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The Little Susans

Those Cumbrian mountains, Glaramara and Scafell,
which stand like mighty sentinels guarding the approaches to Cumbria’s coast,
once echoed to the sound of the Hairy Hipnochroids,
those huge horny cattle, who with their huge teeth,
make a mighty ‘chomp, chomp!’ noise,
chewing tough heather and thistle, then roaring ‘Mac Mullett Moose Maa!’,
meaning ‘Our neighbours prefer us up here, as we’ve got bad breath’.

While below the Woolly Wignot sheep growl
‘Brue Ma Muggle Miggle Ma TacGagle’,
meaning ‘The food’s better down here, and we can see ever so far’.

Watching over these mighty beasts are a band of little girls,
who by ancient decree were appointed The Sheep And Cattle Guardians,
and, due to their amazing agility in leaping over rock and fell,
became known as the Sure-footed Susans.

Though small in stature, they easily fight off wolves and mountain tigers,
who at first think they have an easy prey.
But once the guardian shouts ‘Magmu guddle gadabout biggle,’
they run away from this little but tough gal.

Now wthere are little folk, there may also be found massive people.
One such was ‘Big Lad’, affectionately known thus because he was a giant,
and besides his real name was a mouthful Ladderwackermackdidle.

One day the little Susies, seeking shelter, discovered this chap in a cave,
and, crying out in wonder, woke him from his sleep.

Though when facing ordinary mortals, they were extremely brave,
these feisty females nevertheless gave a little squeak,
and one, losing her footing nearly fell,
but a huge hairy hand reached out and grabbed her,
and they were all soon enjoying a cup of tea.

They invited him to their hillside village of Lithermagillium,
where he soon overcame his shyness,
and he became a regular visitor to their beautiful valley.

Though at first afraid when they heard the ‘Thud! Thud!’ of his footsteps,
the villagers welcomed him with open arms,
and he became a common sight with his bulging biceps,
giving piggybacks to children, who sang ‘Big Lad we love you’.

This became such a regularity that children had to form a disorderly queue.

However, though acquiring lots of new friends, the giant missed out on love
due to being so big, and the fact that in times of heavy rainfall
he caused great floods when needing to piddle.

So he doused his sorrows with beer, said to be legendary
warrior Mighty McMontrose’s favourite tipple.

However, cruel tongues, forgetting what life was like before his arrival,
whispered about the man above, ‘He’s big but he’s sad.’

But that all changed the momentous day he limped into the village,
battered yet triumphant, but minus a boot,
detailing how he’d scared off the warlike invaders.

After that the gossips wouldn’t dare engage in tittle tattle,
as they heard him describe how,
hearing about an incursion into his mountain domain,
he had come upon an advance party of Roman soldiers,
whose job it was to build a fort from the oaks of Hardknott forest,

and from there march out to slaughter and pillage.

Thus enraged he’d run amok among them,
and after their spears failed to penetrate his tough skin,
the soldiers hurled axes, one hitting his right heel,
propelling him into a stinking bog,
causing such a splash his pursuers couldn’t see through the watery mist.

But after the wind blew away this temporary veil, he was nowhere to be seen.

For unknown to his pursuers he lay submerged,
breathing through a hollow log, blending with the watery terrain,
a trick he’d used as a boy when hiding from Flying Fillinousarusses,
those huge flying reptiles that had bedevilled the area,
swooping down on goats and sheep, eventually settling on a remote island,
established as a protectorate for endangered species.

At nightfall he arose and climbed Helvellyn, following the drovers’ path over Striding Edge,
and after a welcome sup of goat’s milk from a tiny hovel, arrived in Lithermagillium.

But, distressed to see their hero with a bare foot, the Susies found him a servant, called Tim,
who asked a leather wrangler to fashion his master some sturdy footwear.

When asked how much he wanted for this, the kind chap answered ‘Nowt’.

At first the servant puzzled to understand him,
but was informed that the cobbler was from a village called Oswaldtwistlemiddlemax,
in Lancashire, 
in that hilly county Lancashire, which espouses a particular dialect,
rather similar to that of Yorkshire, if you know it.

‘Just mention me when your boss wears the product of my endeavours on his huge feet,’ he added.

Many years passed and the Romans left with their tails between their legs.
One night a girl called Feisty Felicity McThistle, hearing tales of this mighty giant,
followed him from a tavern, when he suddenly sat down and fell asleep.

