The only way is Yorkshire.

Bairn Training.

Toay is t' fust day o' t' rest o' thy life. Ah sez callin ta uz grandchildren,'it is reeight important 'a' theur fettle 'ard a' school, 'n listen ta thy teacha,noa messin abaht i' class.   We want theur ta gerr yourselves propa jobs, 'n not en' up on 'a' bloody jeremy kyle sha, moanin abaht 'a t' world owes theur eur livin, 'n 'a theur cannot gerr yursen art o' bed i' eur mornin.'theear are neya jobs thesedays' sez wee our Max wi' 'is gurt een 'a' allus warmed 'is grandmas 'eart, o' course theear are, theear are jobs int' bookies, daahn a' t' pub, 'n even a' t' chippy, ah dooant want theur gerrin enny daft ideas abaht wukkin daahn sahth or movin fra Yorksha, orl 'em downsizers kids dads av ta fettle away, wukkin int' city o' writin for newspapers, we want theur ta gerr eur propa job lad.

Neya we want theur ta earn um propa brass sa theur can pur scran on thy table, 'n av eur few 'ob gallock for eur couple o' beers on eur neet, 'n 'appen even gerr yursen eur sky dish or 'un o' 'em x box games.

Think on lad dooant ivva foarget thy fra Yorksha, 'n theur roots arr 'ere, thi dooant av wellie wangin, or ferret racin, or pigeon fancyin anywheear else bur 'eear, and do ya not foarget it, naw thst's thy lesson for today, naw lets av eur brew 'n switch telly on jeremy kyle's on i' eur minute.
An tek 'a' gormless leek o' thy fyass, or ahl av thy guts for garters.


Tyke in the midst would like to say a few words.

I have been asked to provide a quick translation, for the people outside Yorkshire, who apparantley do not understand anything I write. So here goes.

Wok haaard at schoohl and listen to your teachah. you, one's old bean, fancy ah spiffing job in the city just like deaaar old papah, or writing for ah newspapah like your  muhthah.You, one's old bean, hairlairh dane't fancy to end up working in ah fish & chip retail outlet, or welly wanging, not like the northerners. Goodness me!

 

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The Idle Working Man.

Just 'ad a reight laff 'av mi n arr Bert. We were off dahn t' road fer a quick half, when we saw this group of hooray's lakin' art-side workin' man's club, chucklin' n chunterin' to 'em selfs thi wah. I thowt yan of 'em wah gonna give birth, she wah chucklin' that bloody much.

We could hear 'em saying.

'Henry look at this sign, Idle working man's club ha ha ha,' It's just splendid, 'Oh Pippa, yes it's simply wonderful! wait till we post this on twitter my followers will find it absolootley amazing.' Daft aypaths. 

Well mi n arr Bert almost wet arr' sens laffin' Yud think they'd nivver sin a club afooar.

Funny tho' Idle workin' man known all over t' world, gets request for members frem, as far away as Kanadher!  

'Excuse me', she said to mi 'are you a local? it musta bin mi clogs that gave it away, or arr Bert 'ad left a ferrit danglin 'dahn his kegs.'

'Aye lass born n bread.' I repled with pride. Can you tell me anything about the origins of this club-anything about its history? she said with an accent which sounded like shi wah chewin' a wasp'

'I would simply love to tell my chums about it' Well that wor it, fell abhat laughing did mi an arr Bert

'It's a drinking oil love' dis thah nor 'ave 'em in t' smoke.

'Well yes', she said, but they are much more baroque, more brewer's fayre'.She cudda tell by smirk on mi face, tharr I wernt too impressed.

'Forgive me,' she said looking dahn her nose, I don't suppose you understand what baroque is?

Well that wah it then, 'of course I bloody do!' I said, not 'appy, 'he's president of United States!

 I dunno, think we know nowt dah southerners.

