Coalthorpe
As wrote by local angler Ron Tickhill
The Village Life
Welcome to Coalthorpe, built in the nineteen fifties for the mining industry and its families. It’s a village without history and no claim to fame. There are no forgotten war heroes here, village elders worked down the mines and were exempt from conflict. Their church is a concrete framed and timber paneled, it has greatly improved its custom by closing for worship and reverting to the sale of television aerials. Certainly this village doesn't enter for Britain in Bloom, privet, lilac and Elderberry trees dot the landscape. It does however, boast a thriving Netto, Flea Market, Salvation Army Barracks, pub and a fish and chip shop
It once had proud industry, recognizable now by the remaining moonscape of gray, barren slag heaps. Mine closure was swift and terminal leaving most people with bad health, a lump sum, and plenty of time to spend it.
To make the area seem more attractive, a bypass has been built around the town which totally isolates the place, keeping most traffic away. Some said it was to improve the area, but most realised it was built for travelers to miss the village completely, it's not a star attraction, but home sweet home to the locals
Most of the main streets shops have been closed and boarded up, giving Coalthorpe an air of doom, those remaining are shuttered like fortresses. Unemployment, if you believe local statistics, is double the national average and it's known affectionately as Lada City, the home, of the Orange Badge brigade.
It's not a typical mining village where at least a few indigenous souls remained from years ago, this village is a complete mix of people from around the country and beyond who had been tempted by the promise of greener grass, only to find that the smoke soiled concrete Jerusalem and a steady wage were built of straw, it is in many ways, the village of the damned.
Undesirables who visit the town or locals, who stray off the straight and narrow, and give the community grief, are taken by local vigilantes to the factory and given an in depth conducted tour of the maggot making process. One machine, which in a few moments, can reduce a full grown cow carcass to half a dozen blocks of mincemeat was of special interest, and after being held above the grinders to watch and smell the process close at hand, they usually reverted to a crime free life or left the area for pastures new.
The main form of recreation in the village is the Crumpet Inn, which survived the worst of the recession by being the main outlet where locals spend most of their redundancy payments and benefit cash, this is passed over the bar and pissed against the wall. It is not a pub for strangers, it's the kind of place you wipe your feet on leaving. If visitors leave their ale for a moment, it would disappear without trace. When leaving the pub, their cars would be either in the next county, on fire on the local tip, or in due course, sold as spares at the flea market.
Angling is one of the male villagers pastimes, others include pigeon racing and football. The Crumpet Angling Club, with it's twenty five members, offered the dedicated few, meaningful unpaid employment, collective identity, a chance to escape the village boundary without the hassle of work, wife, and a chance to get a few pints in. Club members come from all walks of life, and although the majority hadn't officially worked for years, there were some in paid work or successfully self employed.
Fishing matches take place on Saturdays during summer months at venues chosen by the members, usually following hours of debate and many pints. Their first match is booked for the middle of May, with every member to a man, looking forward to the day out, having waited patiently throughout the long winter months.
Percy's Pride
On the eve of the match, Percy, landlord of the Crumpet and a keen angler, managed to clear out his last customer at two in the morning.
They opened the car doors and climbed in. Percy started the engine. Turning on the lights, he looked in the mirror and dropped into reverse. Releasing the pedal, nothing happened. "Would you believe it, just my luck, the bloody clutch has gone" He placed his head in his arms and sighed deeply.
Julie climbed out of the car and walked around it slowly, "Its not the clutch Percy, its your wheels that's gone". He was out like a flash, Percy's pride and joy, his 1985 Cortina, was standing proud, not on white walled wheels but on four perfectly placed housebricks! "The rotten bastards, I’ll call the coppers and then see you home lass" he sloped off with his chin on his chest and his heart in his boots. No wonder Percy never smiled, he was on his way to becoming a manic depressant.
Maggot Men.
Peaman and his mate Jet are lifelong friends and both work fulltime at the maggot factory. Although their pay is below average, they have access to ample fishing bait and a local ready market with the Crumpet anglers. They are big lads, and needed to be for manhandling all sizes of dead beasts, loading truckfulls of maggots and having to barrow out loads of skin and bone. Producing 25,000 gallons of maggots each week, with these tucking into tons of rotten flesh creates one hell of a smell. Swarms of flies swoop on anything that moves, so many wings beat they sound like a muffled power station.
Jet is particular about his appearance, he’s a born again Teddy Boy. His trademark is thick greasy hair swept back collar length, black drainpipes, blue velvet collar and white socks. His jam jar bottomed, gold rimmed spectacles don’t seem to fit his image.
He very changes his clothes, and although showering after each shift, the smell of his work is endemic. He has just about given up attracting a member of the opposite sex, even his friends gave him a wide berth. In the Crumpet he stands alone.
Peaman's saviour are Parma Violets, he munches them constantly to disguise the smell which ouses from his pores. He will be in the shower at work when Jet arrives home, meticulously scrubbing every inch of his muscular six foot four frame. He’s a rugged looking guy, knows he could pull women, and intends to stay top of the pile. After combing his shoulder length blond hair, he drenches his body with perfume, splashes on aftershave and preens himself in the mirror.
Winning Crumpet fishing matches is the domain of the few, with the rest making up the numbers, Peaman is the best angler for miles around and spends most of his free time practising with his pal Jet. They spend good money on top quality fishing tackle. As a sideline he organises cheap bait for club members. This scam is his second source of income and funds his hobby.
Frank heads the Lada brigade, he is well known in the village and advises allcomers on how to fiddle State Benefits. Being a master of his craft he knows all the loopholes, rules and regulations, inside out. Because of his ailments Frank is locally known as Pension Legs and it's rumoured around the village that he is managed and sponsored by
Ralgex.
"Disabled" anglers are loved by the rest of the fishermen, they qualified for half price licences, bus passes, free prescriptions and have the privilege of fishing nearest the bus to save them walking. Frank, who resembles an aneamic dracula, is as thin as a rake and has only one eye. Most times he wears a black eye patch but does have a glass eye for special occasions. He certainly knows hows to use his disabilities to the full.
When Frank isn't fishing he can walk miles and manage to dig two allotments. His second hobby is jogging, but he runs only in the dark or when driving to a remote spot. He wears a peaked cap to disguise his high forehead extending to the back of his head.
He not blessed with good looks, but although having Mobility, Attendance Allowance, Deaf Pension, White Finger, Incapacity to Work benefit, and a daily surgery he still manages to find time to fish three times a week, throughout the year, in all weathers.
When not fishing matches, he had no problems carting his fishing tackle for miles along the river bank, over stiles, fences and through hedgerows. Out and about in the village Frank has the look of doom and despair, complete with walking stick and neck collar, looking like a garden gnome on its way to a funeral. When off fishing, he is as active as a spring lamb on Vallium.
Snakes Alive.
On the chosen Saturday morning a bunch of Crumpet anglers stand on the street corner of the concrete canyon, waiting for their bus to arrive and take them out on the first fishing trip. It wasn't unusual for the bus to be late, to save costs they had agreed to provide their own driver and the old Leyland bus is borrowed from the Sally Bash band. Rarely it starts without a shove and the driver is known to oversleep.
"Suppose he's overlaid" said Bill the fishing club secretary, squinting at his watch in the half light. "Is somebody going to go down and see"? A disgruntled murmur came from the crowd, "Suppose I'll see" said Jet, his crepe shoes barely making a sound as he set off down the street.
Frank, unbeknown to other anglers, had borrowed a mean looking snake from a friend and had placed it on the bus to scare the crap out of the driver. There was no love lost here, the bus' driver hated the fact that he worked his fingers to the bone, twelve hours a day, keeping Frank and his benefit cronies in clover, he never lost an opportunity to tell everyone in earshot.
