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HELLO MY OLE BEWTIES...

Ashley Gray, webpage co-ordinator of www.norfolkdialect.com  

ASHLEY GRAY

 

IT WAS A LONG drawn out winter wasn’t it? And even when spring arrived you hardly noticed it what with all the northeasterly winds we’ve been having here in Norfolk. Was it any better where you are, I wonder? I do hope so!

Just when it looked like improving along came Easter and, just would you know it, it turned up rough again! And the same thing happened over the May Day holiday weekend – cold comfort from the east!

Now, I’m sure all these weathermen – or persons, if you want me to be politically correct – do their best to talk it up, with all their highs and lows, their weak fronts and isobar lines. And they’re rarely correct, are they? With all their electronic wizardry and pictures from Outer Space.

Whatever happened to good old-fashioned tradition? For instance, my Nanny Edie always used to hand a piece of seaweed outside our back door. She managed to forecast the day’s weather just by looking at a bunch of bladder wrack – or the morning sky – and was rarely caught out.

  Nanny Edie Middleton
  EDIE MIDDLETON

But, these days,it seems if the forecasters fail in their attempts at identifying that blot on their screen – no, there’s no hurricane heading our way – they can always blame it on the computer, can’t they?

I sometimes wonder what Edith Middleton (my great grandmother, though I always called her Nanny) would have made of all that?

I guess, even if there had been such things as computers in her day, she would have had no truck with them preferring, instead, the old ways, steeped in the traditions of the seaside folk. And customs too, but more of those later...

MORE VISITORS TO THE FOND WEBSITE

What can I say without sounding like a needle stuck in the groove. But before I hear you say ‘turn the record over’ I must repeat what I told you last time, the online interest in the Norfolk dialect continues unabated, and with many more of our visitors leaving messages in the guestbook.

It takes time, I know, but I do try to acknowledge all entries made in the guestbook as this is a way of attracting new members to FOND. However, If I miss you out please don’t hesitate to mention it, just send me an email and tell me so!

FOND NEEDS YOU – YES, YOU!

If you like what you see on this website, and find the sample pages of The Merry Mawkin interesting, please consider becoming a member. It isn’t as expensive as you might think, besides, you’re guaranteed a copy of The Merry Mawkin every three months!

It really doesn’t matter where in the world you live as one thing unites us across the waters – the love of the Norfolk dialect and the desire to preserve it for future generations. So, please help us to preserve our unique dialect before it’s lost forever – join FOND today, please!

YOUR THOUGHTS AND COMMENTS

At this point I would like to ask you, our most welcome visitor, if you have any thoughts, ideas or comments, on what you would like to see and read on the pages of the FOND website.

Here in FOND, we welcome your views on the subject of the Norfolk dialect. Perhaps there’s some aspect missing from these pages you’d like to see included, or one given greater coverage, if so, please let us know.

We also look forward to receiving any short stories, poems and memories, associated with this county of ours, with photographs (or scans) if you have them. As web co-ordinator and editor of FOND’s 24-page glossy newsletter, The Merry Mawkin, I look forward to hearing from you.

THE BOY ALBIE, THE SHERIN’UM LAD, DO SAY:

Oi dun’t know ’bout yew, but Oi allus lose complete track o’ the time, Oi do, but Oi spuz tha’s one of them thare earge-relearted things, en’t it?

If yew axed me what Oi’d hed for dinner the dear afore yisterdear, likely as not, Oi’d hoolly be in the soop! Howsumever my ole paartner, if that wuz four deceardes ago tha’s a diffrunt matter...

Albie and Troffer

“Oi bet yew Oi kin finish this hare bottle o’ ginger bare afore yew kin, Troffer,” Oi taunted my school-friend Trevor, as we set on the pearvement outside Smithsons’ at the bottum o’ the Avenoo with two bottles o’ Steward an’ Pattersons’ hottest. “This hare bag o’ maarbuls sez Oi kin!”

“Yar on, Albie,” he replied, tipping guzzlin’ his bare, until he began to slarver at the mouth. “Cor, tha’s hoolly hot, en’t ut? Barn yar tung, dun’t ut?”

