Halifax: The Rev. Wilberforce Shagmoor, Corned Beef and a Stratospheric Misidentification.

Halifax is a strange little town famed historically for sock-suspenders and toffee making. It is situated to the west of this rather large and sprawling county and was in fact the centre of wool production from the Middle Ages onwards. It also boasts a beautiful Minister, several black-pudding drive-bys and a number of Las Vegas themed bingo halls whose callers (being local celebrities) are ferried about in stretch-Volvos. It is in many ways an archetypal Yorkshire town with an abundance of sheep, sensible shoes and undulating moors.

        However, Halifax is not adverse to controversy and in fact became infamous in the late 19^th century for its famous markets displaying oddly formed root-vegetables.  There subsequently arose a demand for some kind of prize to be awarded for the most lewdly shaped and ill-proportioned item from the region’s gardens, allotments and greenhouses. As a result various obscene looking spuds, marrows and turnips were paraded for the delectation of society ladies and clergy who gazed longingly through the mist of a precariously balanced pince-nez.

         This regional interest in the suggestively misshapen was actually spearheaded by the Victorian horticulturist, the Rev. Wilberforce Shagmoor. And, I believe, in the Town Hall there still hangs a daguerreotype photograph of the aforementioned gentleman, brandishing a rather rude looking aubergine whilst fondling a couple of Lady Balfours just to complete the ensemble.  It is fair to say that the Rev. Shagmore was, indeed, an odd gentleman who hobbled around Halifax on two artificial legs (and real feet) after being grievously wounded whilst administering to his flock during the Crimean War. He was however eventually defrocked when he was found in a compromising position with Lady Winifred’s favourite pony, in possession of a selection of lurid etchings and a bottle of shampoo. The Reverend’s plea - that he yearned for a “stable relationship” - cut little sway with the court and he was subsequently transported in 1867.

       Ironically the town’s horticultural prowess is foreshadowed (or perhaps referenced) in a medieval text attributed to Bartholomeus Anglicus. In his early compendium, the encyclopaedic De proprietatibus rerum (‘The Order of Things’) he refers to Halifax as ‘halh-gefeaxe,’ meaning an "area of coarse grass and bruised plums.” Bede insists in his much earlier work  Historia ecclesiastica gentis Anglorum that the name is derived from the Old English ‘halig’ (holy) and ‘feax’ (hair), which alludes to the supposed presence of the head of John the Baptist which was believed to be kept in a local church. However, during the Reformation it was discovered to be a large turnip with matted foliage on which some enterprising priest had scribed an angelic expression with a permanent marker.

        This region, Halifax in particular, is renowned for its innovators: bong-fuddling and perch-racing as national past-times sprung from this area as well as  the easy-peel corned beef tin, which was invented by a local factory worker after losing three pints of blood trying to open a conventional key-operated can. Also the doogle-berry press and bunion pads are also just some of the items that have a claim on West-Yorkshire as their place of origin.  And, as well as the invention of various knick-knacks, the town can also declare itself home to the first man in space, a Mr Archibald Butterworth of Thorndale Crescent and not the Russian Yuri Gagarin as is generally believed.  Mr Butterworth was catapulted into the stratosphere (almost fifty years prior to Mr Gagarin’s launch) with the help of an old bed sheet and one of his wife’s discarded corsets.  Ecstatic astronomers at the time, believing they’d actually caught a glimpse of the celebrated Hayley’s comet in 1910, didn’t realise they actually had their telescopes trained on Mr Butterworth as he soared across the night sky.

       Another radical break with convention occurred in 1952 when a law was passed, to re-define marriage to enable some of the locals to marry livestock, as sheep outnumbered people 3-to-1. However it wasn’t until 2001 that the first inter-species ceremony took place, with Mr Arthur Thuttock of Halifax marrying Geraldine (formerly of Haymarket Pastures) at his local Anglican Church. The Reverend Tracy Semgmore was said to be delighted at the union as a “symbol of equality” and indeed “the hallmark of a tolerant and inclusive society.” Geraldine wore white (naturally) and despite eating the bouquet breezed through the ceremony encouraged up the aisle with fistfuls of dried grass and fresh parsley.  

       Next stop Sheffield....

Rotherham: Albanian Yodeling, Tambourines and Ferret Fondling

Rotherham is a large town sandwiched between Doncaster and Sheffield. It was originally set up to be as a large recreational area for marching Roman legions on their way to York. In fact, before the Norman Conquest it was awash with delicatessens, foot-spas and sandal-repair outlets not to mention various pharmaceutical stalls specialising in ointments for insect bites, leprosy, nipple-rub and scrotal rash. The etymology of its name bears testimony to the numerous clinics and quacks that populated the thoroughfares of the pre-Norman town with a melding of the word Rotherus (v: ‘to flannel’) and the noun Hamaritus (‘musty fundament’).

