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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!
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| TOWN
CLOCK AT THE TOP OF HIGH STREET |
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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!
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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
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.
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