by Graham Johns
“Erm, OK, fair enough. You sell it so well. Two Stems of the Rose then please.”
“Would you like to sponsor me?” Selina said in his ear.
“Sponsor you? Why? What’re you doing?”
“I thought I’d get sponsored while I do the chores on the farm each day. It’s for the good of Yorkshire.” She looked hopefully at Gordon.
“OK, put me down for a tenner.”
“Per day?”
“Yes.”
Gordon looked a little uncomfortable as she was his wife but he figured this money grab wouldn’t go on forever, and he had more to lose than most. It didn’t stop it feeling weird to be paying your wife a wage though, even if she was donating it to a worthy cause.
“Would you like some cake with your pint?” Beryl asked. “We’ve got a baking competition going to raise money for the cause. We’ve developed some new cakes for the occasion.”
“OK, I’ll take two.”
“Two Wensleydale and Yorkshire Tea muffins coming up,” Beryl announced as she retrieved two small plates and forks, “I’ll bring ‘em over.”
“Erm, thanks, that sounds…erm…delicious,” Gordon mumbled.
Gordon and Selina joined Mick at a large table close to the bar, “This is going to cost me a fortune if I’m not careful. Everyone seems to want my money for the same thing. It might be cheaper if I just buy Yorkshire!”
Beryl delivered the muffins and Mick took a bite of his, pausing in thought before calling to ask Beryl, “Who on earth put cheese and tea in the same cake? It’s truly abhorrent!”
“Sandra Burns. She thought it shows what could happen if Yorkshire is bastardised by outsiders.”
“Fair play to her, I knew her baking talents know no beginning, but her command of English is bang on. She may have found her niche at last.”
Gordon consumed his muffin in one mouthful without comment. It couldn’t have touched his tongue on the way down. His belly gurgled in what must pass as contentment. Ernest and Veronica joined them at the table, having arrived from the church.
“Have you heard that we’re doing a charity single?” Ernest asked.
“Are we?” Gordon asked with surprise.
Ernest nodded, “We are. Apparently there is a village outing for anyone who wants to get involved. We’re going to a recording studio somewhere in Leeds to record it at the end of the week. Anyway, I thought you were involved in the fundraising plans?” Ernest asked Gordon.
“I knew about it.” Selina said. “We’re working on some lyrics. We’ve also got a local brass band and the St. Roger campanologists coming along.”
“Do we have a name for the song yet?” Veronica asked.
“I think it has a possible title of ‘Keep the White Rose in Bloom’ or something like that.”
“Sounds like it could be a car crash on the M62,” Gordon commented distantly.
Mick finally got around to sampling his pint and spat a little of it on the table, “My God! What’s this? It’s fiery!”
“Chilli powder!” Beryl shouted from nearby where she was collecting a few empties. “You’ll really feel it tomorrow! That’s what happens if you try to stem the White Rose!”
“CHILLI POWDER! STEM THE ROSE!” Broken shouted.
It wasn’t often you saw Ranjit Saha in the pub but even he was there today, Gordon observed him and tapped Selina on the arm while pointing at him poised over a pint.
“He’s decided to enter the sponsored Boat Race. I heard him say that he’d never drank beer before but seeing as it was for a good cause he’d give it a go. Shall we sponsor him?” she asked.
When it came to competitions involving who can drink large amounts of beer the fastest, Gordon was always keen to be involved, especially as he had unknowingly been in training for such an event for a number of years. He looked mildly annoyed and stood up before approaching the bar, “Beryl! What’s this I hear about a Boat Race and why wasn’t I informed?”
Beryl looked unconcerned by his manner and simply said, “It seemed a given that you’d find out and enter given the amount of time you spend here.”
Gordon appeared slightly surprised that he was quite so predictable but simply shrugged and said, “How does one enter?”
“It’s a twenty pounds entrance fee and you need to raise more in sponsorship also. It’s two pounds per pint of Stem during the contest and the winner gets a prize.”