Then a mighty storm broke and he was washed away into the ocean,
but guided by Doris, a dolphin tasked by the Marine Master
of the Atlantic Approaches to watch out for wayward boats,
reached the safety of the Irish fishing port of Killybegs.

The wet and cold big fellow thought he was dreaming,
when Felicity appeared from his coat pocket,

which she’d leaped into to escape the rising water.
Then after he dozed off again, she appeared with a tray of warm-buttered farls,
which is Irish bread, and of course, being in Ireland, the obligatory pot of tay.

He thought this was magic, but she explained she’d gone to a bar called the Inn Plaice,
full of fishermen, who listening in awe to her story,
about her giant pal being a close relative of an Ulster giant,
believed she must be some kind of fairy,
so quickly acquiesced to her request for tea and toast.

‘This is lovely bread, I must get the recipe,’ she said, munching,
then, ‘We must contact your cousin, you know,
the one who didn’t finish The Giant’s Causeway off the Coast of Antrim?’

‘Oh yes!’ he answered, ‘He’s one of my Irish relatives, Brian Borou.’

‘Wait a minute, my nursery teacher, a great font of tales, told me that was Finn McCool.'

‘Oh, you’re right, I am a big fool.
Anyway, apparently, he was ever such a lazy chap.’’

‘Really?’ laughed Felicity, ‘Anyway, I shall call Doris
and get to her to push me with her snout 
all the way around the coast, past Rathlin Island,
with its hermitage devoted to the preservation of Gaelic tradition.

‘There I shall pick up tatty pies for my lunch, salted herring for Dortis,
then complete the journey in your boot.’


With Doris’s help she was soon sailing under a cliff, where she could hear gigantic snoring.
Fearing it was a sea monster taking a nap, she crawled in under cover of sea weed,
and sighed with relief when she saw it was he whom she sought.

‘Don’t worry about your stranded Big Lad,’ the curious giant said,
‘I shall have him brought here by a specially-constructed coracle, built for big fellows like him and me.’

Then, sensing he could talk to this little creature, he unburdened himself, admitting to be very lonely.

‘Though I get the occasional wave from a passing mermaid,
when I invite her on shore she’s left stranded on slippery rock and falls into the briny.

‘So, I prefer to stay at home and read parchments written by hermits,’
he sobbed, who are very clever but, being shy,
are much misunderstood by their fellow man, and woman.
Actually, now I come to think of it, they’re just like me.

‘Anyway, would you like to meet Saint Patrick, little Felicity?

He dishes out holy blessings for people who show kindness,
just like you have, listening to my tales of being rejected.’

Which she did, and that revered cleric who rid Ireland of snakes,
and later came to regret it, saying in his memoirs it was
one of his biggest mistakes, was most impressed by this little girl,

and hearing she came from a land of bizarre beasts, insisted they be protected.

So he dispatched Big Lad and his cousin to Cumbria,
with the words, ‘Brian, go and say hello to Felicity’s mum,
and while there help the Little Susans safeguard these amazing animals I hear tell of.

‘For I hear it was decreed by that famed holy man, Arthur Of The Square Table,
that ‘As long as these mighty creatures live, England shall remain free.’’

Brian, like his cousin Big Lad, became useful around the village,
and soon twinned the town with his birthplace of MackerMcMable,
over in Ulster, and drawing up a plan of preservation, the little gals

herded the Woolly Wignots and Hairy Hipnochroids to a hidden vale,
where they grazed contentedly.

But when news of their hideaway became known,
the roads were soon filled by horse and cart, packed full of tourists.
Although the animals were on a strict diet, these well-meaning folk fed them the wrong food,
and were distressed when a young cow nearly swallowed a carrot.

So the Susies guided their charges by a secret passageway
to a huge underground limestone cavern known as Gaping Gill. 

There the Wignots feasted on a plentiful supply of grass,
muttering, ‘Bag boog justin saddington happernot twiddle loffalot fagoid,’
meaning ‘It’s nice here, and the cows are eating healthier undergrowth,
resulting in much nicer breath.’


‘Thanks, we heartily agree,’ said the chief Hipnochroid.

