by Graham Johns
Mick remained quiet and transfixed.
“Northern Ireland is far too complicated for anything to happen there,” Bob continued, “only the Scots feel that they can go it alone. People seem to forget about the subsidised transport, healthcare and tuition fees they have. Numpties.”
“But what if they can survive on depleting oil reserves and whisky? What if they join the EU? What then? Why can’t Yorkshire do the same?”
Bob wasn’t sure if Mick was actually asking his opinion or not, but he answered anyway. “I will tell you why Yorkshire can’t survive alone, because we can’t survive on Priest’s Hole, Yorkshire Pudding, Wensleydale cheese and Pontefract Cakes is why! Mind you, I’d be happy if my customers gave it a good go! Now are you going to buy something or shall I bar you?”
Mick just ignored him and continued to stare at the screen for a little while when, suddenly of the realisation that nobody was likely to offer him a quenching Hole this afternoon, he rose to his feet and stalked from the pub.
“Good riddance,” said Bob to himself.
“GOOD RIDDANCE!” repeated Broken, who got another nut for his trouble. Humankind are so easy to train.
***
As he took a stride into the fresh afternoon air, illuminated by a glorious sun, Mick was bundled into by a slightly frantic-looking Smutty Mathew. Mathew was clad in his usual lime green vest and black cycling shorts combo, complete with matching black headband, but there were still beads of sweat on the brow of his clean-shaven head. His vest bore the slogan ‘Gym Instructors do it in Lycra’, which he took great delight in. In his forties and younger than Mick, it would be wrong to say that the two were friends, but the two were friends. Mick sometimes slept in Mathew’s garage if female accommodation was hard to come by. This was fine with Mathew because it meant he got some new material to watch.
“Mick, you’ll never believe it!” he said in agitated fashion, despite still preserving a rather smooth sort of voice. “I’ve been looking for you and I need to tell you something, you’ll have to come with me, so to speak.”
It was a curious thing, but whenever Mathew used the phrase “so to speak” he generally chuckled to himself, made a pouting-cum-puckering gesture with his mouth and nodded. He did it again here.
“You haven’t got a new video for me to watch have you? I didn’t much care for that camel toe highlight reel you showed me last time.”
Mathew paused for a moment while recollecting the footage and deciding he would have to watch that one again soon. “No, I really need you to come with me, STS.”
“STS?”
“So…To…Speak! STS! Haven’t you been learning anything from the smutology lessons I’ve been giving you? Come on!” He started tugging on Mick’s arm with some urgency. Mick decided it was easier to follow him than to resist.
Mathew’s house was quite close to the pub and was a small, stone terraced affair with two bedrooms. It was nice enough from the outside as Mathew was generally fastidious about the upkeep. However, the garage in which in his gymnasium was housed certainly raised questions about whether planning approval had ever been granted for it, as it was a pre-cast concrete building with a cheap up-and-over metal door. The garage was almost as wide as the house and was situated to the rear of the house and accessed via a back alley, or back passage as Smutty Mathew liked to refer to it. Avoiding Mathew’s back passage, on entering the house through the front door, Mick was slightly surprised to find a distinctly low-tech feel in Mathew’s dining room, with copies of old documents and maps strewn across his dining table. Mick only usually came indoors to shower on the odd occasion and thought the house to be rather dark. Mathew liked it that way because it hid a multitude of sins, such as the telescope he had pointing right at the nearby bathroom window of Patricia Volta, the renowned local stripper.
Mathew had calmed down a little now, “Can I get you a coffee?”
“Sure, thanks.”
“Would you like me to put some of my cream in it, STS?”
Mick just opted for “No thanks. I’ll have it black.”
“Yes, I bet you will, STS,” Mathew said, chuckling to himself.
Mathew exited to the kitchen to make the coffee and, when ready, returned to Mick in the dining room, wherein he was confronted with a question that had apparently taken Mick some time to construct, “So what do you need to tell me?”
Mathew pushed the majority of the papers on the table top to one side and presented Mick with two maps. “Spot the difference,” was all he said.
