A Yorkshire Almanac Comprising 366 Historical Extracts, Red-letter Days and Customs, and Astronomical and Meteorological Data
Captain Oates in his socks, poor man, in John Charles Dollman’s Very Gallant Gentleman (Dollman 1913).
Leeds’s Singing Organ-Grinder. 2024. Ecce ericius. In preparation. Get it:
.9 April 2021 is a beautiful spring day, but as the removal van chugs east past Hartshead Moor Services towards Manhattan upon Aire I am suddenly swept back several decades to the same place in the very early hours of a bitterly cold and snowy morning. Graham is driving me and the exiled Yorkie guest drummer Dean back to Lancashire from a brass band contest. All are terribly drunk, and a pitstop is required at the draughty sheds then constituting Hartshead. Graham and I race into the gents’, while Dean, known as “whippet” for his slender figure and intellect, opts for a ciggy and a stroll through the freezing cave containing the shuttered retail. Dean has been supercilious and obnoxious all evening, and Graham zips up decisively: “Come on Trev, we’re going.” “What do you mean?” “We’re leaving the twat here.” We last see Dean in the rear-view mirror, plunging through snowdrifts on the slip-road in his green pixie-cowboy boots and pimp moustache, thin fawn faux-leather jacket flapping in the blizzard. No woollens, no mobiles. Did frostbite kill him on the hard shoulder? Or does he lurk to this day in some dark Brighouse caff, nursing his tea but thirsting for revenge? Dean, I want to apologise and make it up to you with some paid gigs: I’m looking for a monkey.
To facilitate reading, the spelling and punctuation of elderly excerpts have generally been modernised, and distracting excision scars concealed. My selections, translations, and editions are copyright.
Abbreviations:
Please warn me if you spot Dean in this time-lapse video of the M62 between Manchester and Leeds:
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9 April 2021 is a beautiful spring day, but as the removal van chugs east past Hartshead Moor Services towards Manhattan upon Aire I am suddenly swept back several decades to the same place in the very early hours of a bitterly cold and snowy morning. Graham is driving me and the exiled Yorkie guest drummer Dean back to Lancashire from a brass band contest. All are terribly drunk, and a pitstop is required at the draughty sheds then constituting Hartshead. Graham and I race into the gents’, while Dean, known as “whippet” for his slender figure and intellect, opts for a ciggy and a stroll through the freezing cave containing the shuttered retail. Dean has been supercilious and obnoxious all evening, and Graham zips up decisively: “Come on Trev, we’re going.” “What do you mean?” “We’re leaving the twat here.” We last see Dean in the rear-view mirror, plunging through snowdrifts on the slip-road in his green pixie-cowboy boots and pimp moustache, thin fawn faux-leather jacket flapping in the blizzard. No woollens, no mobiles. Did frostbite kill him on the hard shoulder? Or does he lurk to this day in some dark Brighouse caff, nursing his tea but thirsting for revenge? Dean, I want to apologise and make it up to you with some paid gigs: I’m looking for a monkey.
225 words.
The Headingley Gallimaufrians: a choir of the weird and wonderful.
Music from and about Yorkshire by Leeds's Singing Organ-Grinder.