It was rumoured that the bus driver, Snuggleberry, is only allowed out at night because he scared children. When not working he spends all his free time in the pub, food is poison to him and relies on draft bitter and fags for sustenance. His mode of dress resembles that of a not so well off Doctor Who sixties time traveller.
Snuggleberry was throwing out ZZ'ds and his iron, brassed knobbed bedstead was humming in tune. The old bus stood on the road outside his home, it should have been in a museum years ago, along with horse drawn carriages. As he approached Snuggleberry's back door, Jet could see his fishing tackle neatly stacked in the garden shed. Yes, he was still fast asleep in bed!
Jet had faced this problem before, Snuggleberry wasn't idle, far from it, he was a respected grafter, and had just finished a twelve hour afternoon and night shift and had only meant to sleep for a couple of hours. Picking up a long wooden clothes prop, Jet carefully fastened a piece of old black garden hosepipe onto the end. He then fed the prop and pipe into the slightly open bedroom window. Once inside he gently teased the pipe away from its support and lent the prop against the wall. He fed the hosepipe gently inside the window and it fell onto the bed placed underneath the window.
Snuggleberry had no idea there was a thick black hose inching its way slowly over his bed towards his ear. "Get out of bed you idle bastard", Jet yelled down the pipe. Snuggleberry nearly had a seizure and sat bolt upright in bed, his heart was jumping out of his chest. He pulled the curtains aside and wearily raised his arm to his grinning mate.
A few minutes later he emerged from the front door, his glazed eyes half closed, shirt hanging outside trousers and his hair all in a tangle, looking like a Dulux dog that had been in a spin dryer. "Suppose I'd better get the old bus rolling, got to get back home for nights".
Snuggleberry was still half asleep when he opened the bus and was surprised see a large wicker basket on the drivers seat. Curious to check its contents, he lifted off the lid and was confronted by a large Indian Cobra. The snake was definitely not pleased to see him and poked out its head. He took a long look at the cowled, hissing face, with its fangs exposed, tongue flicking and its head swaying menacingly set ready to strike.
Pick me Up.
The old bus was parked on a slope just in case it did'nt start, but for once it fired up on the key, belching out a wave of thick black smoke.
Arriving at the first pick up point Snuggleberry was met by a torrent of abuse. "You fat idle bastard, we'll not take the bleedin' hat around for you today, get out and load the bus you idle twat" He wearilyy obliged, neatly stacking all the gear in the boot. They were all amazed to see the dead snake and didn't notice that Frank looked a bit sheepish.
They made their way to the Crumpet and picked up the landlord and his son and then loaded the coach with their fishing gear and enough cans, bottles and crates to fill two seats. Experience had taught Percy to sit close by his merchandise, his money bag at the ready to sell his very popular liquids.
Next stop was for Moonie and Jet, they were not there. Moonies wife was waiting, in her dressing gown, stood with her arms folded across her ample chest. "Give the lads a treat and show us your tits. " shouted Peaman. She was not amused, her scowl was fixed. "They're both at the Cop Shop, put their tackle on the bus and pick them up". She shuffled away up the garden path, mumbling and groaned to herself, only turning around once to stick two fingers up at Peaman.
At the Police Station Jet and Moonie were sat waiting on the perimeter wall. "Where the hell have you been" ? They enquired. "Snuggleberry overlaid", "Should have known" said Jet sarcastically.
“What have you two been doing to get banged up?” No answer was the reply.
The anglers called at the local newsagents, unknown to the members, club secretary Bill had a good deal here, with a weeks supply of free newspapers every time they stopped. There was a mad rush from the back of the bus until the queue extended out of the shop onto the pavement. Peaman, unknown to half asleep Moonie, was filling his anorak hood with goodies as he slowly made his way towards the counter. Bags of crisps, Mars Bars, sweets and a can of pop were placed neatly into his hood.
Jet waited until the shop was clear and asked the newsagent if he sold balloons. "Yes", came the reply. "Give me ten packets, old cock" he said mischievously, "Is it somebody's birthday" ? "It could be" replied Jet, not giving the game away.
Back on the bus, Peaman held up Moonie's progress down the aisle to his seat, whilst Jet emptied the goodies out of the hood. The ones who could see what was happening smiled, Moonie however, was none the wiser and curled up with his Daily Mirror.
Off they went via the bypass onto the motorway. "Open the bar you miserable looking bastard" Peaman said to Percy, "Time to get pissed"
Seating arrangements on the bus followed pattern's their of schooldays, the village idiots sat at the back with the intelligencia at the front. Jet, Moonie, and Peaman ruled the roost on the rear seat with Bill and his clerical cronies up behind the driver. One of the first fishing tasks was to draw numbers to decide where each angler would fish and collect money off each member for the winners to share, this is Bills domain and he stood no nonsense.
"Get your money ready, time to draw" shouted Bill. Moonie looked at Jet, "Have you got a spare fiver", "Oh Christ, I haven't got a meg, didn't you tell your lass to hand some over"? Frank was now became the target of their attention. "Can you remember when you netted that dead fish and won the match"? Frank knew what was coming, "Lend us a ten quid and we'll keep quiet about it". He reluctantly agreed, they gave him a bag of crisps to keep him sweet.
Frank easy prey , always good for tapping. Doreen, his live in lover, made up enough sandwiches to feed the busload Over the years he had doled out more money to mates, than he cared to remember. Being disabled and on a good benefit crack, he enjoys showing off his state earned wealth.
Angling Practice.
Jet and Peaman are good buddies outside work and they decided to check out the match fishing venue the week prior to the match. After completing their Saturday raffle duties and tivvying till' two in the morning decided to set forth. Loading up the car they set off in the cool dark morning, arriving with the daylight breaking, mist hovered over the river surface and birds sounding the dawn chorus. All along the river there were signs of life, with big fish rolling down the middle and the occasional scattering of tiny fry, as perch and pike rounded up their breakfast.
"Be quiet", said Peaman. "There's a couple of tents pitched down by the river, better not wake them, and we don't want to disturb the fish". They quietly made there way onto the river bank, over the wire fence, and set up their fishing tackle. In the early light it was difficult to thread the line on the rods and tie on the hooks. Peaman was the first to cast in and sat back waiting for the rod end to move, it was too dark at this stage to see a float.
"Got one" said Peaman, the big fish jumped clear of the water trying to escape. After a few minutes it was under control. Peaman slid the landing net underneath it. "What a fish!!, its a three pound Chub" Jet came over, it looked like a two pounder to him, but agreed it was three.
Three hours later, when they had both landed a fair number of sizeable fish, they noticed some movement around the tents. A few Boy Scouts made their way down to them and asked if they had caught any fish. Jet pulled out his keepnet and proudly showed off his catch, the lads were very impressed and stayed on to watch them for around an hour.
"Got any food Peaman , I could eat a flock bed" The ale had taken hold of Jets appetite. "No, I thought you had brought the snap". This talk of food got to them, they were in the middle of nowhere without a crust between them. "I'm going for a walk", said Peaman, watch my fishing tackle.
Peaman made his way towards the two tents and was met by the smell and sound of sizzling bacon. He glanced and saw a huge frying pan, the biggest he had ever seen, sat on a primus stove. It was stuffed full of mouth-watering bacon. It was all too much for him, he made his way back to his pal to discuss options. "Needs must" he said to Jet. "Follow my plan".
He strolled along the bank again until he reached the camp site, "Nice morning", he said to the Scout Leader. "Are you staying all week"? "No just for the day, the boys are taking a few Outdoor Proficiency awards and we'll be off by lunchtime" Peaman moved closer to the frying pan and pointed to a passing aeroplane, high in the sky. As the scouts looked upwards, he flicked half a dozen big white maggot's into the centre of the frying pan, and slowly strolled off.
Jet watched him walk away, then made his way towards the camp. "Nice morning", "Yes" said one of the lads.
"Oh no" shouted the cooking scout. "We can't eat this, the bacon's full of maggot's". "Lets have a look" said Jet, showing great concern. "No you can't eat that lot, it'll give you colic".