Mick looked at the two for a moment. They both were labelled as Nether-Staining and its environs. He then said, “Dunno. What is it?”
Mathew was not to be deterred and said, “Look again.”
Mick looked again. He wasn’t sure what he was looking at and was getting mildly frustrated. He could see that one map was apparently a copy of something of significant age and with a dubious brown stain on it, whereas the other was quite a modern Ordnance Survey map. “One is much newer than the other?” he ventured.
“Nope, ignore the age of the map, look again.” Mathew seemed to be enjoying this.
Mick looked once again. “Ah, I’ve got it, the old one is a much larger scale maybe?”
Mathew rolled his eyes and put his hands on his hips, “No, look at the river!”
Mick looked at the river, he looked at the river some more, you could hear the sound of a penny dropping. “Oh my God! The river! It’s moved!”
Mathew took on a smug expression. “I’m glad you see it too. Do you know what this means?”
“That we need to evacuate the village immediately in case of flooding?” Mick suggested.
“No, look again at the county border.”
The breath froze in Mick’s throat, he realised the immediate problem with this sight. “We’re not actually in Yorkshire?”
“That’s right! Someone moved the river to the other side of the village. Why you wouldn’t just build your village on the opposite side I don’t know but there it is. We are technically and historically in Lancashire.”
Mick pressed the back of his hand to his forehead in dramatic fashion before passing out on the floor.
***
Mick came round a short time later to the sound of electronic clicks. He found that Smutty Mathew was taking photos of him in an unconscious state. After taking a moment to work out where he was he said, “What the hell are you doing, you weirdo!”
Mathew immediately stopped and slowly hid his camera behind his back, having visions of requiring a box of tissues and a cigar later on. He reluctantly gave Mick some personal space to allow him to use the bathroom to freshen up, something Mathew enjoyed watching immensely from his secret bathroom camera system. When Mick returned, he had an ashen look.
“How on earth did you put this together? And why?” he asked of Mathew.
“Out of interest I was out doing some surveying of various aspects of the river and referencing old maps I’d got from the library and bugger me, STS, if it wasn’t going quite where it was recorded as going in days of yore.”
“You realise we can’t publicise this, don’t you?” Mick said.
“Of course, I’m as Yorkshire as you are. But what’re we going to do about it?”
“We need to cement our place in Yorkshire. Someone else is bound to find out about this if the MPs are ferreting about in county relations.”
“Yes, I met Maurice Bickerdyke. He seemed the sort who’d be doing just that,” Mathew replied.
“Surely they’ll have teams of people looking for any excuse to get their own way. Politicians are conniving sorts! If they see us as a problem, they might just declare us as Lancashire and use our getting back into Yorkshire as a bargaining chip.” Mick had a desperate look to him, he realised his wall was not of sufficient size just yet.
“Why don’t we organise a village select committee of partisan locals and go from there? We could invite them round for a Lycra Party and surprise them with the news.”
; Mick just sighed. With some people it was any excuse to indulge their perversions. “OK,” was all he could manage to say.
***
It was official, the Scottish folk were now of desire to leave the United Kingdom. In the end, the leavers had sixty percent of the vote. Having learned nothing from the Brexit calamity, the leaders of the campaign were hopeful of having severed ties with everyone within a very ambitious year, largely as there’s nothing like an arbitrary deadline. These events were framing this evening’s party well.
Mathew and Mick’s Lycra Party invitations had gone out to a few local faces and guests were beginning to arrive at the door just in time for a few nibbles which Mathew had prepared. Delights including cheese and pineapple on sticks, cocktail sausages, sausage rolls, pork pies and a trifle all awaited those lucky souls tonight.
Mick had insisted on inviting Gordon and his wife, Ernest and Veronica, Bob and Beryl from the pub and finally Reverend Burns, but not Sandra. Mathew decided that Tom Towler, the heir of former town plumber Ted, should be there as he was especially bigoted after the recent murder of his father by aliens. He also invited Ranjit Saha, a pharmacist, and Johnny Gilpin, the window cleaner, with whom Smutty Mathew shared a very good relationship when it came to village observations and covert recordings.
