Millom in the Dock (6 page)

Alternate
dimension.

Now, as local
Royalists thought Arthur to be their King … Ferguson that is, not
Pendragon. Mr Pendragon by the way was the first and last King to
own a lottery company (think about it), now there’s a bit of
history for you. However, the Royalists felt that he, King Fergie,
had the power to halt the troublesome tide so, a strategy was
devised by the keenest royal supporters, who were afraid of the
carpet wetting effect of rogue waves. King Ferg’s most loyal
supporters were the ones who ‘refused’ the discount by the way. The
strategy was simple; he was sat on a deckchair throne on the marshy
shorefront in order to demand the tide go no further than his feet
… he got his socks wet, his trousers wet and his Ys wet. He would
have got his nose wet too if they hadn’t waded in and rescued him.
He was so grateful that he had acquired his clothing at trade price
from a passing merchant with HIS Royal automatic ‘doozer’ of a
discount. His Kingship was merely dampened, not destroyed, by this
small tidal, TsNo-nami tragedy. All Arthur did to save his
reputation was, firstly not panic and, secondly suggest the
construction of the Banking barrier and the sea wall (the blocks)
after which, he was almost sainted much to the jealous rage of the
Reverend whose divine (!) self we shall meet later …
guaranteed.

By the way some
information for all you relic hunters in Court today, the Holy
Grail is in King Arthur Ferg’s kitchen cupboard, it has Malvern Sea
Salt engraved on its side, framed by jewels. Trust me. Canute was
foolish, he should have had the throne moved back past the high
tide mark and then said … “there you go dudes … owzaaaaat!
Waheeeey!”

So, to combat
this salt water problem Arthur’s inspired suggestion of a sea wall
was built. Part of this defence was constructed next to the bottom
end of Sharpo-Ville on the edge of the marshland. It’s called the
Banking as I’ve already told you M’lud, ladies and gentlemen of the
Jury, dear reader … a man-made grassy bank. People have allotments
and pigeon lofts nearby which, we will hear about later. I’ll bet
you just can’t wait can you. I’m itching to tell you … that’s how
much I care.

The other
barrier is between Haverigg and another place called ‘white rock’
locals call it the blocks because, it’s made from large cubes of
concrete. People dig worms from Haverigg shore and also collect
softy crabs and go fishing off the blocks. Lots of these blocks
contain specimens of ancient fossils; some of them still have the
jack in their hand. On the other side of the blocks there is a
water-ski lake / centre. This is very popular in the summer months.
You ought to see the guy rowing the Coracle trying to keep that
skier on the surface … and the juuuuump! When someone decides to
attempt it is an education.

NELLIE
IRWIN

Well, my long
deceased Gran, Nellie Irwin, would take me for walks along the
banking and on the marshes when I was but a cute little thing (and
she didn’t mind me playing with my … ding a ling a ling!) which was
nice of her. As we strolled along, she would say to me … “David,
rightful King of M, move your cute little ass and don’t step in the
shaw kite!” a general term she used for the used grass fibre
wadding from both cows and sheep. I enjoyed it though, the fresh
stuff that is as it was nice as it squidged through my toes (don’t
knock it till you’ve tried it).

I ought to
mention here (in this dimension) that when I was younger, on a
Saturday morning when my mother wanted to go shopping, she would
drop me off at the Workies where my Gran was a cleaner. The beer
glasses weren’t cleaned up on the night but, were left on the
tables until the next morning when the cleaners went in. I ‘still’
don’t like the taste of beer but, with me being a sensitive and
very emotional person to a fault, I enjoyed helping my Gran by
making the glasses lighter; I still find beer … funny. I was a
happy child on Saturdays and, because of this, the local child
psychologist would come to ‘me’ for a session, boy did he have some
troubles I had to help him sort. Gran if you’re aware of this
writing, thanks xxx

The shaw kite
she warned me of was quickly claimed as Royal property. Arthur had
/ has employed a number of bored teenagers who have just left
school and are therefore looking for something to do in order to
earn rabbit skins for their mums to make new clothes etc. Arthur
sends these manifestations of keenness out into the fields with
bags of miniature billboards mounted on sticks. When they find a
fresh country pancake they claim it much like a conqueror of
Everest would claim victory over the mountain. The boards say …
“Royal Poop! Property of King Arthur. Hands off!”

Thus rendered
safe it is later gathered by one or more of his heraldic shop
assistants, placed in large refillable 48 hour jars, or larger one
week size blue barrels (later copied by Calor) and used as the
towns power supply … Methane. Electricity in the other dimension,
M, forgotten by God … you having a laugh O great Divine one? People
then had two choices of lighting. The poor generally used this
natural Methane, whilst the middles generally used candles. They
wouldn’t be seen dead with a jar of kite on their living room
windowsill, not even if it were obscured by the light reflecting
talent of a net curtain. Our gang’s cassette recorder had a jar of
the stuff in full view; the middles hid their kite under a floral
tapestry silk blanket. So that was it, Nellie Irwin, MY Gran, the
labeller of the town’s energy supply. Get your refillable jar or
barrel of Shaw Kite from Ferguson’s!

Back to the
bowls then M’lud, ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader …
we, Gary Maggs (sometimes Mouse) and I, realised then what the
trench around the hills was for. It was to stop ‘our’ bowls
speeding off the side of the green and onto the road, therefore
stopping a grisly accident should the local rag and bone cart,
pulled by the local horse, Peg (on a bit of a side earner), come
trundling by.

Cars?! What?
Come on! This is a small Northern town back in the days of Slade
and forgotten by God. Someone local had just invented the pushbike
but, no one had the heart to tell him the bad news about the age
old Starley technology from Coventry. He later moved to London and
invented the clockwork radio but, only because he thought that
London was like the North therefore, batteries, unknown to his
conscious mind, were still a concept, existing in another realm …
awaiting their cue … ‘necessity’.