Just as the scoutmaster was about to tip the maggoty bacon into a polythene bag, Jet asked him if he could take it home for the dog. "You're more than welcome". He handed over the bag as if he was giving away the plague. Jet made his way back to his fishing spot, and was barely able to control his wicked smile.
Peaman made his way back along the river bank and stopped once again at the scout camp. The scoutmaster explained the problem with the bacon, and asked if he cared for a cup of tea. "Oh thanks, two sugars please".
"Its good fishing here and we've got a fishing match on Saturday" "What do you catch them on" enquired the scoutmaster". "On bread, but were running low", Would you like a loaf of Mothers Pride? We have brought plenty just in case". "If you can spare it" said Peaman cautiously". No problem".
Striding off with his prize, his feet barely touched the ground, and he continued to fish. A short while later the scout troop made their way past them, withtheir camping gear, towards the bridge. "Hope you catch a few more" said the scoutmaster as he led the pack away.
One of the scouts, right little buster, with a round freckled face, red tousled hair, cap on one and his hands in his pockets, trailed way behind the rest of the scout pack. He stopped and glanced at Jet, "Hope your bloody dog dies" he said scathingly.
"That was the best meal I've ever eaten" as Peaman as brushed a deep fried maggot off his thigh. "Brilliant", said Jet, they laid back on the grass and fell asleep. As the sun rose the two anglers decided to empty their nets and return home. Each had around twenty pounds of fish and were fancying their chances for the Saturday match. Both were craving for a drink to quell the taste of salty bacon.
Approaching the car they noticed all the tyres were flat and a note had been placed under the windscreen wiper. Jet unfolded the note and read it out to Peaman, "Hope the bloody bacon chokes you". "The rotten little bastard, fancy doing a trick like that" he said, reaching for the foot pump out of the boot.
They were hot favourites to win the match, practice makes perfect.
Highway Robbery.
Moonie's missus was always on his back for spending money at the pub and not on her and the house. Why shouldn't he spend his time and their money enjoying himself drinking and fishing ? On the day before the fishing trip he had a brainwave, and realised a way out, it was so simple, why hadn't he thought of this before?
Moonie planned his highway robbery with military precision, sitting outside the Crumpet, swilling lagers. He watched shoppers leave the local Co-op with shopping trolleys to load into their cars. One woman in particular always had a full load for her Volvo Estate, and she was to become the target of his masterplan.
He didn't tell a soul, fearing someone may beat him to it, and arrived at the pub on opening time. He was tense and the lads picked this up. "What's the matter Moonie, "Didn't you get your Giro", "Have you caught her screwing again", and "You miserable looking bastard". For once he took no notice, he was intent on carrying out his devious deed. As the afternoon rolled on he swilled more and more lager, growing in confidence with each mouthful.
On Friday afternoons at the Crumpet talk was centred around fishing once again and Frank was holding court. "The best place to go fishing is Ireland were you can fish all day and drink Guinness all night" he mused " Last time we were over there we were told to tie a balloon, with a long length nylon line, to the top fin of the first fish caught and let it go. It would swim back to the shoal and show you where all the fish lived in the lake." Jet chirped up, "You were so pissed you couldn't see the lake, never mind balloons. He thought Sinn Fein was a popgroup and Brian Adams was their lead singer". Adding this to show how daft Frank was.
Just past closing time, Moonie was outside the pub on his own, the lads asked if he was going to the fish shop, but he had declined their offer and waited for the Volvo to arrive. It was only a few minutes late, the women driver alighted from the car, collected a shopping trolley and went inside the store. This was his chance, he strode, as if invisible, to the Co-op entrance and made his way to a bin store near to the side of the Volvo. His heart was pounding, after what seemed a lifetime the woman came out and made her way to towards the car.
He couldn't believe it. She left her trolley, which was piled to the top, and went back into the Co-op. This was his chance, he stumbled from his hideaway, grabbed the trolley, and was off!!
Racing down the street he felt great, he could hear the distant shouts from the Co-op but he was on a high. It was downhill to his home and the full trolley seemed to be dragging him all the way. "Where did you get that lot from", he was startled, the lads were just coming out of the fish and chip shop and he almost ran into them. "Piss off " he said, and continued on his mazy run.
Hustling the trolley inside his back door he flopped onto the threadbare settee. "What have you got there you dozy pillock" said his wife, he didn't reply, he was completely and utterly knackered. His thoughts eventually came together, what a bloody good trolley that was, usually they find their own way, it was a bloody Rolls Royce.
Twenty minutes later, just as his partner had loaded her cupboards, and was beginning to turn her amorous attentions towards her thoughtful husband, there was a tremendous bang on the door.
"Come on Moonie" said the copper. "Where did you get the trolley from"? "I found it, It was just what I needed for getting the coal in". He felt a strong hand on his collar. "Come on lad, you're in for the night". He told them all they wanted to know and, after being charged, was locked inside a cell.
A few hours later Moonie woke and realised where he was. "I want to make a phone call" he said, rattling the cell door. "OK if its going to give us a bit of peace, come on then" "What time do I get out he enquired". "When the dayshift come on at six in the morning", perfect thought Moonie. He rang his wife, "make sure my fishing tackle is on the bus in the morning and the lads pick me up at the cop shop" He was led back into the dark cell for the night.
Nightwork.
Jet had also a little number that night and when leaving the pub he joined his two friends in an old tranny van. They were off to steal coal from a merchants yard and Jet was to be the lookout. When they arrived, the van was parked out of sight and they made their way, clutching bundles of sacks, through a small wood which surrounded the coal yard perimeter fence.
"Jet, keep a good lookout", if you hear anything or anyone comes near give us a shout". Jet slumped against a tree and promptly fell fast asleep.
A couple of hours later he was awakened by a torch light shining in his face. "What are you doing here lad"? The answer came to him in a flash, "Birdwatching". "Birdwatching"? came the puzzled reply. "Its two in the morning man and pitch black". "I'm looking for owls", said Jet, "Don't you know they only come out at night"?
He was now making out the outline of a Police Helmet towering over him. "O.K. Where do you come from and how did you get here"? "From Coalthorpe and I walked it". "Bollocks, its over seven miles away" said the frustrated constable "Well, when you're working all day and have nothing else to do at night, you've got to fill your time in somehow".
The Bobbie realised he was losing the argument and radioed base. "They've got your mate Moonie back at the station on a traffic offence and I'm taking you in with him". After a few questions in the interview room, and without charge, he elected to stay the night in the nick to save waking up the neighbours.
The cell door was about to slam when duty officer told him his mate Moonie was next door. "Are you asleep Moonie" shouted Jet, "I was until you came, you bastard, ring my missus up for the fishing"
Red Devils.
Peaman also had some night work to attend to before the match and was crossing the Pennines, in a rickety Ford Van, on his way to a secluded chicken farm. Some farmers treat their fowl with a degree of respect, this farm however, was not even one star accommodation. Their agreement was that if Peaman helped to kill the stock he could take as many birds as the Ford could carry. After three hours of bloody toil, he was ready to roll.
He decided not to mess around gutting the birds that night, but would do the job with Jet on return from fishing next day. Weighing in the offal in at the maggot factory would bring an extra few extra quid. With the Ford packed to the roof and holding well over a hundred dead chickens it was a struggle to get in the seat. "If I flog em' for two pounds each I can put it over the bar at the Crumpet and have free ale, or even buy a new rod and reel".
"Thanks for your help lad", see you when the next lot stop laying", Driving along for half an hour he came onto the top of the Pennines. Peaman suddenly started sneezing, "Its those bloody feathers, they don't half make you itch". He started scratching his chest and shuffled around in his seat uncomfortably. Approaching the lights on the outskirts of Crumpy his scratching was frantic and getting out of control.