Everybody loves a freely given prize, especially in Yorkshire where everyone is so tight that they squeak when they walk. “What’s the prize?”
“The respect and adulation of the people of Yorkshire.”
“All of Yorkshire?” he asked.
Beryl nodded. Gordon seemed satisfied with such a promise of adoration, one which may compete with Mick’s expected free dinners after completing his wall.
“Quite a prize.” He fished his money out from a dwindling supply and handed it over.
“Gordon,” Mick said from beside his right ear, not being one to miss out on cheap booze, “can you sub me in please?”
Gordon handed over yet more money. This was becoming an expensive day. He had a nasty feeling he’d be awaking to a pain in his purse tomorrow morning. Still, in for a penny, in for a pound and all that.
Smutty Mathew made an appearance in the pub at that point, armed with an orange bucket with the slogan ‘SAVE YORKSHIRE’ written on it in big black letters. He clearly had a few coppers in there by the rather poor nature of the sound it was making as he shook it. He had found a bright orange Lycra outfit to go with it and had scrawled the same message across his chest.
“Save Yorkshire! Save Yorkshire! Dig deep everyone!” he shouted as he wandered about the pub, shaking his bucket in the face of anyone who happened to look up as he walked past.
Gordon’s eyes rolled as he dug some loose change from his purse and dropped it in. Mathew stared at him before he shook his bucket in Gordon’s face and said once more, “Save Yorkshire! Save Yorkshire! Gordon Shepherd! Save Yorkshire!”
The bucket was so close to his nose that Gordon could smell the dirty metal from the depths. He found a few more coins in attempt to get rid of the man.
“I thought your contribution would’ve been more noteworthy, STS, now do please Save Yorkshire!”
Gordon rummaged in his wallet once more and dropped a fiver in, anything to get rid of the smutty git. It did the trick and away he went, doing a rather nice mincing action, for anyone who cared to notice.
“How is he not gay?” Gordon whispered to Mick, pointing at the retreating buttocks which moved like two large eggs nestled in a shopping bag.
“Who says he isn’t?” Mick replied. “I can’t say I’ve ever asked. Perhaps he just believes in equal opportunities.”
Gordon grumbled to himself. Mick finished his Stem and then figured that he had somewhere else he needed to be.
“I have somewhere else I need to be,” he said, and headed out of doors, searching for a prime spot to complete the nap he was supposed to have had in the church that morning.
***
At around three o’clock, Bob rang for time, which certainly caused great shock to his patrons who were used to staying until at least five or six on a Sunday, before the evening crowd came in.
“Ladies and gentlemen! Thank you for your attention. We have decided to close early today, partly to honour the legendary outlaw Willy Turnbull, but mainly to allow the village to come together in building our wall. So I’d like you all to please respect this decision and head out to the village green where we will begin our building.
What followed apparently commanded the attention of not just Nether-Staining but beyond, for the Yorkshire Herald, Yorkshire Radio and even Yorkshire Television had arrived on the scene to see what on earth was going on in the outer reaches of the county, largely as Veronica had used her contacts to make it so. These reporters passed on news that other parts of the county were already planning their own walls to join up with the Nether-Staining erection
.
Before Mick and Gordon could build, there was something to settle, “So why can’t we use your tractor?” Mick asked.
“Because we’ve both been drinking! If anything happens it’ll invalidate my insurance and you know it!” Gordon shouted.
“Please?” Mick asked.
“No.”
“Pretty please? With a cherry and maybe a slice of bacon on top?” Mick fluttered his eyelashes for a little extra effect. “You know I can’t be seen to do it and we need to do our bit on this momentous occasion. If anything happens I’m pretty sure everyone will cover it up in the name of Yorkshire.”
A small smirk crossed Gordon’s face, “I’m going to hold you to that bacon and cherry you know!”