       In the late Middle-ages the Archbishop, Thomas Rotherham, initiated the building of a college in the town that would attempt to rival the already established academic seats of learning, Cambridge and Oxford. The College of Jesus in Rotherham offered a radical departure from traditional academic subjects, offering degrees in subjects like ‘ethnic fishing,’ ‘home economics’ and ‘Albanian yodeling.’ However, the college was stripped of all its baubles by Edward VI in 1547 to fund the purging of the English Court of papists and papal traditions that had risen in prominence under his half-sister Mary Tudor. Today, unfortunately, only a few fragments of the old college remain, which can be viewed (conveniently I may add) from the snug of The Goat & Whistle in Old College Street.

       After the sacking of the college the town’s fortunes declined considerably, becoming renowned throughout England as a den of iniquity and vice.  The streets became populated with knocking-shops, gambling dens, bear-baiting havens, inns and outhouses. Gratuitous and shameful displays of every conceivable depravity (flagellation, knee-trembling and ferret-fondling) would provide the backdrop for the daily commerce of the local townsfolk.

       It wasn’t until the early 19^th century that the town’s fortunes changed under the influence of that burgeoning theological movement termed evangelical Methodism.  Rotherham fell under the influence of a charismatic and tight-trousered Methodist preacher known as Mr Barnabas Pious. The gambling dens were closed and the knocking shops were all turned into haberdasheries and tea-shops. The streets of Rotherham were suddenly infected with a symphonic display of religious devotion from ethnic chanting, psalm-singing and tambourine jangling. This cacophony continued until the cynicism of the 20^th century (fueled by two world wars) closed everything down and replaced it with burger vans, street-vendors and vast cathedrals to pay alms to monetarism and the free market.  

       Rotherham is comfortingly mediocre, but perhaps worth a stretch as one ambles towards Sheffield.

Doncaster: Rhubarb, Ballooning Bishops and Smouldering Shag

Yorkshire is I believe England’s largest county, were the inhabitants are renowned for their accentuated vowelly accents (including a gratuitous use of the word “nowt”) brittle-toffee and gumboots. It is said that the people of Yorkshire are the stingiest in the country - a cultural stereotype perhaps – but one underpinned by the calamity identified as ‘Black Wednesday’ that occurred in South Yorkshire some years ago.  Apparently, the introduction of pay-as-you-leave buses in Wakefield resulted in over a 72 people starving to death on the region’s public transport network. The chap responsible for the introduction of the scheme, who was, incidentally, a “chuffing southerner,” was severely chastised and publically marched through the town with a lavatory seat, yoke-like, as a braffin.  It was also discovered at a later juncture that this unfortunate individual had (shamefully I may add) attended one the nation’s ‘other’ seats of learning rather than that hallowed institution for any stout, dungareed Englishman, the University of Hard Knocks. Consequently the last public debagging in Yorkshire took place just outside the Old Market Square accompanied by the hoots and whistles of those in attendance.  The victim’s trousers were initially hung in chains just beyond the city walls where they still dangle to this day as a cautionary aside for anybody with any affected or “fancy ways” who may or may not be passing through.

      Yorkshire is famed for its expansive areas of natural beauty, various sit-coms, soap operas and curd tarts. However, rather than focus exclusively on the tea-towelly, biscuit-tin, touristy culture that serves as a veneer for the grit of everyday life, I’ve decided to focus primarily on the city’s more urban environs. And there are none more urban than Doncaster, a short stride away from the joys of Nottinghamshire.

       Doncaster is a cathedral town (or Minster I should say) to the south-east of the county.

Its name is partly derived from the fact it is situated on the River Don which serpentines through South Yorkshire. The city was originally the site of a Roman Fort, although the Romans were quick to abandon the city in the 2^nd century AD due to the proliferation of ferrets, flat caps and the locals’ penchant for big, battery puddings. The proliferation of ‘dripping,’ (local haute cuisine), dark ale and rhubarb upset the Romans, with their Mediterranean constitution, who subsequently decided to seek warmer climes in the South.  

       However, it is a well guarded secret that Doncaster is largely inflatable, due to massive subsidence caused by a significant land shift in Nottinghamshire around 954. Also, substantial bombing during World War two and the subterranean expansion of the mining industry only exacerbated the problem, which came to a head in 1952 when the city’s ‘Whippet Emporium’ sunk without trace.