Peaman stopped and jumped out of the van into the dim light of the headlamps, "For Christ sake, I think I've got scarlet fever". Quickly he stripped down to his underpants. " This isn't scarlet fever it must be salmonella poisoning, I'll have to ditch the bloody hens, ther’e only good for the stewpot." In between the scratching, he lobbed the hens over the hedge into the undergrowth until the van was empty. He made his way back home still scratching frantically.
Peaman looked in the mirror just as his wife came in the room, she let out a blood curdling scream." What's happened to you, you're scarlet red". He looked again in the mirror, and saw he was covered from head to foot in a crust of tiny red mite. “Bloody hell, these must have been on the chickens, and they needed to find fresh blood”.
He was under the shower in a flash and as the water hit him the bath turned from sparkling white to deep crimson, his wife was not amused. "Where's the bloody chickens" she said. "I've dumped them", "Thank god for that, you like a red indian who’s just run a bloody marathon”
.
Shock Treatment.
On arrival at the match venue the bus parked next to a low picturesque stonebuilt bridge, the river was quite narrow here, with lily pad fringed edges and a few waterhens dibbling the calm surface. Cows grazed in the meadow and with the warm sunny morning the scene resembled a perfect picture postcard setting.
The Crumpet lads saw none of this, they were mad to fish and offloaded their gear from the old bus and charged towards the river bank. Moonie was leading the pack and just before he arrived at his peg he noticed an electric fence was in place to prevent cows reaching the river bank.
Luckily for him the batteries, supplying power to the fence, were in front of him. Carefully he unscrewed the terminal, took off one of the connection wires and climbed over the fence. As the other anglers arrived at their pegs they asked Moonie if the fence was live. "Oh no" said Moonie convincingly "its as dead as a Do Do " one or two made their way cautiously over the fence. This is it, thought Moonie, that bastard Jet, who took the piss and told everybody I got caught with the trolley, is mine.
His arch mentor, Jet, straddled the fence with the wire firmly embedded in his crutch, convinced it was safe. In one foul swoop Moonie connected the loose wire. There was a short silence followed by a blood curdling scream, Jet was thrown two foot into the air and landed in a tangled heap on the fence. He was ashen and his Brylcream hair almost stood on end, a second pulse went through his body, again he screamed for help. By this time Moonie had fallen into a fit of uncontrolled laughter, along with the other anglers and he couldn't take the wire off. Eventually, after much pain, Jet broke free of the wire, "Thanks for helping me, you set of bastards" , the beautiful and tranquil summers morning was no more !
Fish Finders.
With just over an hour to the start of the match, anglers set their tackle up. Some only had one rod, whilst others, who were more dedicated and intent on winning, set up three or four and tested them out. Tackle was set out to be at hand for maximum efficiency, bait being cleaned off and kept safely in the shade out of the warming sun.
They were ready and with ten minutes to go made their way to Peaman's fishing peg in the middle of the length, to find out what had caused him to turn red and why they hadn't got their chickens, "Its a long story" Peaman went on to explain the basics. "I was eaten alive by Red Mite, covered in the sods, they even got through my undercrackers". There was a short silence and then a few stunted laughs, Peaman was being serious, they knew better not to tease him.
Frank and Johny.
"Time, everybody in", The match was off, and the anglers spent the first few minutes blowing up balloons, Jet tapped three into the air and they landed on the water's surface, other anglers, with the exception of Frank did the same. They floated gently downstream until Frank realised they were meant for him. "All the chub are under the blue ones" shouted Jet. "Bollocks you rotten set of bastards" bleated Frank.
For the first hour there was complete silence, apart from the sound of floats and weights landing on the water. Moonie was the first to stir, "Thought this place was full of fish". There was complete silence. Two hours later no fish had been landed. By now the natives were becoming restless, "Who picked this ball aching place"? "It wasn't me" said Bill, "You pillocks voted for it".
Frank had an advantage over the other anglers. Being nearest to the bridge he could trot his float downstream for a considerable distance, having no-one fishing below him. He decided to let his float go under the bridge and way beyond the other side, hoping he could pick off an unwary fish. It took ages to reach a knot in the line which signalled he had let the float travel at least a hundred yards. He clipped over the reel bail arm and slowly wound in the float, which was well out of sight.
The rod bent to the butt, "Into one" he thought, he skilfully played the beast. "What have you got there" shouted Bill, " think its a bream, its not putting up a great fight" A few of the lads gathered round to watch the action, Frank maintained the pressure and the float eventually came into sight.
"What the hell is it?" enquired Frank. It slowly emerged and Frank was tingling with excitement. "By god, its an albino eel !" He stood up and reached for his landing net. As he manoevered it closer to the bank he could see it was lip hooked."Bloody hell its a giant lamprey, its got a great big gob" " Silly twat its a French Letter," laughed Snuggleberry, you've broken the Durex eel record"
By dragging it up against the current, water had filled it and it was as big as a size five football.
"What have we here dickhead, You can't weigh that in" Spluttered an overjoyed Snuggleberry."Its second hand". Frank was not amused, he unhooked it and gingerly and laid it on the bank. It was now two nil to his sworn enemy.
Plumbing the Depth.
After three hours the match stopped for breakfast, this being one of the Crumpets unusual rules. They had got cooking down to a fine art, gas stoves, salvaged from picket lines, were taken from the bus' boot and lit. Piles of bacon and eggs followed, purchased from the Friday Flea Market, and were stuffed into the frying pans. Tins of beans, which were leftovers from club raffles, went in and everyone waited in anticipation. Peaman, who was chief cook, got a double helping. Percy opened the bar again and breakfast was swilled down with a couple of pints.
The lads returned to their fishing spots, taking care the electric fence was turned off. "Time", yelled Bill, they were off again! Having been up most of the night, a couple of the lads were feeling very weary, Peaman decided to sleep on the bank whilst Jet sat on his basket high above the water daydreaming and trying to watch his float. After a few moments there was a tremendous splash. Jet had nodded off, fallen from his basket and into the river. He surfaced with his head held back and his face full of terror, not daring to say a word.
The lads rallied around him, "Help me" Jet whispered "I can't swim" He stood bolt upright with the water over his chin, just hovering below his bottom lip. Peaman threw a pebble in at the side of his head, the slight ripple made Jet stretch a little more. Not daring to move his mouth, he pleaded with them to get him out. "Elp me you twats" That was the signal for mass hysteria, they knew he was safe and didn't give a damn. They rolled around on the grass laughing at him, after a sleepless night some of them were clean out of control.
After what seemed an age he was finally offered the end of a landing net pole and was gently hauled from the water. Quickly gaining his composure he made a half hearted grab at Peaman,"You rotten set of bastards" "Where's your glasses Jet"?, enquired Moonie. "Oh no, ther’e at the bottom of the bloody river"
The mob kept him at arms length and eventually he calmed down, he was solid mud from his waist down, his black hair was matted and speckled with floating weed. Water squelched from his crepes and they sounded like two mouth organs as he moved around. He had no choice but to strip off and continue angling in his underpants. As the sun dried him he resembled an aborigine warrior in full war paint. Moonie had brought a shell suit and loaned it to him for the journey home.
Percy's lad wound in Jets float and shouted him over, “there a stickleback on your hook, it could win you the match”. Jet gratefully unhooked the tiny specimen and placed it gently into a water filled bait box, perhaps it was his lucky day.
Walking the Dog.
Due to Jets mishap the match was extended by half an hour, which in the heat of the day was more of a pain than pleasure, fish continued not to feed. Instead they all came up to the waters surface to bask in the sun. This sight caused even more dispair and the anglers were calling at Percy's peg, dwindling the stock of ale.
Peaman decided it was time for a joint and duly rolled a Crumstone special. Although the local tips were no good for farming they did sustain the finest cannabis plantation outside of Columbia, and the dried leaves certainly had a kick like a mule. Percy spotted Peaman rolling a fag and asked if he would do one for for him. Peaman obliged and Percy laid back in the sun relaxing, unknowingly smoking a mindblower, a few minutes
later his mind was gone.