Ernest took Gordon back to his farm so he could get his wheels and begin shifting stones to the other side of the river, the side of his farm. Other tractors from other farms in the local area also arrived to assist. Those with the skills to build a dry stone wall were also in attendance at the church that morning and were able to show those who didn’t have the skills how it was done. The plan was to ensure all areas of the Lancashire side of the River Neth were walled off, before building on the Yorkshire side along the riverbank.
Where they met roads, the initial plan was simply to use those border points to pile up the stones until they could be used. Nobody worth their salt ever went west for anything anyway.
Despite a good number of pensioners in the village, it was the young people who really showed up to throw in their superior strength and stamina. There wasn’t a person who was physically able to stand who wasn’t there to show support and Mathew’s arm was aching badly from the weight of his bucket.
Reverend Burns had come along to give moral support to the effort that his sermon that very morning had kick-started. He had never felt so spiritually uplifted by anything he had ever seen or done in his life.
“Therefore thus says the Lord God, ‘Behold, I am the one who has laid as a foundation in Zion, a stone, a tested stone, a precious cornerstone, of a sure foundation: Whoever believes will not be in haste.’” he said to himself, because everyone else was too busy to listen.
CHAPTER 8
THE TV, THE RADIO, AND THE PRESS,
WHICH ONE REALLY IS THE BEST?
SHALL WE LISTEN, READ OR SEE?
DOES IT MATTER WHEN THE END MEETS THE NEED?
EXTRACT FROM THE YORKSHIRE HERALD
A movement of the majority of people wanting to have their say has begun in the village of Nether-Staining on the Lancashire border. It seems that their Member of Parliament, Maurice Bickerdyke, who was sadly unavailable for comment, has been gathering opinion on proposals to increase ties and potentially merge Lancashire and Yorkshire into one governmental unit. While there has been little known complaint from our colleagues to the west, Yorkshire folk are unhappy with what they see as an assault on their heritage.
A wall has been commenced to build a symbolic border between the two counties which, when completed, will mark an isolation which many in the county have sought for a long time. The slogan “remove your walls within to build the walls without” has been oft repeated around the county. The villagers currently have plans to record a charity single and are fundraising in every way they can think of to increase the coffers for what they see as a likely protracted battle with authorities.
TRANSCRIPT FROM YORKSHIRE TELEVISION NEWS SHOW, IN WHICH VERONICA SCOGGINS MET REPORTER DICK BLACKLEY
“So, Mrs. Scoggins, please can you tell us what you are doing?”
“Well, Dick, we are building a wall, we’re gaining control of our borders, we won’t stand for interfering governmental pompous asses thinking they can change this county and rob us of our heritage!”
“Yorkshire! Yorkshire! Yorkshire!” (heard in the background)
“And do you feel it will have any impact?”
“I hope so. I hear that other parts of the county are mobilising similar schemes and that we may yet prove our point.”
“What is so important about Nether-Staining? Why here?”
“I assume you heard about the alien invasion which began in Lancashire not long ago? Well, we can’t stand for being on the front line and being toyed with. We are too small to receive powerful support so we will go it alone if we have to.”
“It sounds like you have a good deal of popular support so good luck with all of your efforts.”
“Any chance of a telethon fundraiser?”
TRANSCRIPT FROM YORKSHIRE RADIO, DJ MICKEY MASSIVE BREAKFAST SHOW
“Here it is folks, the new anthem-like charity single from the villagers of Nether-Staining, fighting for Yorkshire rights over there on our border; it’s called ‘Keep the White Rose in Bloom’ and we hope you’ll show your support and make it number one!”
(TO THE TUNE OF “YOU’LL NEVER WALK ALONE”)
“When you face angry foes, hold your fist up high,
And don’t be afraid of the swines,
At the end of the day, it’s God’s own country,
With fine cheese, Yorkshire Pudding and Tea.
