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.

Nottingham: Nordic Filching, Errant Crumpets and Bearded Men in Tights

It is a fact - well-hidden within the dust annals of academia - that Nottinghamshire was once commandeered by the Vikings in the early 10^th century.  The Norse settlers had already tired of the inhabitants of this strange island and were in fact fairly content to vacate England’s damp and sodden shores. This effectively left the coast clear for the invading French army marching up from Hastings with their funny nasally intonation and cheeses that smelt like a yak’s scrotal region.  However, they (the Vikings that is) were reluctant to surrender this particular area of the East Midlands as it had good turnip-yielding soil and provided ample mooring opportunities for their longboats on the banks of the Trent River.  Consequently, rather than battle it out, they decided that this great shire would accompany them back to Scandinavian shores where they could perhaps utilise it as a large recreational ground for the small children (known as pike-lets) or perhaps turn it into a designated elk-walking area.

        They decided to use the stumps of some old oaks trees that had been felled to make lutes and smoke herring and subsequently attached their ropes to any protruding knobbly bit they could find.  However, dragging Nottinghamshire against the tides and currents of the North Sea proved far too onerous for the oarsmen of the famous Viking ships.  Freakish storms, the constant battering of the waves and a deluge of ‘waste’ effluence (referred to as stinkards and dingle-berries in the Viking chronicles) rendered the whole undertaking completely untenable if not a tad noisome. They were eventually forced to come to terms with the hopelessness of the venture and consequently ordered their longboats to release their cargo. Nottinghamshire apparently sank in a swirling descent just off the shore of Denmark. The aftershock of this cataclysmic event raised see levels, caused rivers to burst their banks and the region’s toilets to flush in unison.

        Meanwhile, England, as a result of this Nordic filching, was left with a gapping chasm between Grantham and Derby. The locals had tried filling it with all sorts of gravel, old cart wheels, garden waste, and even the famous weavers of the Bayeux Tapestry were asked knit something that resembled the missing county. In the end, however, they decided to import copious amounts of rock and sediments from East Anglia (which is why it’s so flat) to rebuild the region we know today as modern Nottinghamshire. This also accounts for the deep fissure that runs between Leicestershire and Lincolnshire that is sneakily concealed beneath an oceanic expanse of traffic cones.

       However, years before the Viking occupation (and their bungled larceny), Nottingham was in fact part of the kingdom of Mercia. And this kingdom boasted a formidable Saxon chieftain named Snot, due to an extended proboscis that would drip revoltingly into the communal soup. He did however have many virtues, including being a formidable warrior, an enthusiastic horseman as well as being rather fond of sewing and home baking.  In fact, he was so well respected that they named their dwelling after him ‘Snottingham’ (the homestead of Snot’s people, some chickens and the odd goat) was established for posterity.

         Unfortunately the course of history never runs smoothly and predictably Snots’ leadership was challenged in 600 AD by a local chieftain named Boozle. There were two warring factions, the Proboscis Fraternity (those in favour of Snots) and the Neo-Proboscians (those opposed to Snots and in favour of Boozle).  It was claimed (by the Proboscians) that Boozle had misled his tribe in terms of his lineage and subsequent right to challenge the throne; in fact the etymology of the modern verb “to bamboozle” (v: to deceive or hoodwink) has his name at its root. Many years of disputes between the two chiefs and their supporters ensued. And as noses were seen as an indication of one’s God given right to command (a relic from the Roman occupation) each claimant was subjected to rigorous nasal examinations. This included measuring, tweaking, pinching and flaring in order to prove the usurper’s appendage was noble enough to warrant kingship.

       A contest was eventually organised.  This famously took place on the infamous Field of Cloth not far from modern day Derbyshire. The current Chief (Snots) and the young pretender (Boozle) met at the appointed hour with their seconds to thrash it out nose to nose.  There followed a gratuitous display of snorting, sniffling and trumpeting until a victor was eventually decided, resulting in the submission and fleeing of Boozle. The old order was maintained to the relief of the Snottinghams but to the chagrin of the radicals.  This dispute was to rage on for many years with pockets of resistance and discontent springing up all across the region, leading to the Hankie-Weavers’ riot of 852.

