Ely: Norwegian Trouser Folding, Fosilised Otters and Peruvian Nose Twangers

Ely - a small city to the north of Cambridge - is actually a huge fragment of intergalactic debris. Apparently it was somehow dislodged from the host planet by the cosmic perambulations of the slug-like Oglanaut Foozlepoop. The etymology of the name is disputed, (Ely that is, not Foozlepoop) but it has often been referenced by astronomers and sci—fi glossaries as originating from the word Elisied (pronounced Ee-liss-eyed) meaning rejected or excreted.  In fact even the venerable Bede in his Historia ecclesiastica gentis Anglorum, spelt it “Elge,” which derives from the Anglo Saxon for ‘bilge.’ However, despite the city actually being the result of some cosmic blunder, it represents a frighteningly innovative form of intergalactic fusing. It all began with the construction of the Pallaca Medulus in 673, which cunningly masqueraded as an Abby for many years. This construct, instead of being some medieval place of devotional worship, was actually a portal or conduit for an interstellar breading programme to populate the whole of East Anglia. It is also thought that a futuristic cloning system was also initiated to create a new form of cultural-sub-human entity to populate the Fenland areas and Peterborough. However, Crow-land Man has never actually been scientifically verified.

         It is a well-guarded secret that the inhabitants of Ely are in fact androgynous and amphibious in nature. Anthropologists now believe that the current townsfolk have evolved from the original fish-like creatures that slithered forth from the intergalactic splodge. Also, coincidentally, one of the sources for the city’s name is actually ēlġē, which is old Northumbrian for basket of Eels. In fact many believe that all these fishy, cultural resonances explain why Ely has now become conjoined or twinned with Ribe* - a Danish town famous for sardines, leather shorts and various types of suspicious-looking custards.  It is thought that the Danes are naturally drawn to the piscine linage of the townsfolk; also their itinerant, Viking heritage ensures a deeper, psychological connection with the culturally displaced.

      As communication technologies between solar systems advanced, it was eventually deemed necessary to destroy the aforementioned Abby (or conduit) in order to erect a new and significantly more menacing cosmic orifice. Subsequently the Abby was destroyed by the Danes in 870 and the current Cathedral was erected in its place.  However, the building’s construction was actually halted during the Reformation, due to an enormous piece of sausage-like iconography found buried beneath the old transcript. The aforementioned relic was believed to be some form of demonic manifestation, but in fact turned out to be a fossilised otter. This revelation, however, didn’t prevent industrial strikes from the overtly superstitious lute tuners and wangle weavers causing cultural grid-lock. However, interestingly, the Tudor records for the area present an alternative reason for the delay in the construction of the Cathedral. Apparently, a confluence of several rivers including Witham, Welland, Nene and Great Ouse culminated in a deluge of crayfish, which then subsequently began to nip and pinch indiscriminately at the workmen’s trussocks. This prompted an urgent draining of the Fens until the crustaceous hoards were sent packing. Nevertheless, the Cathedral stood as a work-in-progress until its completion in 1845.

       The Cathedral now stands innocuously like a huge Cornish pasty on the village green, but nightly emits powerful brain-munching uber rays. As a result,  numerous strange and mysterious goings on have been reported over the years including soul- shifting, necromancy, Norwegian trouser folding, and rituals involving livestock, Angora Sweaters and Peruvian nose twangers. The great Pink Floyd tried to warn the inhabitants of the adjacent towns and villages by placing the Cathedral on the cover of their The Division Bell album as a tiny morsel being consumed by the machinations of misrule. 

        Despite the brain-munching uber-rays, there are many activities to engage the casual traveller or passer-by. These include a local fair that stretches for seven days and comprise all sorts of activities from face-painting, baby-eating to the sale of local produce.  There is also the Eel Day carnival procession which involves lots of people dressing up as large fish and shouting “wibbit!” in feigned Scandinavian accents. And if one’s appetite is not stimulated by this, there is always the folk festival with lots of men in goatees with blunt spoons warbling about love unrequited amid May morning perambulations.  Folk dancing is also popular, and is part of that great English tradition (as is madness and syphilis) and involves the erecting of poles, whirling hankies and thigh-slapping. However, many have noted that this is actually a highly suspect form of cosmic semaphore emblazoning "Høste kosmiske pålegg fra elg av fløyel bukse!” across the night sky.

        Definitely worth a visit...

*And, as a point of interest, the common Slavonic word for “fish” is actually ‘ryba.’ ... Suspicious or what?