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.