Millom in the Dock (5 page)

Ah! All will
soon be revealed M’lud.

M’lud: “Oh ok,
very well, then carry on Mr Lassut”.

Well M’lud,
ladies and gentlemen of the Jury and you, of course, dear reader.
The older squeaky shoed generation would gather up the Recreation
Park during hot, fly buzzy summer afternoons to roll a few jacks
and listen, as we did, to the town’s most entertaining bird, an
escaped parrot which had belonged to King Arthur, acquired on his
extensive global pre-M travels no doubt. It was the only escaped
parrot in the town incidentally and, thus very lonely. He would sit
there quite happily on his favourite branch, singing one of its
many memorised Slade numbers. Everybody in the world, nay, nay the
Universe liked Slade, even stupid parents. The parrot’s repertoire
was such, possibly because Slade were the only group we ever
listened to ‘full blast’ on the gangs Shaw Kite cassette player as,
we played on the swings and things. It is a very spiritually
enlightening experience listening to a parrot performing a squawky
version of ‘Cum on Feel the Noise’. We christened him Noddy Holder
(Nod for short) of course.

One day one of
our number sent, at great speed, a golf ball down the chip and putt
course which, is next to the bowling green. It isn’t an ideal place
to see how far you can smack a ball yet, what the hell, we were
young and adventurous (live each day as though it’s your last). It
reached about thirty feet in altitude which wasn’t bad for the
driving device was a bent, wooden shafted putter, quite impressive
really. But, the ball caught Noddy in full song, producing a cloud
of feathers which looked great in the sunlight as they floated to
the ground, making a fantastic pattern both as they floated and,
after they landed. How we ever managed not to hit any of the other
sensible players still astounds me. We each kept a colourful
feather as a bookmark to remind us of our little / middle sized
friend. We also had him stuffed then, nailed him to his favourite
branch.

Noddy
Holder

About a week
later a really well plumed, healthy looking female mynah bird
turned up from somewhere or other. Possibly again from King Arthur
Ferg’s aviary of exotic birds collected on his extensive travels?
Well, she landed next to Nod, she must have known about him or,
heard him singing because she began to warble a beautiful version
of ‘Everyday’ to him. This was obviously a mating ritual, too late
for poor old Nod though … thanks to Mouse (a good lad and a big
Slade fan), who had to work on his swing after this in case another
entertaining Slade espousing parrot happened to turn up. As for the
Mynah, she must have been listening to someone playing Tina Turner
and, we all grew used to listening to ‘Nutbush City Limits’ on a
continuous basis as she chatted up Nod, ‘Everyday’ was obviously
just a chat up line. It was actually quite pleasing though you
know, knowing that we had stuffed Noddy so well using wire and wood
wool that, he looked completely lifelike.

One day though
she must have just got plain fed up of receiving no response (I’ve
had the same problem over the last 30 odd years in more ways than
one), so she had one comprehensive final preen and, then flew
tearfully away. It’s not that often you see a Mynah cry over a
stuffed parrot so, on an ornithological basis, we were blessed
indeed. One can bet Bill Oddie never observed such spectacles.
Whatever though, Tina was no more. So M’lud, ladies and gentlemen
of the Jury, dear reader, so much for stories of the wonderful
natural entertainment I used to enjoy with my friends in my youth
and back to boring old bowls.

The Bowling
Green

If you were to
get on all fours and place the side of your head on the ground at
one corner of the bowling green and look diagonally towards the
other corner, or any other point for that matter, you could see how
the crown of the green gave the merest hint of a slope (NOT).

Rumour has it
that the ‘Ancient’s Bowling Club’ or the ABCs for short (that was
handy wasn’t it), still argue like old wives with the fell walkers
for ‘who’ uses the area at any specified time, as pre-booking is
not allowed as it would ruin the fun of the arguments for the bored
onlookers. There had possibly been, or still is, a massive
ironwork’s mine fart gas pocket underneath the bowling area thought
to cause such a lumpy landscape. So yes! M can boast its own
National Park! A ‘mini Cotswolds’ none the less! Let’s hope the gas
never ignites or, that will be something else which will be visible
from space, for a few minutes while at least. Or even the world’s
first bowling green in space!

M’lud, ladies
and gentlemen of the Jury and, ‘you’ dear reader, it is said in M
pub ‘fuzzy’ folklore and possibly also Oxfordshire’s alcoholic
establishments too (?), that it was here on this very bowling green
that, Sir Edward Elgar received his trigger and inspiration for the
Angina Variations and, not on the rolling hills of Oxfordshire,
which cannot be dismissed as, they undoubtedly gave him the
inspiration for the later, famous, beautiful ‘Enigma Variations’,
although M’s Midland cousins may want to claim the former, more
entertaining (?) work. Remember though, the M lot are well prepared
to fight for them!

However,
whatever and, of course, ‘whichever’ he could only walk on the
green musing and taking notes from his mind to be transferred as
ink blobs (and sticks) on paper when the ABCs were not playing. No
room for bloody ‘pomp and circumstance’ with the bowls club mob! Oh
no! If he bothers them too much he’ll have his Nimrod inserted
where the sun don’t shine. I hear that some of them can remove
their teeth quicker than Bruce Lee could punch and, then at the
same blur speed, administer a sloppy suck to the victim’s neck,
leaving a multi-coloured erotica-less love bite the size of the
inner diameter of a toilet roll tube. So M’lud, ladies and
gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader, now that you know, never be
tempted to write music on Ms bowling green, use one of the seats
dotted around the edge (but beware of low flying golf balls) … U
have been warned!