Troffer orlmust hulled up on the peavement ’corse that ginger bare gev him wind an’ hoolly mearde him gag.

“Tha’s too hot fur me,” he said, stoppin’ t’git his breath, “ennyway, that en’t fair, that en’t, ’corse yew started afore me...!”

Arter much huffin’ an’ puffin’, Oi hatta agree he wuz right an’, hevin’ buth finished our drinks, we went back inta Smithsons’ shop on the corner t’git thruppence back on the bottles.

“Oi’ll hev sum sharbut dips wi moi thrupp’ny bit, please Mr Smithson,” Troffer said.

“An’, what ’bout yew, boy Albie?” axed the shopkeeper, “are yew gorn to hev suffen?”

“Watta them thare stick things?” I axed, pointing to a jaar what looked loike that wuz fulla bits o’ wood an’ stuff.

“Dew yew mean moi lickorish root?”

“Yis – tha’s it,” Oi says. tearkin’ a handful.

“That’ll keep yuh gorn orl week!” Mr Smithson laughed, and, Oi hatta tell yew, a truer waard he never spuk!

The Town Clock  
TOWN CLOCK AT THE TOP OF HIGH STREET  

Well, that wuz a lovler dear, that wuz, so Troffer an’ me walked up inta town t’see wha’s about.

Bein’s t hare wun’t nourthin’ doin’ we set down nexta the Town Clock, and, bein’ that wuz jist arter harf-paarst-two Sat’dy arternune, they wuz tarfin’ ’em out at The Robin Hood.

Some onnem wuz the wuss for drink, they wuz, singin’ an’ hallerin’ – but ole PC Beck wuz soon arter them, he wuz, an’ carted them orf to the police stearshun up St Peter’s rud to sleep ut orf in his cells.

Troffer and me still set thare, nexta the Town Clock, and opened our bags o’ coshies. Soon, he had white powder orl over his snout an’ fearce an’ Oi hed a brown tung and lips. But that wuz suffen good, tha wuz.

“Yew watta hev somer this hare,” Troffer said, putting sum sharbut on the back o’ his hand an’ tearken a sniff up his snout. “That hoolly mearke yar eyes water, that do!”

“No fare!” Oi told him, chewin’ on my thard lickorish stick, “the look on yar fearce s’nuff to put anyone orf!”

“Yew watta tearke a ganda at yarself,” he laughed.

Then, buth onnus laughed. We musta set a rummen ole sight, an’ tha’s a fact!

“D’yew know, tha’s May Day next Toosdy!” Troffer said, dustin’ orl the sharbut orfer his fearce an’ trousers. “Oi’m hoolly lookin’ forrud to that, en’t yew?”

“Yis,” Oi sear, gittin’ up orf my seat. “But, Oi carn’t set hare torkin’ t’yew orl dear, Troffer,” Oi sear, “Oi feel the call o’ Nearture comin’ on...!”

Ole Mr Smithson wuz right, he wuz, that thare lickorish wuz a faast warker, that wuz!

Customs and traditions

The fust week in May wuz allus a special toime fur us young’uns, that wuz.

There wuz ‘customs’ to obsarve, tradishuns to keep what hed bin leard down over the earges, an’ scored in the woodwork under our desk lids.

Even now, mem’ries of those dears hen’t lorst their magic – loike fleetin’ moments, frooze in toime, loike yar fust love.

On Toosdy the fust o’ May, the sun wuz hoolly smilin’ down on us young’uns, as we wuz chearsin’ around in the plearground at Sherin’am Primary school. Oi reck’n that woide open spearce hed rung to the sound o’ little feet over the earges and, on that partic’ler dear, that hoolly shrook to o’ orl us little waarmins mearkin’ a duller an’ chanting’:

“Fust o’ May – pinafore day!

Them thare pretty little mawthers were orl dressed in thare Sunday-best frocks. They danced an’ frolicked round the garlanded Maypole, wi’ orl us boys grabbin’ at thare skut hems. “First of May, petticoat day!”, we hallered. That wuz our ‘custom’, see?

