul McCartney wasn’t in M around that time as “blackbird
squawking in the dead of night” just doesn’t have the same ring to
it does it M’lud, ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader.
‘Night time?’ You ask. Well some cows i.e. creative ones with
insomnia were also nocturnal feeders, which kills boredom and gives
the brain a natural sugar boost in those long dark hours you see
(tell me about it). Chickens back then had six inch, toucan-like
serrated beaks and preyed on mice and rabbits. These they caught by
hovering above hedges and grassy knolls, dropping on their prey and
killing it with their deadly talons and then dining using that beak
as cutlery. It all started to go wrong for these birds and beasts
when Arthur Ferguson began teaching himself sheep wrestling, a
predecessor to Cumberland and Westmorland wrestling, started in M
you see … boring place. Zzzzz. Let’s not forget Bovine Bashing, a
predecessor to the now ‘feared’ M Rugby League Club, never mind
wimps such as The England Squad.