Percy's lad broke out in tears and sobbed uncontrollably, Moonie walked over to him and put his arm around his shoulders to comfort him. "What's the matter young un'" he enquired "Its my Dad, there's something wrong with him, I've never seen him smile, and he can't talk". "Peaman, what the fuck have you given him" there was no reply, Peaman had just had a bite and his float was dancing around.
Whoosh!!, the rod flew skyward and bent to the butt as it hit something very heavy. Immediately his reel clutch was screaming and Peaman stood up amazed. "Got one" he shouted, "Its massive". The reel continued to spin until the line was almost stripped, he had no alternative but to walk along the river bank following his quarry.
Other anglers saw him coming and obliged by taking their rods from the water. Then they followed him, en masse, along the bank. Peaman quickened his pace and wound in a little line, the fish continued its journey down the river with Peaman and the rest following along. It went underneath the bridge and as he reached the stone archway it suddenly stopped, the line slackened and his heart sank. "I can't get my breath" said Peaman despairingly shaking his head, "It was a belter". Winding in the line he was beside himself and the others tried to console him. "By, that was a monster, pity it snapped you".
He was just about to throw himself in the river when the rod arched over again, the fish had turned, swum by him, and was now on its way upstream, Peaman and his faithful entourage followed it. "Its mine" he said triumphantly, "Get the landing net ready". The fish duly stopped and held out in the middle, after a few minutes it was slowly eased towards the bank.
"What the bloody hell is it"? asked Moonie "God knows, it feels like a nuclear submarine" groaned Peaman His arms ached and were beginning to drop off from holding the rod so long, the fish slowly surfaced.
It was an enormous green flanked pike, weighing well over thirty pounds. It only had one eye, and on seeing Peaman promptly spat the hook out and swam off. The air was blue, Peaman threw himself and the rod to the ground, he was spitting fire.
"Just my bleeding luck, bitten to death with red mite, no sleep and now this!" The pike had taken a stickleback on his hook, and when he picked the rod up Peaman quickly realised the importance of this tiny fish. He carefully placing the spiny beast into his keepnet.
Moment of Truth.
"T-i-m-e, everybody out", shouted Bill, it was the end of the match "Bring the scales down here pension legs, lets see who's won". “Nobody’s caught any except Jet and Peaman” moaned Frank. He took the weighing scales up to them. Both anglers stood face to face as the scales were eventually set to zero. "Mine first" said Jet as he placed his fish on the scales. The pointer didn't move, "My go, its bigger than yours” said Peaman confidently. One again the scales failed to register. "Lets measure them". Both were exactly an inch long, although if Peaman had pushed it he may have got a ruling in his favour.
Bill was having none of this. "Match void, rule number six, no stickkies to be weighed in" Peaman started to complain, "Alright, Peaman, rule seven, winner to be dope tested" They agreed to void the match, find a pub, and spend all the prize money on ale.
Moonie issued a warning, re-connected the electric fence and walked to Jet's fishing spot, to accompany him back to the bus. "Pass me that landing net handle Moonie" asked Jet. Moonie duly obliged, not realising it was leaning on the fence wire. Being made from carbon fibre, it’s a superb electrical conductor. He lifted the handle and the electric shock almost blew his arm off ! The scream could be heard back at the bus, justice had prevailed.
Balancing Act.
Loading the bus to enable each angler to find his tackle easily at each stop was no easy feat. Snuggleberry got no thanks for his expertise, stacking everything neatly inside the boot.
While this was underway, a local farmer came over the bridge driving an old Fordson Major tractor, the lads signalled to him to stop. "Where's the nearest alehouse squire"? they asked. "Its the Packet Inn, over the bridge and about a mile on, you can catch the A1 further up" replied the farmer.
Thanking him they climbed aboard the bus' and instructed Snuggleberry to head north over the humped back bridge. "Not sure if it'll take the weight", he uttered "Don't be so bloody soft, get your foot down". He decided to take their advice and have a bit of a run at the bridge, the old bus charged up the slope and with a sickening screech, bellyflopped on the apex of the bridge. It was perfectly balanced with all eight wheels dangling a foot off the ground.
"What did I tell you, I'm as daft as you bastards"
"Everybody to the front" said Frank, taking control of the situation, "Take your time". Everyone moved forward and the front of the bus slowly dropped, just like a like a seesaw in slow motion, until the wheels were grounded. "Right, off we go" commanded Frank.
Snuggleberry turned his head and scowled long and hard at him, " Its back wheel drive you silly twat, stick to drawing your Giro" The idea was basically sound so they all moved to the back, the bus rocked onto its haunches and sat like a V2 waiting to be launched. Snuggleberry was facing the sky, he had often fancied being a pilot and the G forces pressed him pleasantly back into his seat. "Right, let her go" shouted Moonie.
The engine roared, the rear wheels connected and the old bus shot skyward. Snuggleberryhad never experienced anything like this, he thought he was the pilot of Concord. Suddenly the front end dropped alarmingly and came down with a tremendous thud. The momentum caused him to bang on the brakes and the engine stalled. All the bodies crowded around the back seat were suddenly flying towards the front, along with the empty cans, maggot tins and rod holdalls which were stacked across the luggage racks. The first two holdalls went through the windscreen, followed by Frank and Moonie Snuggleberry went through but he managed to hang on grimly to the steering wheel.
One by one they picked themselves up and eventually re-stacked the bus', coloured maggots were crawling everywhere. Luckily no-one was injured, Pension Legs couldn't stop moaning and they agreed to a man it was all Snuggleberrie's fault. This was just to shut Frank up. They gave Snuggleberry hell, and ordered him to proceed to the pub. He had been busily moving the last of the glass from the windscreen and had barely noticed the uproar.
Swamping.
Immediately after turning the key the bus cracked into life, it sounded like a Sherman Tank and vibrated alarmingly, "Prop shafts bent and exhaust's knackered" explained Snuggleberry. No-one seemed to care.
They arrived at the pub, to find it shut, "I'll go and find the landlord" said Percy who had now recovered from his overdose. He peered inside the back window and saw a body curled up on a lounger. Tapping on the window, he beckoned the body towards him, the back door creaked open. "Got some customers at the front and they're mad for ale". "O.K, I'll open up" He looked through the front window, saw the mob, and decided to phone Tracy, his barmaid, to help him out.
The front doors opened and a surge of bodies made their way forward and clamoured towards the bar. Jet sneaked away into the toilet, he stripped to his trainers and washed away all the mud and grime. Combing his black hair straight back he slipped into his borrowed shell suit and glanced in the mirror. "By you are a handsome looking guy” he thought , although he couldn’t see well without glasses". He then made his way back into the bar.
Bill took charge, "We've got four hundred quid, less the bus money, I'll put two hundred over the bar to start with. As fast as he could pull em' the pints were downed. Thirty minutes later the landlord announced that their credit had gone. Bill gave him another hundred pounds and they were off again. Jet felt strange, he hadn’t been without his glasses or Teddy Boy gear from leaving school, he was beginning to look and feel a rather cool dude.
Tracey's Treat.
Moonie had been backwards and forwards to bar bringing pints of ale for Frank, Jet and Peaman and was ready for a rest. "Go and fetch the beer" said Moonie to Frank, swilling back the remains of his fifth pint. "The landlords hard of hearing so you have to speak up" Picking up the empty glasses, Frank made his way to the bar and waited patiently to be served, eventually the landlord came over and asked him what he wanted. "Four pints of beer and a bag of cheese and onion" he shouted loudly, hoping that he could hear him over the noise, "What's up with you, daft bastard, do you think I'm bleedin' deaf ?" Moonie and the lads fell apart with laughter.