Brat'ford

Brat'ford

Ah'm Yorkshire born n bread, arr Bert is annall born in  Brat'ford wi wor. Ah'm proud of been a tyke. Some fowk dern't like it, reckons tha'h cah'nt understan wor wi' on a'baht, take all them downsizers, nor gotta clue,  thi needs to wash thi lugholes aht if thi asks me. Daft aypaths!

Thah can allus tell a Yorkshire-man, but not much, aye tht's right , dern't like bin told what to do, we dern't.We just ........

Ear all,see all,say nowt,
Eyt all, sup all,pay nowt,
An if ivver thah does owt for nowt,
Do it fer thissen!!

Browt up wi nowt wi wor,but wi thowt nowt on it. Me ol' dad used to sey,'hardest work of all is doin' nowt', wor a grafter wor mi dad, worked in t' mill, an overlooker, anall, mi mum worked at t' same mill, burler n mender shi wor, making t' cloth, went all  over t' world, it did. Long gone , now all them jobs, an t' mills, an mi mam n dad, bless 'em.

Not same nah Brat'ford, gone dahn nick now, downsizers, buying up all decent houses, all t' corner shops are gone, emigrants frem all o'ver t'world, multi-cultural so thi' say.

Take Brat'ford tah'n centre ruined it thi 'ave; just a gaping big hole where t' shops used t' be, supposed to be building a new shoppin' centre Westfield oa summat, but the daft aypaths, dug thi' hole first, then fowk wi t' money pulled aht ,looks bloody daft it does.Wi used to love 'em shops, British 'ome stores, mi brother used to dart, on t' floor under t' sweet counter in there looking for all t 'sweets dropped on't floor, C & A, I even rember Fine Fare, where thah filmed Billy Liar. Thi wah even a 'subway' an underground tunnell, so you didn't even 'ave to cross 't road, still, you had to run as fast as you could past t' tolilets stunk thi did.

Befoar

After.

Worse thing thi did to Brat'ford was pullin' kirkgate market dahn, smashin' it wah loads of charcter, an' lots of characters could be seen in there. Thah wah old polish Anna, she allus 'ad a stick wi' er, frightened bairns to death she did, shouting, cursin' and banging that bloody stick,she used t'lay all oeer fruit stalls eating grapes, then thi wah, billy Bopper, 'e wor bow-legged wi brass, he wor, allus wore tartned trosers, looked like popye, then thi wor walking jesus who thawt, he wor Jesus, used to see 'im walking miles, but apparantley he had more kids, than the waltons.

Christmas wah best in 't market, used to be a Father christmas, at each door, I could nivver believe it, still I used to get a present at each exit, smashin it wah.Good old days they wah I miss 'em.

The Boit Shop

 

Tha's, sick of em bloody southerners blagging on boit just how bleak t's, up North.

Nah they',ve nah idea what us locals as te put up wi , Far too many of em Snotty folk is 'Downsizin, from t' smoke, from their overpriced two up two darn terrace houses 'townhouses, they call em , bought up all the ole houses, round ere , they 'ave, and wi cash to spare as well , It do'nt seem rite te me, there's not many cottages left for our offspring to buy even if they could afford em.

Still if thee carn't, beat em join em, we , sold a couple of cottages , to a couple from' t South. Islington or summat they called it, never 'erd of place meself , seem like a nice couple though, got a couple of bairns , he's working away so they must need brass , brought there Mam and Dad wi em as well, so they must be alrite.

Still got builders in they have, knocking place te bits , local lads , paid by the hour, spinning it out for all they can carn't, blame em wi money they pay round 'ere.

It's, like this morning , I was helpin me mate Madge out at her dads shoe shop "Goody Two Shoes ", when one of em walks in , wanting to know where the boits she ordered were, leeked at me rite funny she did, just cos I remembered her name, and even before I looked in the little red exercise book where we write everything darn.

As if, thee wern't, remember her, sticks out like a sore thumb she does, laking round t' village, wi her green wellies and her pair of black labs, or riding her posh bike round wi its daft basket on t` front, Darn daft she leeks, packin it away tn`t boot of her range rover, just plain daft!!

Thah is wor thah is.