Troffer, Patrick, Victor an’ me hed such a happy time, chearsin’ orl the mawthers, sometime ketchin’ them an’orl an’ hevin’ a ganda at their pretty learcy thingamajigs! And, do yew know, Oi reck’n them mawthers liked orl that attention an’orl, ’corse they din’t harf laugh! But, when pleartoime ended, so did our ‘hoigh jinks’, at least tha’s what our teacha leardy told us.

But Oi din’t know when to stop, Oi din’t, and, as we set thare in claass, Oi kep a-leanin’ forrud an’ tryin’ to grab the mawther’s skut hem who wuz sittin’ in front on me. But the teacha leardy wun’t hevin’ none onnit, she wun’t.

She copped hold onna me and hauled me out in fronta the claass, an’ took a wooden ruler to the back o’ my legs. Blass me, that hoolly hart, that did! An’ orl the mawthers laughed, but Oi din’t think that wuz funny! Oi hatta confess, Oi very nearly blarred, Oi did. But Oi din’t, do that woulda mearde ’em laugh orl the more!

  Sheringham Primary School
  SHERINGHAM PRIMARY SCHOOL

Fust thing next mornin’ – Wensdy, that wuz – Oi went down the bottom o’ the gard’n an’ picked a bunch a nettles. Tha’s another ‘custom’, see?

“Second of May – stingin’ nettle day!” we hallered, soon as we got to school, and began lashing out in orl directions with our little bunches o’ nettles.

That wuz fun – not such fun as chearsin’ mawthers though! Although that wun’t much fun if yew found yarself on the receivin’ end either! And, blass me, if Oi din’t git caught agin – twoice!

Once wi’ them thare stingin’ nettles, and agin by that searme blimmin’ teacha leardy! She thacked me agin, acrorse the legs with har ruler. Oi reck’n she’d got ut in for me, she hed!

The next day, and we wuz hoolly boist’ress, we wuz!

“Third of May – jam-toe day,” we shouted, ‘jamming’ on feet too slow to git outta our way. If yew got caught in the flurry of fancy footwork, yew hatta suffer trampled toes torturin’ yew all arternune and hevin’ to go home with mucky shoes. An’ that meant explearnin’ to Mother! But at least Oi kep outta that teacha leardy’s way that toime!

“Jist yew look at yar shoes, boy Albie!” said Mum as Oi stepped over the throshel an’ inta our scull’ry. “Oi go t’see if Oi know! What hev yew bin up to, yew little waarmin, yew? Jist yew wearte till yar Father git home!”

“But, Mu-um,” Oi pleaded, kicking orf my mucky shoes with the dinted toes, “Oi’re on’y bin playin’, Oi hev – arter orl, tha’s jam-toe day terday, and tha’s the custom, en’t ut?”

“Dun’t yew ‘custom’ me!” my mother replied.

Nanny Edie jist sat in har fearv’rit fireside chair, doin’ har knittin’ an’ craunchin’ on har shooga armuns, though she wuz tearkin’ ut orl onnit in, she wuz.

Smilin to harself, she sear; “Dun’t yew git so het up, Gladys,” she sear, “the boy hen’t dun no haarm, hev he? Arter orl – he is roight – tha’s on’y a custom...!”

However, orl my ‘customary’ excuses set on deaf ears when Father cearme hoome that night – though my lugs hoolly began to ring – a ding o’ the lug being a ‘custom’ in our house, an’orl!

Cheerio, tergather, do yew tearke care tergether.

The Boy Albie

The Boy Albie, 1963  

PS: This hare’s an old picture on me, when Oi hed a bit more hare than Oi hev now. They called ut a Beatle Cut, do yew remember that?

If yew watta read ’bout my toime in a pop group in the swingin’ sixties jist tearke a trip to Albie’s Tales but Oi hatta warn yew that ent fur the faint-hearted, that ent!

PPS: If yew watta see more pustcaards o’ Sherin’um do yew click hare: Sherin’um frum the west.

Ashley Gray FOND website co-ordinator

 
 
Lost in Translation; read about the Norfolk Schools Dialect Project.
 
 

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