        The idea of inflating huge rafts or podium-like structures (subsequently covered with turf and gravel) was the brain child of a consortium of officials and local businessmen. They believed it would make the city more bouncy and accommodating and help shake off that dour post-war image that hung cowl-like over the region. To this day the city’s major shopping areas are largely topped-up up by corpulent town officials and ‘elected’ representatives who puff and blow at large external teats just outside Pontefract.  This also accounts for a total ban on smoking within the city centre for fear of any breach in the very fabric that underpins the city. Although one such ‘breach’ did occur in 1964 when the contents of Mr Frederick G Ramsbottom’s pipe (a standard billiard I believe) were emptied just outside a popular convenience store. The smouldering shag ate away at the very fabric of the city causing rapid deflation and the relocation of the Westfield Park area somewhere just beyond Pocklington. 

        Modern day Doncaster is an interesting aside to one’s journey towards Sheffield. It does boast a Minister (St George’s I believe) which was re-built in 1952.  Unfortunately, the original 12^th century building was destroyed by a freakish ballooning accident involving the visiting Bishop of Barnoldswick in 1853.  The high street is very much the same as any other high street in the country with the obligatory chain stores excreted uniformly throughout its historic centre. The only notable difference is the incessant squeak and ‘farty’ noises generated by the shoppers’ feet shuffling along the cobbles and thoroughfares. 

Lincoln: Earthquakes, Flying Bishops and the Occasional Stuffed Badger

Heading into Lincolnshire is like a frame-by-frame presentation of John Boorman’s Deliverance, replete with webbed-toed, dungareed types who salivate endlessly about crops, local history and their cousin “Mary-Lou.” Legend has it that the god of  feng shui decided that in order for the world to harvest all the positive energy available, Lincolnshire needed to be tucked away beneath the squeaky commode that is Nottinghamshire.  And if Nottinghamshire could be personified as that vociferous old aunt that embarrasses everyone by fingering the macaroons and breaking wind unashamedly, then Lincolnshire is the estranged uncle in a sowester with almanacs on diesel locomotives and exotic fauna.

        Lincoln is undoubtedly a strange cobbled dwelling, apparently situated almost one hundred meters above sea level. This would no doubt account for the constant feeling of nausea one experiences on a stroll past the numerous toffee- shops, trinket pedlars and Ye Olde Spam Burger Bar.  Interestingly though, the etymology and formation of its place name makes for compelling reading.  It is allegedly derived from its Celtic inhabitants (who were the earliest recorded settlers in the area) who left various clues as to how they lived prior to the Roman invasion. Apparently, due to the sterling work of local archaeologists, they actually located remnants from its Celtic past, such as arrow heads, pottery, cans of premium-strength lager and discarded deep-fried confectionary.  We now know that the city’s name actually originates from the Brythonic word Lindon (meaning bog or marshy place). However the Romans later embellished it by adding Colonia (v: to obstruct) due to the difficulties they had in getting to the dwelling because of the numerous fortifications as well as the marshlands.  So, Lindon Colonia (literally bog blocker) became a prosperous Roman settlement, establishing many of the cobbled walkways that still serpentine through the city to this day.

       The Normans, who decided to advertise their presence by erecting castles and cathedrals across the country, (as well as indiscriminately filleting the locals), established Lincoln as the region’s ecclesiastical capital. Although the Norman Cathedral (completed in 1092) was destroyed by fire when some monks, drunk on mead and communal wine, carelessly tossed a half-lit cheroot, which ignited some nearby straw bales. Nevertheless, undeterred, the blessed thing was erected once more, only to be levelled by a freakish earthquake a few years later. Many of the city’s denizens attributed the disaster to God flexing his muscles and showing his displeasure at the gratuitous gambling, whoring and ethnic knitting that was allegedly going on within the precincts. Although, there is an interesting aside in one of the contemporary records that ascribes the earthquake to the folly of a visiting Italian bishop named Crassus Asino. Apparently, Crassus (prompted by some local hooch left over from the Roman occupation) believed he could fly and subsequently leapt from the cathedral’s tallest tower.  He actually covered quite a bit of ground simply by the vigorous flapping of his cassock, and, as a matter of fact, made it to the neighbouring shires.  His success at the time was ascribed to a favourable tail wind, a large bowl of sprouts and a smidgeon of divine intervention. Unfortunately, however, he eventually ran out of steam, and, unable to keep himself aloft, plummeted to his death just outside Worksop. The impact left a deep fissure or chasm in the landscape (now known as Bishop’s Crack) that has since been turned into a local skate park. 