 

Weekend


Does thah nah, wi 'ad a smashin weekend,

Got up about 8 we did , 'ad a fry up wi al't works , couple o', eggs , streaky bacon , bangers , black pudding n'al , fried n lard , the proper way , cah't beat it ,

Bert tended 't pigeons, splashed a'rt on a new loft fah'em he did wi't brass from't sale o't cottages.

Loves them birds he do, cleaned ar't ferrets, fair 't fettling ' n all , bonnie little buggers, not mi cup o tea tho', lee'k like rolled ah't rats t'mi, Reminds mi o' , Richard Whiteley when I si 'em , Bloody soft sod , whinging on, just cos one o 'em ,bit his finger, never forget it, God bless 'im.

“Git dinner ready, 'n, wi can go darn't , pub for a jar “ , Bert said wiping , 'is, hands on't, te', towell , d'nt, need asking twice mi , good lad mi hubby , teek's me wi 'im, on a Sunday he di , not, like sum o mi mates blokes, dn't bother , thi dn't. Wun't do f 'mi that. Nah ees a good 'n, mi Bert.

Packed it wa', the local, well, once wi could get inside, f'st it wa car park, full o 4x4's, bloody 'oss, boxes and bikes wi daft baskets on't front, then folk stood outside smoking , freezing there nuts off they wah. Ya, cah't smoke inside ni more, gone barmy t 'as, it’s nah that long ago since thah let women in't tap room, at Horse n Fodder, chaos that caused 'n all.

All 't landlords arr' up in arms, used to be pillars o't, community thah did , now all 't, pub companies, as snapped all't pubs from t' Breweries and buggered em all up, then darn government as stuck thar snecks n 'all let pubs open longer , nobody knows when they’ll see thar blokes, not t'll brass as ran ar't , and thee as no chance o putting owt else on't slate , gone downhill t's pub game .

Na'h , anyone who can sign a cross on a lease n dangle tha keys from 'is belt can have a pub, Daft if thah ask mi. All daft sods , get monk on thah 'da , when thah pub , goes Belly up, an loose every thin , They'll nither learn

Al 't tables, wi full en all, wi posh folk ordering weird food, grilled this n that, organic whatnots. florets polonaise , [ne'er 'erd o' it], fancy sauces, vegetarians , seaweed, freaks, " What’s this cooked in ,what’s that cooked in", GM modified , summat or other, "o'h, not beef drippin", fussy buggers lot of em.

"Ya wan't git mi eating that clap trap end up with wild shites , ya would", Bert chunntered, ' t, new keeper o't keys, scramblin', oeer wax jackets and dog leads , for 'is seat in't corner ees 'ad for last twenty five years.


"I remember t' time when ya could get three courses for a fiver n still get change, good pub grub n all, Sunday Roast , now it’s all ordered on line, delivered from miles away", Bert still chunnterin on, "An it comes in plastic cartons, but it satisfies 'em, from't, smoke, thinks thas gettin', summat posh thee do, All micro waved lot of it, still thah nah's best ".

Mi mate Madge wah workin', behin't bar, good mate she is, bit on't common side, mutton n lamb, likes t' show err chest she do, spins chuddy round her gob, leek a washer on a short spin, still `art o gold she as, blokes leek her, can pick up a bloke faster than Janice Soprano on a geed nite,

Tell 'er owt, an all she dunn't , gi 'owt away, well not unless it’s worth gettin', fifty quid from't Take a Break mag, mind thi, she ain't, dun that since she left that Turkish bloke she met on't sands in Brid .

Wi darn'd ar usual quota, cah't, 'andle ni mah th'n 14 pints these days cah't, mi Bert, had a quick game o darts, put world t'reyts with Madge, whilst Bert wa', 'avin, a quick arm-wrestle wi 'ees old pal , Billy wobbly gob, {poor chap cah't find a dentist on NHS nah more struck off list he wah}

Then of wi staggered off home , ligged on't settee and watched me favorite film, Billy Liar, Grand it wah.