I very recently
(2002 … seems like ancient history now) watched the bowls players
in the Coventry Sports Centre. It’s a lovely arena; deceptively
flat with an invisible crown, almost like looking at the curvature
of the earth, bathed in fluorescent sunlight … no parrot though,
just a few old vultures with quiet shoes. The jack rolled in a
straight line, then was placed in the centre of the particular
piece of ‘green’ being used by that group. Then the rest of the
weighted balls followed. There were some good shots played I must
admit, perfect strength to cause bowl and jack to sit together. I
talked to someone ten minutes later in the exercise class which I
was attending about what I’d seen …

“Yes a lot of
skill involved isn’t there?”

This made me
wonder just how they would fare on the green back up North. I mean
what do you do after the jack has disappeared over the first mound?
Or rolled over the foot of the first pillock? The M players were
running blind! Were they psychic? Could they see ‘through the
hill’? That was just with the jack, which has no weight, i.e. bias
on one side of it. But, to get a biased ball to roll smoothly to
the side of this little white ball … that’s not exactly skill you
know … that’s flaming Voodoo! There weren’t just the hillocks
either, there were molehills too, and rabbit holes of course. It
was a little like the Teletubbies set after a visit by the local
territorials. Yes we tried to play, be it without much skill as
such, did Gary Maggs and myself (my child and youth hood buddy),
and occasionally Mouse.

During the
hiring of the sets of bowls from the clubhouse, the Park Keeper
would glare at us suspiciously and ask “did you two nick two four
irons, a putter and two reject balls from this establishment to use
at Silecroft?” (Silecroft is a local seaside ((last)) resort
caravan area and beach, with a large golf course, scared sheep and,
a tide that loves hooked golf balls on the first two tees).

“No mister!” we
lied.

“Whatever” I’m
going to see your parents in the Workies (M Working Men’s Club …
local hotspot) on the next Acapella karaoke night!”

That was it
then our miserable, wretched lives over (without really ever
starting) … on with the game though. The jack, after the initial
scop
(throw)
would end up due west and the
bowls, due east near sand city or, to use local terms … M and
Haverigg town and village centres respectively. To avoid having to
take these long, time consuming, retrieval walks I asked one of the
nearby old fogies home resident ‘experts’ how it was really done?
He looked at me through his ancient watery eye
s
and said in a very dry, raspy tone …

“You have to be
very, very old and have squeaky patent leather shoes and not move
very fast at all. You also have to practice for hours on end, using
ancient Hen Buddhism (local farmer version), to train your mind in
the art of seveeerrre concentration. If you are immeasurably old
and infinite like me, one must cancel weeks in advance all boring
family visits which really do make the prospect of hell most
welcoming. Yet! Most important of all, try, try, trrrry by whatever
means it takes, to get here before that pain in the bloody ass,
boring bloody bleeding badass born again blasted displaced Midlands
composer. But! If you have to work in order to save thousands upon
thousands of pounds to leave to your children (?), you’ve had it
because; you will not have time to dedicate to the art of M Hill
Bowling.

If the rabbits
bother you, you must pay one of the locals to either ferret them
out (watch it!) or, blast them to bits with a shotgun and then fill
up their holes. As for the moles, we keep them underground by
soaking their hills with twelve times normal strength nitric acid.
You must be careful not to get the acid on your fingers and then go
to the park toilets.

It also helps
your ‘see through the hill’ eyesight if you stop in the rest home
and actually drink the food they serve as; it contains
lot
s
of tasty radioactive Barium trace
elements which help the nursing staff to monitor our sloth like
inner movements by stripping us off and watching us closely in a
dark room. I’m actually live on Russian satellite radar as I
lecture you” (he didn’t actually say that but it sounds good). Then
his mind flipped and he went into automatic normal ‘non-divine
intervention’ mode …

“Huh! Don’t
know you’re born you young uns! Get a proper job and keep off OUR
bloody crown bloody bowling green until you are a crusty
dusty!”

“Is that all?”
I asked on behalf of both/all of us.

“Not quite my
son, you must also be a jammy old sod with great consistency and,
occasionally roll your ball with some vigour at other groups …
‘groupings’, smashing up their formation! It annoys them, keeps one
young. If they complain and start shouting you must yell back …
‘sorry! Very sorry ladies and chaps!” in a slow raspy voice then
continue with … “I was just trying to hit the composer Elgar who
had snooked onto the green when it wasn’t his turn and, was
striding dangerously close to your pack … humming some new tune.
They usually end up thanking you for this … ‘thank you so much for
saving our balls!’ They say. If they’re really grateful you are
then in line for a free raspberry flavour fizzy Barium drink, with
a dash of the old M balm fluid to give it a little bite, like a
Bloody Mary with atrocious attitude. Nice to sip while you’re
reading the well-worn Tibetan book of ‘Death and Hereafter’ back in
the common room”.

“Oh! Right
then”, I replied, “so we’ve got no chance of ever getting a
weighted ball at a competitively measurable distance from the jack
then? Because we’re far, far too young, practise not nearly enough,
will have to get a ‘proper job’ soon to be normal and, woe of woes,
we don’t have squeaky shoes, dry skin, a raspy voice, liver spots,
watery eyes, family plundered pensions or, dust on our
clothes?”

“That is
correct my son. Now would you both kindly buzz off out of my way,
I’m trying to impress that young filly over there”.

The young filly
was old enough to be my grandmother! It was the first time I’d seen
a 110 year old trying to impress a 90 year old by showing her what
he could do with his bowls. Hmmmm! My grandmother Nellie Irwin! I
must mention this wonderful lady M’lud, ladies and gentlemen of the
Jury, dear reader, because she was very important to the town and
therefore this story. First though a little, ‘little’ known local
history. Ahem! In both dimensions.

Around the M
and Haverigg peninsula lays a shoreline and an estuary. The water
had to be halted in its tracks at certain places both to avoid the
flooding of the mines and the ruining of people’s living room
carpets, literally.