Tracy could hear the uproar as she approached the pub, it was some way from the village and was always peaceful. She had never served much more than half a dozen customers before. Walking into the pub she was met by a wall of smoke, followed by a few whistles and cries to "Get em off"
Tracey was flushed and had never had this much attention in the pub before. She was an attractive woman with long blond hair and a good figure but had few opportunities or reasons to show off her assets. Slowly and discreetly she undid the two top buttons of her blouse to give the lads a treat. This had the desired effect and the lads queued up for her to serve them. "Out of crisps" shouted the landlord.
Tracy was partial to double vodka and coke and knocked back all the drinks she was offered. After a quick half dozen she was in full swing. "Credits gone again", "Bung the bus money over and the hundred quid" shouted Peaman. Bill duly obliged.
Jet had taken more than a passing fancy to Tracy and she acknowledged his attention by undoing a third button on her blouse. They were becoming an item, barely taking their eyes off each other. "Beer's gone Trace, get one of the lads to help you change a barrel" Frank was in like a flash, his one eye sparkling, "Come on love, we'll do it" he slurred. Jet brushed him aside, "Piss off pension legs, this is my scene".
Tracey held his hand as they made their way down the dark cellar steps, the cool air made the hair on his back stand up and his thoughts did the rest. She didn't let him go, merely pulling him gently towards her until they were entwined. "Not got long" she whispered seductively, "Barrel's nearly empty", She undid his zip, "What's this then" she moaned, grabbing his manhood.
"Its the Mutton Dagger love". "Wow, come on and stab my Aunty Mary" she sighed. Slowly he lifted her skirt and placed the beast between her thighs, a few groans later it was all over. They composed themselves, changed the last barrel and returned, both glowing, to the bar, . Tracey remarked that she loved sleek wet hair. Well at least the ducking had brought some him benefit.
"Collection time, five pounds a man", another hundred pounds went over the bar. Snuggleberry protested, he was keeping sober and they all agreed, apart from Frank, that he shouldn't pay "Out of draft ale", "No problem, open the bottles"
Drinking slowed to almost a standstill and half full glasses of stale beer littered the tables, although Peaman and Jet were still in good form, knocking back shorts on top of a gallon of ale. Bill called the rabble to attention and told them to drink up. Those who could understand reluctantly agreed to leave, others were hauled onto the bus. Peaman handed Tracey the Crumpet telephone number and explained when Jet would be in.
Homeward Bound.
Peaman and Tracy had a lenghty snog and whispered good-byes, promising they would be in touch in the near future. It was half past six in the evening, the pub had no beer and few spirits left, the place looked as if a bomb had hit it and the landlord had never taken as much money over the bar in month. "Have the weekend off Trace, we'll stock up Monday". She had no intention of working anyway.
Snuggleberry cleared the last of the lads from the toilet, which by now resembled a living Dhali masterpiece, decorated in Heinz Pea and Ham soup, which had been cleared by some to make room for more ale.
Convinced they were all aboard, the bus driver set off and it sounded much worse than before. The cooling breeze rushing through the open window and out of the skylight was welcomed, although Snuggleberry was having some difficulty with the incoming flies.
It was an unwritten rule that no-one slept on the bus and to enforce this Peaman always brought along his trusty aerosol horn, which he used to signal the end of local rugby matches when he was timekeeping. He hadn't used it often, although Frank was convinced it had been responsible for his successful deaf claim and advised others to try it out.
Peaman rested the trumpet on Moonie's ear, who was flat out, and then cleared his throat to catch attention. Those who were capable, smiled and waited in anticipation. Pressing the button brought a noise not unlike Flamboro' Lighthouse on a still, foggy night, it boomed for a few seconds. Moonie didn't move, although all the others who had nodded off woke instantly and sat up as if they had never been asleep. Another blast saw Moonie stir, he woke as if fighting Bruce Lee, with arms and legs kicking out wildly, he stopped suddenly, looked around, and sat there silently as if nothing had happened.
Joining the motorway they were back on a roll and the blasts on the horn seemed to have brought them all back to life. Half an hour gone the bus came across a serious traffic jam, "Is there any way round this Snuggleberry" enquired Bill, "Yes, drawled Snuggleberry. "Stop in chuffin' bed"
Showing off your Assets.
Crawling along the road is nobody's idea of fun and by now the bladders were beginning to swell, "Stop the bus' at the lay by" they ordered. Others who couldn't wait, just relieved themselves in empty lager tins.
Fifteen anglers lined up against the bus, pulled out their wedding tackle and began watering the verge. "Drive on" said Peaman, Snuggleberry obliged and stopped some twenty yards further on, leaving the line, all facing passing traffic, baying for his blood.
Around this time on the journey Bill usually announced the match result and took pride in getting his facts right. "Match was a draw, everybody will get one point each", normally the winner got one point and the last man twenty two. "Objection", bellowed Jet, "One for me and Peaman all the rest get two". "Vote on it", said Bill. "Those in favour of everybody getting one point". All the hands, with the exception of two, went up. "Motion carried. " announced secretary Bill. Cheating bastards", muttered Peaman.
Moonie was ready for his party trick, undoing his belt he dropped his trousers around his knees. Squatting on the rear seat he flashed his hairy backside at the traffic following the bus. Others at the back gauged the reaction of drivers and passengers who were confronted with this sight. Most were laughing and pointing up at the window, although one or two looked sternly away and gazed at the surrounding fields.
Two young lasses in a following open topped sports car found the sight hilarious and indicated for Moonie to turn round and give a full frontal. Being shy, he declined their request, although he did push his backside firmly onto the window pane. The car pulled along side the bus in the fast lane and both the bus and the car drew to a halt. "Look at this" shouted Percy, "She's got her skirt up around her waist and she's taking her knicker's off". Everyone to man rushed over to Percy's side, causing the bus to lurch 'till it almost fell over.
She slid off her pants and seductively waved them from the open car window, they were flimsy lace and red satin, and the sight brought an immediate response from Peaman and Moonie, who both flashed off their ample one eyed porridge throwers. The lass, who was obviously enjoying the banter, gave them an extra wave and the car moved off out of sight. "She's not normal Peaman" said Moonie, pulling up his zip, "I'll bet she’s a stripper, never seen nowt as sexy".
Maggot Crack.
The bus picked up pace and someone noticed that Frank was missing. "Was he there when we stopped in the laybay" ? asked a concerned Bill. No-one could remember, although they recalled he had given Snuggleberry a really hard time after flying through the front window. Frank had once again picked on the wrong person.
At the pub Snuggleberry could stand no more of Franks moaning and when he had ordered him to open the bus, Snuggleberry pretended that a hose had come adrift in the boot, and invited Frank to have a look. "Its just at the back on the right", as soon as Frank's shoulders were inside he pushed him in and forced the boot lid closed. The noise from the bent prop shaft and damaged exhaust easily drowned out his screams for help.
"Look at that", shouted Bill, the carpet in the aisle between the seats, was moving very slowly towards the front of the bus. Lifting it at the corner he found a half inch thick bed of maggots, all writhing in one direction.
(Maggots dislike the light and this was one of the few sanctuary's available to them.)
He scooped them up by the handful until he had collected almost a gallon of the little wrigglers. "No need to buy any next week, enough here for a couple of weeks". Bill stood up and showed them to Jet who slipped a good pinch down the back of Moonie's trousers, while he was busily looking out of the window for more victims.
Maggots are flavoured to attract more fish and although it's uncertain if this practice works, it gives the angler more confidence. Additives include a variety of exotic substances including vanilla essence, curry and a variety of spices. Most popular is tumeric powder, an amber yellow, mild curry flavouring, added to Chinese style dishes. Maggots absorb the powder and become slightly dyed with a light buttery yellow hue and, because it is a slight irritant, they wriggle faster.