       However, if take this narrative back a few paragraphs and concern ourselves with the invading French once more, we can perhaps wax lyrical about the wonder that is Nottingham castle. The original structure was built by the Normans from old timbers left over from the great Viking pilfer of 1056, although replaced by a stone construction a few years later. It stands upon a large promontory known as ‘Castle Rock’ which effectively looks down upon anybody wishing to gain entrance. The original medieval castle, however, largely fell into disrepair during the 17^th century until the whole structure slid into the river after it was undermined by some industrious otters. The current castle that now greets the visitor is largely a Victorian construct after its predecessor bunt down after a mishap with some hot crumpets. But perhaps the most interesting yarn concerning the castle is that Richard Coeur de Lion, fresh back from the crusades, wrestled possession of the castle from Prince John who was hoping to stage the East-Midland tiddlywinks derby within its grounds.  The captured prince was subsequently flogged, pinched and marched through the city with his giblets on a pike.

        Nottingham is undeniably better known for its associations with Robin Hood, rather than Richard the Lionheart. And the cult of that surrounds this mischievous woodland squatter lurks deep within the nation’s sub-conscious and has come to embody a spirit of egalitarianism and fair play. He also provides a tenuous excuse for grown men with beards and feathery hats to don tights and gad about Nottingham’s woodland areas shouting “Verily!” “Forsooth!” and “Avaunt!” at the top of their lungs.

        Much of what we know about Robin Hood is actually lifted from popular ballads, mainly from the early 15^th century:

Robyn hode in Scherewode stod,
Hodud & hathud, hosut & schod.
Ffour and thuynti arrowus
he bar in hits hondus...

And although it is generally agreed that he occupied an area known as Sherwood Forest, his origins are often disputed. Many claim that the legend of Robin Hood may have actually originated in South Yorkshire and the early chronicles suggest that he and his Merry Men may have actually hailed from Clifton or Wakefield. However, irrespective of his origins, most of the records irrefutably cite his association with the aforementioned Sherwood Forrest. It was here that he established numerous encampments, no doubt after having cleared away several fridges and old sofas left by Ye Olde Fly-Tippers. The area today is still popular today with local historians, hikers, twitchers and rusty old bangers (or ‘doggers’ in modern parlance).

       The cult of Robin Hood tends to overshadow the numerous literary connections the city can, and often does, boast of.  Byron of course lived on the outskirts of the city at his beloved Newstead Abby which is set amidst glorious surrounds just off the M1. It was whilst residing at Newstead that Byron found fame with Childe Harold's Pilgrimage (c.1812) which attracted the attentions of numerous young women who enjoyed a tumble or two amidst green verdure of the Abby’s grounds. The most famous of these is of course was Lady Caroline Lamb who coined the famous epithet describing Byron as “mad, bad and dangerous to know.”  She also, allegedly, presented the poet with clippings from her pubic region (or Worksop as locals called it) contained within a locket. However, despite the inducement of Lady Caroline’s short-and-curlies, Byron, tired of England and the scandal-mongering, fled to warmer climes. His parting elegy to Newstead reflects his dismay at the attention his infamous goings on seemed to attract amid polite, Regency society:   

But not from thee, dark pile! departs the chief;
His feudal realm in other regions lay:
In thee the wounded conscience courts relief,
Retiring from the garish blaze of day.

 Byron of course went to live in Greece, attracted no doubt by the proliferation of young boys and mountain goats, before dying of a fever and retuning to Nottingham marinated in brandy in 1824.     

       D H Lawrence is also a famous son of the city and resided at 8a Victoria Street in Eastwood, one of the city’s many suburbs. Many of his books depict the often tumultuous and passionate relationships of the city’s working and lower middle classes. His books include Sons & Lovers (1913) which explores the complex (almost sadistic) relationship between Paul Morel and his mother Gertrude and, most famously, Lady Chatterley’s Lover (1928) which examines the illicit fumblings in the potting shed between Constance and the gardener Mellors. Lawrence, like Byron, left England disgruntled by the panning he received from his critics and his famous, farewell sonnet “Bugger off!” (1919) is considered by many to be a literary masterpiece. Lawrence of course went to live in Mexico where he died after chocking on a rogue fava bean hidden within the folds of his vendor-bought taco.

       Nottingham is a wonderful city whose literary heritage is often overshadowed by its gangland shootings and sheep trafficking to nearby Lincolnshire. The city is currently considering suing the King of Norway and other Scandinavian countries for the numerous subsidence problems it is currently experiencing. However, they have issued various appeals through the local media for the city’s residents not to boycott their local Iceland stores.