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.

 

Granbairns

Thah's nowt better than 'avin mi granbairns ova fer  t' summa 'olidays. T 'suns blazin dahn o't sky.

Ay'e dernt nah what i'd do w'owt mi bairns
Smashin 'thi arr.


 Bert dern't think so tho!  nah patience wi' young uns he 'aint.
He says, 'Thir  allus traipsin all ower mi rheeburb clumsy little aypaths laking in mi garden tramplin all ower mi prize leeks, upsetting mi pidgeons with thi chelpin n chunterin'. 


H's turnin' into a reite miserable old sod is arr Bert.  Still he's gerrin on a bit.


Arr Norma drops bairns off f'st thing, little Rhianna is 4, n arr maximillius  is 6. Dahlin's they arr, they doan't awf tire mi owt thah!  Ah'm jiggered b'time the'yve gon 'ome.


Fussy little eaters mind thi! Dern't like stuff we like. Wern't even try tripe n onions! white tripe an' all not even't brown propa stuff!
 Nah av' mi cookin' t' posh stuff, like pie n peas, fish fingers, turkey twizlers.

I blame 'em mixin' with 'em southern kids, with their oity toity eatin' 'abits, an' oity toity names like  Ralph & Seth, Violet & Pearl, parent's thinkin' thir trendy, but us propa folk, know they've just pinched 'em names straight off Emmerdale, tryin' to fit in wit t' locals.


T'day ah'm gonna show t' bairns ow t' get segs owta t' clogs! norra easy task. Then 'arr Bert's gonna show 'em how to ten't pidgeons, n how t' clean 'em owt propa.

An 'ah'm not gonna tell 'em now but ferr a speacial treat wi' arr gonna have a ferret race this 'afternoon, aye the'll love that.

                                                          


                                                            Love mi bairns i do.

Jeremy is Vile.

Ah can’t fer the life o’ me figure it up.


Ah know’s am from Yorkshire Born n Bread, strong in’t arm an thick in ‘t ‘ead like, but how foowks, can sit on’t backsides watching that , Jeremy Vile bloke, I dern’t no, daft apaths.

All of ‘em on’t show are as queer as thee an’ me, and sometimes, Ah’m not so sure a’baht thee.

Thah’s fowk, thah dern’t know who thah’ Dah is, fowk, that think there brothers are their mothers, mothers who’s daughters are there sisters, their bainrs need a bloody test to find out who they belong’s to. Gawless gawp ‘eds, lorra of’em.

Bald as a blether o’ lard , some of ‘em, thin as lat’s sit on’t backsides all day doin’ nowt, bone idol lazy apaths!!

Time thi’ all sorted thissens out, gorra off thi’ backsides, stop the mitherin, ’and find thisenns, a bloody job.

Bloody X Factor

 

Thah cannot understand why fowk  arr ol chunterin’ on a’baht X Factor. Bloody rubbish if ya ask me.

‘em  judges aint gorra clue what thah’s on abah’t. I mean yan o ‘ems from Australia f’ crissakes, ‘ow an’errth does she no ‘owt?.’Yud think  some yan from Yorkshire, wod av a go, at least they  talk’s sense. I’m no’ even gonna mention that lass from ‘Tyne, bonny bairn  tha’h.

Nah thah’s gorra admit, that that Cowell bloke ain’t dense, he’s garrin on a bit annal. Aye I remember , ’im prancin’abah’t on ‘top o’t pops, dressed up as a dog, he wah, daft sod. An tha’h poncey one with the girl’s name Louise o’ summat, well tha’h no what fowks say abah’t ‘is lot.

T’s   contestants thah get me. Thah’s  th’ lass thah leeks like Boy George, when he wah a youn’un,  or   Hylda Baker ,I can’t mek mi mind up. Gorra face like a bulldog chewin’ a wasp Jerking around on ‘t stage, leek she’s gorra ferret dah’n her britches, Can’t sing a song all’t wey though wi’ out ‘ spoiling ‘t tune, w’i  owt her thinking sh’s Sammy Davis Jr, or summat.  Lass needs fattening up if ya ask me annal.

I’m just chuffed thah’ that bloody Wagner’s blokes  gone, worra a sackless sod he wa’h, a bloody foreigner annall,  dah’n rite pisspotical, if this ask mi, got mi back up propa he did. Frozen shoulder m’ass.

Then thah’s that lad wi’t flat cap, think’s ‘es Colin Crompton, ‘it’s em high notes like thah’s sommat chewing on his’ tackle .

                                                                   By' eck uncanny arr wot

                     She wah’ my favourite thah big lass err that worked on ‘t till in tesco, 

real grand shi wah, like Shirley Bassey in a tent, rite up my street. A propa woman,

 w’i summat to grab ol’orr.

T’ bi honest i’ll be chuffed wen t’s all ower, It’s nah’owt special, an the ‘doant awf drag it owt. Thah’ll only b e yan winner. An thah’s Cowell, an ‘ e dah’nt need mo’er brass .

                                                      Wish f'll Bloody Thinking

                                                             Greedy A'path.

New Year Thoughts.

Thah’s sick Ah’m s o this middle aged spread. T’s time fer me to do summat a’baht it. In’t new year , am off on’t diet,  na’h moor puddin’ ner cakes fer me.

Nah thah’s kiddin’ thissen, thah likes thah grub to much, nah if thah’s serious abah’t  loisin sum weight, t’ proper road is ter goa on a fast, thi mud as weall do t’job reight. Thah’s gonna gi’ up suppin annawl,  thah’s why I’ ‘av’   gorra  a bit o’  a middle aged spread, but t’flab’s gerrin’ varry unsightly ter see, t’as gorra go, thah’s ner more t’ be sed.

 A thort a mite tek up jogging, but I denr’t  see  a’s got thi’ stamina fer it.   p’raps  ride on ‘t bike, or goa  dahn baths fer a swim ,Tha’ll soon loose a few pahnd  , after fost mile o’ too?

A knaw  t’s nah gawin’ be easy, A’ll  get back inta trim, mite, join t’ gym, but a’ knows tha’ll end up paggered , or skint.

T’s a long way off ‘till , thi meks a start, so thi  will carry on, fer nah. Cos I am garrin on a bit, and resolutions are med to b’ broken.