They soon found their niche between Moonies ample cheeks, and the sweat, combined with the tumeric and ammonia they give off, caused him instant ring sting. His trousers were off in a flash, followed by his underpants. "Which bastard's done this", he demanded, scraping them out and shoving his fingers up his backside to relieve the itching. "No-body said Jet", not daring to smile, "They've probably bred there" Moonie guessed it was him.
He dressed and after a while, made his way to the back of Jet's seat, grabbed a handful of his hair, and yanked back his head. "Stitch that you bastard", ramming his stinking fingers to the back of his throat, causing Jet to almost choke on his own vomit. This retching set off one or two others, who were feeling quite queasy, paper bags were out in force.
Boot Boy.
At the first stop, Percy unloaded his fishing tackle and empty beer crates off the bus'. It was almost eight in the evening, he and his lad were more than ready for a bath and a bite to eat. Waving the bus good-bye they made his way into the Crumpet. "Have you won" enquired his wife "Yes", he announced proudly, "I was joint first".
Rolling to a halt at the second stop, Snuggleberry was reluctant to leave his seat to open up the back of the bus, knowing that Frank was still locked inside. When the lads raised the boot lid, it was as if a blue mist suddenly burst out, and the air was filled with a torrent of foul abusive language. Frank, god bless him, was squeezed in so tightly, he resembled a babe in the womb. His joints were so stiff he couldn't move an inch and yelled for the lads to get him out. "If I get hold of that bastard Snuggleberry, he's dead".
Not able to use the toilet, Frank had attempted to relieve himself but managed only to do it all over his trousers, this smell, mixed in with the diesel fumes, was so strong it could be cut with a knife. "For gods sake get me out", "Oh shut up you miserable bastard, it serves you right for ranting at Snugger". Eventually he was hauled out into the lowering sunlight and made his way back onto the bus, muttering death wishes every step. Snuggleberry's grin stretched from ear to ear as Frank climbed on board, causing Frank to reach meltdown. "I could have died in there you rotten bastard" he shouted, trembling uncontrollably. "Bootiful" retorted Snugger "You're a pain in the arse".
Frank made his way down the bus like a slug on heat and was greeted with a torrent of abuse from other anglers who commented on his smell and the wet patches on his grey trousers, Frank settled miserably into a seat.
Peaman and Jet were the next off with all the other anglers, after exchanging good-byes, made their way up the single garden path leading to their facing front doors. They placed their fishing tackle into their garden sheds and agreed to meet at the Crumpet later that evening.
Al A Carte.
Although Gladys, Moonies wife, was annoyed that he had spent the night in the nick, she was feeling good, having had her best nights sleep for years without his snoring. It was unusual for her have a fridge full of food and had gone to the trouble of preparing him a special meal, usually they had egg and chips. "What's this then" he enquired, poking the food with his fork "Its a Spanish Pie-Ella, it'll do you good, get it down" she said reassuringly.
He enjoyed the chips but wasn't overjoyed with the rest of the dish. "I've made you a pear pudding, mind you I had to go round to and see Julie at the Crumpet to find out what they were... I've never seen pips so big". Ethel placed the avocado's, which she had cut into cubes, in a dish in front of him and then spooned on a generous helping of Fussels Milk.
Not to disappoint her Moonie finished off the lot. "What were they like? she enquired. Moonie deliberated a few seconds before delivering his verdict "Well its hard to say, the soft bit was alright, but the skins were a bit tough".
Dogs Life
It had not always been plain sailing and they had their ups and downs non more than when Moonie had brought the dog home. Howler was a bit of a mixed breed, basically a mix of all the dogs in the village, just a lovable mut. It certainly brought things to a head and had almost caused their marriage to break.
"It's either that bleedin' thing or me, the choice is yours", shouted Gladys, pointing wildly at the dirty, dishevelled dog shivering in the corner of the entrance porch. "I can't believe you!, you know how hard I have tried to get shut, and it still comes back" said Moonie, in a raised voice. "Well, it’s me or the chuffin' dog" she stated forcibly again. Moonie pondered for a moment or two and then issued his final decision. "I'm keeping the blasted dog" he said quietly". "Right, I'm going to my mams, I hope you and the dog are very happy". With that she picked up her coat and bag and made her way into the night. "I'll be back tomorrow for the rest of my stuff". Thank god for that, thought Moonie.
Well, Moonie had only agreed to marry with her because she had faked a pregnancy and was threatened to be thrown out onto the streets by her parents. It was part of a master plan to get their daughter off off their backs. This plan had badly misfired at the Crumpet when her father, after a few pints of beer, admitted the fact to his new "son in law" was a waste of time and only capable of firing blanks. Despite this Moonie had decided to give married life a shot and they had managed to put a bit of a home together
The lad was bemused, he had swapped his stock of Embassy coupons for the dog, to keep Gladys company whilst he was out at the pub, which was most afternoons and evenings. He was normally a quiet bloke, who spent much of his time with his mates, and basically enjoyed the simpler things in life and wasn't blessed with good looks or brains. He was small, dark haired, with a pock marked rounded face. His education had suffered because he spent most of his school life with the with his head bowed in front of the nit nurse or staring at the wall in the corner of the classroom.
Jet had befriended Moonie at an early age, realising his potential, especially when chatting up women. It was the tradition of the village lasses to go out and in pairs, usually one good looking lass and the other not so clever. Gerald always took the best on offer, leaving Moonie with the equivalent of the dogs dinner.
Howler had been a bit of a problem, like most young pups it had ripped up slippers, the sofa and taken lumps out of the postman. Moonie had tried hard, when he was in, to housetrain it, but it had a will of its own. Gladys wanted rid, so in desperation, he sought advice from Jet on how to resolve this situation.
"Get rid of the bastard" was his advice, "Put it in a sack and throw it in river". That night Moonie tied up the sack and dropped the dog into the river. It took him over half an hour to walk home and had just explained to Gladysthat the dog had gone when he heard the sound of scratching on his front door. Howler stood there soaked and shaking. He quickly ushered the dog into the coalhouse. "Who was that"? Gladys shouted, interested more in the tele’ than what he was doing. "No-body, I thought I heard some-one at the door.
Next day he was up early, before Gladys opened her eyes, he made his way with the dog to Jets house. "Did you tie the sack up"? "Yes, with washing line", replied Moonie "What kind of sack was it"? He thought for a moment, "It was a spud bag". Jet laughed, "The're made of paper! it melted in the water, you soft bastard". "What shall I do now"? enquired Moonie "Leave it with me, I'll send it to London in the maggot van".
In the pub that evening Jet explained that the dog had been safely dropped outside Kings Cross Station and was confident Moonie would never see the home wreaker again. "I'll miss it you know" said Moonie with affection, "It was a damned good ratter".
A couple of weeks later there was a knock on Moonies front door. Two children stood their faces beaming. It was obvious they were expecting some kind of recognition. "Is this your dog mister? "We found it coming up the street and we were told you had lost yours". He couldn't believe it, the dog was back, and it gave him such a big fuss. "Here's a quid, don't you tell anyone its come back".
Although Howler had lost a few pounds and had sore feet, he was none the worse for his trip to London, Moonie gave the dog a drink of water, all it wanted to do was curl up in front of the fire and rest its weary body. His missus was due back from her mothers in a couple of hours, so he let the dog rest peacefully until half an hour before her expected arrival, took it with tail between its legs, to the coal house.
Gladys strode in and slammed the door behind her and placed her coat on the clothes rack. "Have you made my cup of tea".she asked demandingly. "Been busy love”. She came into the room and stood menacingly with her hands on her hips. "l can still smell that bloody dog, put the flaming kettle on then" she demanded, Moonie duly obliged.
Next morning she was again off to her mothers, and Moonie brought the dog from out of the coal house into the garden. He knew Howler was hungry, this was the only time it offered a paw. There were a few cans of dog food left in the house and he went in to open a couple. Taking the tins from the cupboard he dislodged a small tablet box which fell onto the floor.
