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.