OLD
TARM AN’ JIMMA CAMPAIGN FUR BATTER BEER
AS
HEARD BY ‘BOR’ IN THE LOCAL
“Mornin’,
Tarm.”
“Mornin’,
Jimma. That ol’ wather doan’t fare to git much
batter?”
“That
that doan’t, Tarm. When that en’t a-raainin’,
tha’s a-blowin’ suffen awful. An’ sometimes
tha’s raainin’ an’ blowin’ all tergather.
The forecast on that ol’ wireliss last night saay fair
periods, but I hen’t seen ener fair periods yit.”
“Yit
en’t I, bor. Tha’s them mucker ol’ fallas
at the Air Min’strer. They doan’t seem to know
where they are, tergather.”
“That
they doan’t, Tarm. They doan’t start a-forecastin’
narthen till tha’s jist about bin an’ garn. I
rackon I could do batter meself.”
“I
rackon yew could, bor. What’s yar forecast for to-morrow?”
“Fair
to middlin’.”
“I
hope yar right, bor. Hev yew another glass.”
“Thankee,
Tarm. An'’ talking about beer an’ this of wather,
I rackon it’s about time they took some o’ the
raain water outa the beer. I hen’t hed a decent glass
for years.”
“No,
yit en’t I, Jimma. There wuz suffen in the paaper yisterder
about the strength o’ beer. Scandalous, the falla saay
that were.”
“He’s
right, bor. An’ talkin’ o’ paapers, did yew
see that in this mornin’s about the raailwaays in Narf’k?
They saay we gart a poor sarvice, tergather. Onler runnin’
occaasion’ler, an’ allus laate, that saay. Twenter
years behind the times. Animaated, that saay our sarvice
is.”
“Yew
mean antiquaated, bor.”
“Tha’s
right, Tarm. I noo that wuz suffen aated. But what I saay
is, traains en’t narthen to git worryin’ about.
That wouldn’t worrer me if they niver runned at all.
I hen’t bin in a traain for forter year.”
“Yit
en’t I, bor.”
“Mind,
they hev their uses. I allus gits Saturder arternoon to
meself now, since my ol’ missus start taakin’
my gal Sarah and her nipper, Jahn Willer, up to Narich to
see them ol’ fillums tergather. Jist
the saame, though, I doan’t rackon we need to campaaign
for a batter sarvice. Tha’s good enow as that is. I
wouldn’t saay narthen if they brought the beer by traain,
but they doan’t – least, not often. That mostler
come by road. An’ talkin’ of beer, Tarm, hev yew
another.”
“Thankee,
Jimma.”
“What
I saay, Tarm, is niver mind a campaaign for batter traain
sarvices; le’s hev a campaaign for batter beer.”
“Ah
– now yar talkin’, bor. I doan’t know mener
who wouldn’t be in faavour o’ that.”
“An’
yit doan’t I, bor.”
From
The Norfolk Magazine, Vol. 1 No. 4, Oct–Dec
1949
