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.