You may be wondering what everyone was wearing at this point, it being a Lycra party and all. Well, not being one to disappoint, here is the information you seek…
Smutty Mathew had simply squeezed into a tighter version of the outfit he had on earlier. The size was now extra small and he looked a little like he was struggling to breathe.
Gordon had come dressed in a pink Lycra leotard with a large ‘H’ drawn on the front. He also sported a blue cape made from half a shower curtain and a black bandana with eye holes cut from it as a mask. He had grey leg warmers, ballet shoes and his pork pie hat and thus became the famed local hero, Hippo Man. The current Mrs. Shepherd, Selina, was sporting a black burqa which certainly got a few tongues wagging as no one could be certain of her origins, and nor was it skin-tight. Nobody dared to question whether wearing such an outfit was politically incorrect.
Mick had attired himself in a royal blue leotard with a large backwards ‘BB’ on the front. Other than that his dress was much the same as Gordon’s, minus the hat. He was local hero Blue Boy. It was a rarely discussed village mystery but nobody knew where Mick kept any changes of outfits.
Reverend Burns decided that it would not be befitting for a man of the cloth to wear Lycra and so he came in his regular dog collar. He did, however, allow himself a leather jacket.
Tom Towler had rented a Batman costume a year ago for a party and had ‘forgotten’ to return it, not that there was much call for fake heroes in Nether-Staining as they had the real thing.
Johnny Gilpin had opted to buy a Superman outfit, complete with muscular foam padding around the upper body. He didn’t really need it though as he was a member of Mathew’s gym and was one of those rare people who actually went on a regular basis.
Ranjit Saha didn’t have access to Lycra, he said, so just wore his white coat from work and a red beret perched on his black, wavy hair. Go figure.
Ernest and Veronica simply couldn’t be bothered to find another outfit and figured that if Mathew was involved it would be in their best interests not to bother anyway.
Finally, buxom Beryl found her black leather boots and trousers, and a tight-fitting red top she had once donned as alter ego Ale Girl, while Bob was bizarrely sporting his budgie smuggling swimming trunks and had wrapped himself in cling film. This was no mean feat as Bob had a very large pot belly indeed. Mathew made sure he got every inch of Bob on video.
Anyway, back to the party…
After everyone had done a spot of socialising and Mick’s interest had been piqued by the meeting of Selina, which Gordon disliked intensely, things settled down a tad. Mathew made sure everyone had one of his home-made cocktails, with a smutty selection from a menu of Hard Dick, Busted Rubber and Slow Comfortable Screw Up Against the Wall. Some people just don’t know when to stop.
“Can I interest anyone in some of my home-made yoghurt?” Mathew asked hopefully.
There were a few uncomfortable stares and only one person answered for the group.
“You filthy bastard, let’s just get on with things,” Gordon said impatiently.
Mick coughed a small cough to get everyone’s attention and then began to talk. He had an unusually serious look to his face as he began.
“Thank you to you all for coming along this evening. Mathew has made an alarming discovery and we felt it prudent to invite a small select group of friends and patriots together to discuss what actions we should take, if any, in relation to this item.”
“Wharrisit?” Tom Towler asked.
“Glad you asked that question, Tom,” Mick said as he raised the two maps up on either side of him, indicating that Mathew should narrate his findings.
“Thanks, Mick.” Mathew pranced around a little nervously, perhaps caused by his constricting outfit. “Everyone, I have discovered that the River Neth has been moved during the history of our village.” He pointed to the two maps to demonstrate what he meant. “To put it simply, Nether-Staining is technically in Lancashire as the river is, I believe, classed as the county border.”
He paused for effect and looked around. He was expecting all manner of outcomes from his speech but silence wasn’t one of them. He felt he should fill the pause with some more talk. “It would appear that the river used to flow to the north east of where it is today with the village on its south west side. We can only guess why it was moved but it would appear that the church would have been stood right on the old course.”