Build on, through the wind,
Build on, through the rain,
Though your dreams be tossed and in gloom,
Build on, build on,
With hope in your hearts,
And we’ll keep the white rose in bloom!
We’ll keep the white rose in bloom!”
Etc.
“I’m sure you’ll agree that that brings a tear to the eye. Even to this humble DJ, Mickey Massive, coming out to you live on Yorkshire Radio.”
CHAPTER 9
SINCE WHEN DO PEOPLE MATTER?
THEY VOTED JUST BEFORE,
THEY’LL DO JUST WHAT THEY’RE TOLD I SAY,
OR EXPECT A LENGTHY WAR.
Deep in the bowels of the Houses of Parliament of the United Kingdom, at Westminster in London, a conversation was taking place of great significance to the people of Nether-Staining. The attendees had been selected very carefully and nobody originally from Yorkshire had been invited to take a seat around this particular piece of furniture. It was a dark mahogany table with a lustrous shine to the surface, and the surrounding chairs were very similar, cushioned in deep crimson velvet. The room was lined with historical volumes from floor to ceiling and was dark but for an inadequate, heavily shaded, light suspended from above which cast a gloomy hue over everyone and everything present. Individual faces could not be picked out amongst the shadows.
“We haven’t seen an uprising of this ilk since the miner’s strike back in the mid-eighties. But this time it seems to be gathering pace and support beyond those small communities,” said a soft, controlled voice of a lady from the south.
“It’s a good job we only recently got elected, we may as well just screw them over and bugger the cost, we’ve got four more years to ensure they forget,” replied a man from the Birmingham area.
“I have a feeling that the linkth to Lancathire will not be ath painful ath they exthpect,” said a voice you might recognise.
“Why aren’t any of the other counties complaining about this yet?” asked a cultured male from Kent.
“Because Yorkshire people are bloody-minded and stubborn and full of their own self-importance?” was a Lancastrian man’s reply. “Besides, it doesn’t actually affect anyone else yet. Think of it as a trial.”
“You will get no argument from anyone on that,” said a female voice, probably from the Royal Berkshire region.
At this point a large, slightly dusty volume was dropped from a height and slammed onto the table surface, giving everyone a start. Dust motes drifted lazily under the light bulb for a few moments in the subsequent silence.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said a standing male voice of book-dropping importance that was most definitely not from the home shores, “I think you forget yourselves temporarily. I am paying you handsomely for the opportunity to buy land and to build a luxury hotel and golf course in the borderlands between Yorkshi
re and Lancashire, so I believe you need to get your minds into the right state and focus on solutions to combat this petty uprising.”
“But we need more time to get around this kind of populist support, please bear with us,” said the Kent man, “you will get your land. The Yorkshire Dales is a waste of space anyway.”
“I should remind you,” the voice, which was probably American, paused for greater gravitas, “that you will each receive ten million pounds into offshore accounts if you push this through successfully.”
“Don’t worry, sir, you will have your lands, just please do give us some time.”
“You have three months in total before I anonymously present video and sound recordings of our conversations, minus my own presence of course, to your media. I will see you burn long before I do.” The American man strode loudly from the room and had no qualms about slamming the door closed behind him, which again made those around the table leap from their skins momentarily.
“Where did you find him?” asked the Birmingham man.
“I’m not entirely thure how he firtht got in touch but he will make uth all very rich.”
“He’s a blackmailing git, anyway.”
“Yes, we shouldn’t allow Johnny Foreigner into the building,” replied the Kent man.
“Gentlemen and lady,” said the controlled lady from the south, “let us put aside our prejudices and whip up our parliament to ratify this merger shall we?”
“Hear, hear!” came a chorus.
“It would be a shame to miss out on ten million apiece and lose our reputations as well,” continued the lady once more.
“On the plus side, we can always get a job on television if it goes pear-shaped!” said the Kent man.
“You all know what to do,” the lady advised, “so do it.”
The meeting adjourned and all was quiet in the darkness.