That’s the end
of my care in the community through relaxing activities provided by
the Council M’lud.

Bananas an
orange and a bow ... seem to stop the tin beast getting
wrathful.

This M’lud is
the usual effect a car has on a local, may I pass it round the jury
M’lud?

M’lud: “Of
course Mr Lassut, it’s amazing! Well, Mr Lassut, what a very
extraordinarily interesting way of taking part in a game of bowls
and, how nice to see such good positive interaction between the
aged, crusty, dusty, squeaky shoed mob themselves and the younger
socially conditioned generation. How nice also of your Gran Nellie
to have named the lower common classes lighting and cassette player
fuel supply. I’ve played bowls myself but, only ever on the normal
surface, I must visit Millom and try my hand”.

Just you watch
out for relatives of that composer Elgar M’lud.

“I will Mr
Lassut. Well now everyone, it is 14.30, Court will recess for one
hour, back at 15.30, I’m famished”.

“All rise for
M’lud!”

***

Monday
15.30

Court Clerks …
in perfect unison (still drunk from the night before?) …

“All rise for
M’lud! (Hic)”

He sits.

M’lud: “Hello
everyone and welcome back, what’s next on the agenda Mr
Lassut?”

Well M’lud, I
would like during this session to praise the natural, prolific,
inventive creativity of the good people of this ‘End of the Line’
town who, sadly know nothing of what financially satisfactory good
fortune may exist for them in the outside world. Yet, despite this
non-perception their self-contained product list is nothing short
of amazing and, I feel sure that this talent pool should be
recognised in the outside world, maybe for the ‘good’ of the
outside world?”

M’lud: “Very
well then, carry on Mr Lassut”.

Thank you,
M’lud. Well ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader, I would
now like you to cast your minds back once again to the days of
Slade, to the days when Dave Hill wore fantastic costumes and when
everyone thought that guy with the moustache from the group Sparks
was weird. Then, as always, the inventors, the creators, made sure
the world kept turning because they knew that the day they refused
to accept and act on the inspiration they received, despite all the
‘negative things’ people said to and about them concerning madness,
the world would cease to (R)evolve, hmmmmm? The strange thing is
M’lud, ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader, every human
on this planet is a powerful creator yet most choose to deny or
even remain ignorant of the fact through no fault of their own.
Parents, peers and teachers can and, usually are, unwitting, closed
minded terrible enemies (there is no worse enemy to this planet
than a closed mind).

All human
knowledge is nothing more than remembered memory. We ALL know
‘everything’ … scary or what! Yet not as scary as a system which
would create closed minds and suppress that knowledge. However,
this small forgotten Northern settlement, M, has its fair share of
actual ‘realised’ genius (although they don’t see themselves that
way, it’s just normal). The only trouble is, a lack of
communication with the outside world which, would give these people
a chance to spread the inventive wing and share what they have with
the rest of the world (in the God forgotten dimension that is).

Well, I mean,
look at what the press had to say about their main arterial
highway, I quote:-

“The main road
into the town passes through two farmyards.”

Hmmmm? Does
this little observational remark, fact or not (?), which was
displayed in the National press put valuable people off visiting?
It is said as though such geographical features are a crime in
themselves. “Yes this road obviously passes through Hick-ville …
keep out whatever you do! The Beverley Hillbilly’s poor cousins
live here!” Oh what a pity everyone doesn’t live in big cities with
all their refreshing delights. Crime on the streets, trash covering
the streets, muggings, murders, gangs of hoodies walking around
intent on destruction and assorted lunatics racing around in fast
cars; and walking the pavements. Cities!? Breeding grounds for
crime and ignorance! But … each to their own.

I class myself
as fortunate indeed; I have / have had both. Yet you may choose and
a very good choice it is too … to live in a small town, surrounded
by idyllic countryside and with the sea right by your side but,
whatever you do, watch very carefully where your main through road
is laid … tut tut! But come on now M’lud, ladies and gentlemen of
the Jury, dear reader what could be handier for fresh untampered
farm produce. Indeed! For eggs, potatoes, vegetables and hooved
things … how about a cow for the deep freeze ladies and gentlemen
of the Jury? Hmmmm? I know you good people may find such a task
easy to accomplish? Have it butchered and delivered perhaps? Just a
phone call away; am I correct? You take it for granted? You
wouldn’t in M. You see, in God forgotten Hicksville things are done
differently. Oh yes.

For a start you
pay the farmer not the butcher then you go and collect your cow,
which is guaranteed to be extremely fresh by the way, straight from
the field fresh! The farmer, whose new found fortune goes straight
to his head, goes straight to the pub with a wine to water
conversion latter day ‘mini miracle’ buzzing around in his
conscious mind, posing as a good idea! (Although he’s careful not
to leak this in case the Reverend finds out and has him exorcised
or worse exercised … whichever is cheaper).

Ok, I’ll admit
this ‘serve yourself’ method may sound a little perplexing but,
fear is not an option, especially if the customer is famished. The
farmer, by his very nature being a generous soul, especially with
blunderbuss pellets for trespassers, will allow the customer to use
his sheepdog and his spare whistle, for a small deposit on the
whistle that is, just in case it is accidentally swallowed should
the person trip while running! Luckily the local sheepdog’s
multi-skill (saves on wages / dog food) and do other breeds too,
because the fun starts when the customer wants a multiple ‘rural
pick ‘n’ mix order’ – i.e. a cow, bull, a sheep and two pigs for
instance. The procedure is usually as follows:-