“Why has my pain been perpetual and my wound incurable, refusing to be healed? Will You indeed be to me like a deceptive stream with water that is unreliable?” asked the Reverend, seemingly of the ceiling.
“Thank you for that wonderful and insightful quotation, Reverend,” Mick said as sincerely as he could as he took over talking duties once more. “Mathew and I realise that we can’t really let this news out into the public domain, especially as our MP has been touting for support in allying Yorkshire with Lancashire at a local government level, thus undermining our proud heritage. We need to decide what we are going to do about it.”
Tom Towler took a swig of his lager before placing down the glass, he ran his tattooed hand across his skinhead, made a fist with his right hand and then punched his left palm with it. His accent was somewhat broader than the others in the village due to his Barnsley roots. “Let’s just teck aht this MP git!”
“Thanks, Tom. Not sure assassination is the best answer but we’ll note it down, all ideas are welcome at this point. Mathew, please note that down.”
Mathew had a large piece of flip chart paper stuck to the wall and followed the instruction, the red marker pen seeming to emphasise the nature of the point even more.
“Why don’t you finish your wall?” Ernest asked of Mick, which gave Mick cause to feel self-satisfied.
“In case anyone doesn’t know,” Gordon said, “Mick has begun to build a wall around Yorkshire in order to keep non-Yorkshire folk out of our fine land.”
“I ahnt seen it,” Tom said.
“Me neither,” added Johnny.
“It is currently a small pile of stones contained wholly within the historic sheep dip, go and take a look if you like,” Gordon replied with a dry smile that clearly said, “Mick, I think your wall is crap.”
Mick looked visibly wounded by the words of his friend.
“I think we might require a great deal of money to complete such a project,” Ranjit suggested. “We’d need all manner of fundraising drives to do so.”
“OK, thanks, Ranjit, thinking ahead there though, let’s come back to that thought later please,” Mick said, back to business.
“Why don’t we try political means? Maybe start by telling the press what our MP is up to and see
if we can whip up support to stand against them in that regard?” Bob asked, his cling film sheath straining under the inhalation and exhalation motions that went along with it. Despite this distraction, Mathew continued to scribe.
“Let’s gerrat the git! String the bastard up!”
“Thanks, Tom,” Mick said politely but firmly, in a manner which really said, “Shut up.”
“Can I ask an obvious question,” Veronica began, “does any of this really matter?”
Her question was met with silence and a few awkward looks around the room.
“What I mean is, is there a danger we’re overreacting?” she added.
“A fair point, my love,” Ernest said.
“I think you’d do well to recall the recent evil-doings of such folk as these. We can’t afford to let our guard down, our very village depends on it!” Gordon said, his face turning a shade of red.
“Yes, OK.” Veronica knew when playing devil’s advocate was a waste of time.
“Why don’t we campaign for independence? It’ll be the last thing they’ll expect,” Bob asked. Mathew scribbled once more.
“We could join up with the Scots maybe?” Mick added.
“Join up with that miserable lot? They’re even tighter than we are!” Gordon shouted.
“Now, Gordon, please, no shouting down of ideas, especially mine,” Mick replied.
“What about joining Norway, Denmark or Sweden?” Beryl asked. “The Vikings used to own this land, maybe it’s time to become Vikings once more?”
“Look, everyone, if it isn’t in Yorkshire, it isn’t worth anything! Can’t we just ignore the last two points raised about the Scots and the Vikings?” Gordon had to take a seat now, his left arm was getting a touch of pins and needles
“Please, Gordon,” Mick said with a glare at his friend. Everyone went quiet, Gordon slightly sulkily.
“Any more?” Mathew asked the group hopefully. There were shakes of heads in response.
Mathew put the cap on his marker and stood back before pointing theatrically at the paper, which somehow caused his shorts to rip down his crack-line, with a loud tearing noise not unlike other noises that sometimes issued from that region. “Whoops! Looks like I’m bursting out of my shorts, STS.” He smirked and pouted before getting back to business.