       However, despite all the setbacks, the cathedral was eventually constructed and now dominates the city’s skyline.  It was also (for at least three hundred years) the tallest building in the world. This was due to its impressive spire which was undoubtedly seen by the bishops as a statement of diocesan power, as well as being a convenient structure on which to air their ecclesiastical socks.

     The early bishops of Lincoln were essentially a portly lot who exercised considerable influence over Medieval England. In fact Hugh of Wells was supposed to have been present at the signing of Magna Carta. However, he is reported to have whistled and made silly farty noises throughout, until King John and the local barons, thoroughly annoyed at his presence, were reputed to  have inflicted a near fatal wedgy. The bishops were also famed for tobogganing in Lincoln during the winter and synchronised swimming in the river Witham in the warmer months. Rumour has it that they also experimented with psychotropic and hallucinogenic substances.  And, indeed, the early marginalia are littered with illustrations of psychedelic toads, weasels, suspicious-looking salamanders and the odd nonsensical flourish.  It is said that the partaking of exotic herbs actually lead to bouts of irrepressible giggling during the Mass, and the subsequent hunger pangs are reputed to have caused the great famine of 1353.

       The roll call of Lincoln’s bishops reads like an ecclesiastical who’s who. There was Robert Bloet (or Bloeter) named due to his love of hog-roasts, warm ale and plum duff.  Hugh of Avalon, (a vibrant presence around the city) described as a firm-buttocked, rosy-cheeked sort-of-a-fellow who delighted in teaching Albanian yodelling and hankie waving to Edward II. There was also the famous St Hugh of Lincoln who was martyred by being drowned in his own porridge.  And lastly Robert Grossetestes who enjoyed terrorising the local children; or at least until he was pummelled to death by a group of washer-women.  But perhaps the most famous bishop was Thomas Wolsey who served as the King’s almoner under Henry VIII. It is said the Wolsey’s time at Lincoln was marred by dubious, nocturnal goings on, and there was indeed a scandal involving some dwarfs, a soaked camel and several sticks of celery. Wolsey was also famed for lifting his vestment or cassock in the town square in order to perform his impersonation of the King of France, aided by a couple of plums and a stuffed badger.

        During the Medieval period Lincoln flourished, especially in terms of trade.  Exports of items such as wool, cloth and pork scratchings to the Netherlands and other regions generated a lot of commerce and revenue.  Consequently the city was considered a rich source of income worth mining by anybody with an entrepreneurial bent. Markets began to spring up unchecked and unfettered by the local authorities, as did numerous disputes and fracas over plots and trading rights. In fact, the famous battle of 1141 between King Stephen and the Empress Matilda, was actually over the contents and positioning of a market stall during the city’s famous Christmas fair. It is said that during the hostilities many noses were tweaked and ears pulled in the violence that spilt over onto the Cathedral green. In fact contemporary accounts speak of a battle of apocalyptic proportions amongst the stallholders with flailing French sticks, prune chutney and lobbed pilchards.

        Lincoln never really recovered from the skirmishes of the late medieval period, which consequently saw trade decline.  The city’s woes were further exacerbated by various natural disasters like flooding, plague and downpours of frogs in 1389 making the cobbles even oiler than usual.  With the Tudor reign came the Dissolution of the Monasteries which effectively stripped Lincoln of its diocesan thrust and influence. In fact in 1549 the cathedral's great spire actually perished and fell from its positioning, apparently impaling a couple of winkle-sellers “winkling” on the river bank.  However the metaphorical resonances were evident, and seized upon by soothsayers as a symbol of the city’s political and economic downfall.

       Lincoln of course recouped, although suffered grievously during the civil war being sandwiched between parliamentary and royalist incursions. However, with the onset of the Industrial Revolution it came into the fore once more in terms of production, and manufacturing, which eventually gave way in the proceeding centuries to heavy industry.  During the 20^th century they had a thriving industrial infrastructure, until the Thatcher invasion of the 1980s saw the influx of the mulleted “upwardly-mobile.” The ensuing political zeitgeist resulted in industry and manufacturing effectively relocating abroad, leaving tourism and tea shops as the main legitimate source of income.  

      The famous Christmas market, however, still draws people into the city, with huge strings of sausages, pickled conkers, and homemade fudge.  However, it is mainly students, pensioners and Americans in loud shirts which prop everything up these days.  The Cathedral, like most establishments of this kind, now charges an entry fee (God has become rather expensive of late), in order to prevent its hallowed structure going the same way as the once great spire.

        No doubt to the relief of the numerous fishy purveyors that thrust and parry upon the banks below.