Picking up the box he read the label, this is it, I'll poison the poor thing. Vallium tablets were readily prescribed by the doctor for all manner of ailments and to keep the disability money coming in. Taking out enough tablets to cover the palm of his hand he mixed them into the dog food. Howler ate his last meal heartily and fell fast asleep, so soundly he was hardly breathing. Moonie took the garden spade and dug a neat hole in the border at the bottom off the garden and hugged the dog lovingly before placing it in its resting place, covering it up, carefully levelling the ground so not to leave a trace.
For a couple of days Moonie couldn't get the dog off his mind, Jet told him not to be so soft, at least he still had the flamin' missus. Next evening he was just about to leave for the pub when he heard a pityful moan at the front door. Howler had fully recovered from the overdose, dug himself out of the grave and was ready to join the family again.
"You can have your stuff, I'm keeping the bloody dog" shouted Moonie as Gladys made her way down the path, "Don't come back", he added. He fed and bathed Howler and promised he would look after him. The dog sat with his head to one side, eyes shining brightly, as if he understood every word. His slippers were safe and was never any trouble again.
The dog was a pain in the arse, but not as bad as being with mam and dad. A subdued Gladys knew that the dog was her equal and persuded Jet to get her back with Moonie.
Prize Winner.
Moonie dove into the bath and, after a good soak, dressed ready to go to the pub. "See you love, Its my turn on the raffle tonight" Jet was waiting for him outside his front door. "They did us today" he said ruefully " Our sticklebacks won the match". All the lads had arranged to meet at the Crumpet where life began at ten in the evening
Peaman supplied the raffle meat whilst the rest of the lads brought in tinned fruit or vegetables, mushy peas, beans, pear halves and prunes with the occasional tin of spaghetti thrown in for good measure. No-one questioned where Peaman obtained his weekly contribution from although the local butcher provided a half pound of sausages. It didn't come from the maggot farm, but was supplied by the lads collecting offal from the abattoir. They managed to persuade slaughtermen to give them a few choice cuts which were hidden in the meat not suitable for human consumption. Peaman always advised the winner that this meat was fresh off the bone, but to eat it quick and well cooked.
Prize Guy.
Jet sold most of the raffle tickets, customers couldn't handle the smell he emitted and were pleased to to see the back of him! When he had gleaned every penny, he gave it to Bill to count. He advised Peaman they had made almost sixty pounds. Bar maid Julie did the honours and drew the winning ticket. Peaman announced the winner, "Number 95, blue ticket" No response. He checked his raffle tickets, to find he had won. This caused an uproar "You set of cheating bastards, its always won by the anglers" shouted the regulars. To shut them up, Peaman agreed to a redraw and hoped the prize would choke the winner.
Rattler.
For most of the night the anglers were immersed with Peaman's one eyed pike, being stuck on the bridge, the mystery snake, two sticklebacks, Franks journey home and of course the next fishing match.
Frank was keeping a very low profile, sitting in a corner on his own, reflecting on his bad day. He didn't see his pal walk into the pub. Spotting Frank he shouted "How's my snake going on". He didn't answer, this was one subject he wished to avoid.
Peaman picked up on the conversation and announced the snake was on its way to the maggot farm to make him a couple of quid. “You must be a silly twat for lending it to him”
Frank turned white as Peaman explained the snakes fate. "Two quid! Fumed his mate, its worth five hundred, Frank I want five hundred quid from you or I'll break chuffin your neck"!! Frank agreed to pay, he didn't wish to be really disabled.
Long Distant Love
"Telephone call for Jet, come and get it" shouted Percy. This was only his second time on the blower and he had to check if it was the right way up. "Hi' lover, remember me?" whispered the caller "Hello, this is Jet, who do you want" he spluttered. "I want you my man, its Tracey, you paid a visit to my Aunty Mary today". Jet could feel the color rush from beneath his neck tie. "Hi Tracey, didn't expect to hear you so soon, he said in a lowered voice, But its great to speak to you"
Tracey went on to describe how lonely she felt and how much she had enjoyed Jet's company and asked if they could arrange to meet again soon. He was overjoyed and agreed to meet her next week, if he could arrange transport. She seemed genuinely happy and this feeling was mutual.
He placed the phone down and made his way to tell Peaman. "She's really keen and I can't wait to see her". "Fair enough we'll arrange it. "By the way, she didn't see the real Jet today remember, she saw you and not the dozy teddy boy. From today you change your image forever, that means Parma Violets and new clothes". Jet was on cloud nine and agreed with Peaman to sling his outfits and change his style. They visited shops to buy new outfits and he stayed in the shower, scrubbing till' it hurt.
Jet was transformed and everybody noticed the new model, he rang Tracy and arranged a meeting place. "Can't wait to see you love" On the morning he was due to leave Peaman treated him to a sauna, just to get rid of any lingering maggot smells. It did him a power of good and he felt great. "Get your stuff together Gerald, were off to see your crumpet" He could hardly hold a limb still and had bitten most of his nails away. "Stay cool Jet, just remember you're a technician working at an organic recycling plant You have an important job.
Tracey was waiting for him outside the Packet Inn, their embrace lingeredand they did'nt notice Peaman leaving. “See you next week” shouted his pal as he drove by the two lovers.
"This is where I live" she pointed to a secluded and well maintained cottage. "It was my mums, but she passed away last year and to be truthful I've been lonely on my own. "you won't be on your own again as long as live" whispered Jet, she looked beautiful to him, tears rolled down his face.
They didn't need to speak, passion took hold and words were few.Next morning they gently stirred and Tracey made breakfast, "Two eggs O.K.?" "Fine" said Jet "any plans for today?
"Well, Iv'e got to work at the pub this weekend and Iv'e got a part time job Monday to Friday, but you can stay here till I'm through".
The weekend passed quickly and they were in each others arms all the while. On Monday morning Jet asked If he could walk with her to work."No problem, I'm on duty this morning, lunchtime and teatime with the kids at the crossing". She set off in her uniform with her lollipop and lover. At first he waited on the pavement until she had shown the kids and parents across the road. As he grew in confidence he joined her. She had the lollipop in one hand Jet in the other. They walked to the middle of the road and back. In between it was love all the way.
Jet was offerred farm work and they decided this was their future and agreed to stay together in the village. "How did you learn to make love Tracey, you are wonderful" She had no inhibitions and went on to explain.
"When I was a young lass we all went pea pulling, for one bag of peas you got a ticket, the lads were better than us and they swapped a ticket for a quick shag. It was much easier than filling a pea bag and on a good day I could manage six tickets. Suppose you could say I was trained by Birdseye".
She explained that now she had found Jet he was her one and only. " I better go home this weekend and tell the lads I'm leaving for good".
Peaman arrived on Saturday morning and Jet explained his future. "You go for it Jet, she's a fine woman". Peaman could see Jet was a changed man and encouraged him to make the best of his chance. "Is she good in bed ?. "Well, deliberated Jet, she must be, I’m so sore I can't piss!!"
The crumpet was less one angler and the lads gave him a great send off, "Don't forget to come back with your wench for the presentation at the end of the season".
Dream On.
Peaman's thoughts turned to the next match, snake bite gozzer maggots! Could these give him the edge? At least the idea gave him lots of confidence and true to form he went on to win the Crumpet Angler of the Year Award.
Frank kept his shape by paying off his snake debt and he steered well clear of Snuggle berry. Moonie was sentenced to three months community service for stealing supermarket transport and driving without due care and attention.
Jet and Tracey came back for the Crumpet fishing club annual presentation and invited everyone to their wedding. She was puzzled by his fishing prize of water wings, snorkel and an Elvis record. What the hell, it would be a good excuse to jump in the bath together.
Crumpet A. C. still survives and is on the lookout for new members, if you can down two gallon, eat a horse, run a raffle and fish a bit, you're more than welcome.