So Felicity, the Little girls and their giant pals retired
in the knowledge that these bizarre beasts would be safe,
and indeed, they are there still.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

◄ Old Runner's Lament

Claribel And The Strange Island ►

Comments

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Kevin Vose

Mon 25th Jul 2022 17:30

Have you heard of my love, cute Claribel,
the singer who, her voice soaring above the chalk Downs,
from Devil’s Dyke to Balham Cove, became known
as The Brighton Belle?

It was she, who when asked where
she was from by a devoted fan,
one Miss Mary MacVeagle, of county Clare,
answered, ‘Hove, a posh district, west of Brighton.’

Mary commented, ‘Oh, I went there on my honeymoon.’
It was going well and our passion was unlimited,
until I lost my newly-wed, Bob in the Lanes,
and I found him trying on a dress in Skirting With Danger,
a cross-dressing shop.

His answer left me rather dismayed, for he said,
‘‘What’s the matter, don’t I look good in a skirt?’’

‘Oh, I sympathise,’ said Claribel, ‘I fell in love with
an Irish American called Michael O’Leary,
the conductor of an all-female choir, the Sussex Sirens.

‘But he was better known in New York as
Michael-The-Chop McGurk, a chief assassin for the Mob.’

This enthusiastic lady invited us to Erin’s Isle,
where this remarkable singer was hailed
as a magnificent artiste,
attracting musicians from Antrim to Galway.

On a whim I treated her to a spell of island-hopping.
So we packed aboard a Cessna monoplane,
landing on Inishman, that tiny islet just off
County Clare’s Cliffs of Moher.

It was the setting for a crazy TV comedy about two clerics,
Father Mugwat and Fr Patrick McBoffin,
and she felt at home there, with its trotting horse and carts,
so unlike Brighton with its kiss-me-quick hats.

Being members of Wild Swimmers
of Britain (naturists’ section),
we swam under a cliff sans clothes,
the sun reflecting off a silver-backed porpoise,
which shot past like a thunderbolt,
propelling me backwards to cry out in pain,
landing on something sharp and scratching my bottom.

Claribel, laughing at my predicament,
suddenly pointed at a rusty propeller shaft,
the cause of the cut that now disfigured my left buttock.

At that moment the sun suddenly shone through the
haze to illuminate a submerged craft.
Exploring further she squealed with delight,
pointing at the ship’s salt-encrusted name, The Lady Claribel.

Swimming to the surface in case my dripping blood
attracted that well known basking shark,
Fergal – apparently I needn’t have worried
because the ancient mammal
was more likely to lick than bite it – we emerged,
babbling like kids at our discovery,
only to be swept ashore by a mighty wave.

Looking round in alarm, we saw the
shipwreck emerge out of the water,
watched from the cliff by Fathers Mugwat and McBoffin.

The clerics shouted, ‘Listen to the ship’s bell.
You must be blessed, this only happens once in a blue moon.’’

Sure enough we were deafened by a
resounding crescendo, then the newly-emerged
hull disappeared into the watery depths,
the sea perhaps unwilling to part with its reluctant guest.

We swam ashore, my lady friend
hiding her modesty with seaweed,
joking with the holy men, ‘I’m from Brighton, it’s full of weed.’

‘Oh, don’t worry,’ declared Fr Mugwat,
‘I once inhaled skunk with kids from an estate in Dublin,
who told me it was some sort of smelly animal.
They had a good sense of humour,
those gurriers from Ballyfermot.

‘They laughed at me, the innocent young priest,
vainly trying to teach them about the Venerable Bede.
Oh, my naivety in those days was laughable.’

That night I dreamt a whale swam past me as
I floated in the clear ocean,
the birds shrieking above the wake of its plume,
with a sailor hanging onto its fin, shouting,
‘Tell Claribel to rescue me and my mates
from the place of hidden wrecks,’
while that faithful fan Mary MacVeagle
was standing like a sentinel on the rocks,
pointing to a cave in the cliffs of Moher.

I looked closely and could see a man in the entrance,
wearing a dress and putting on lipstick,
his voice echoing across the water,
‘I was a drag artiste on that ship
which yesterday emerged from the sea.’

I looked at him closely, asking, ‘Are you Bob,
lately married to Mary.’

‘Indeed I am.’

‘Your ex says you’re a good turn – do you fancy
supporting my girlfriend at her concert tomorrow?
You’ll attract the youngsters, they’re starved of ‘cool’
entertainment on this island of Inishman.’

The following evening I was getting the stage
ready for the evening’s entertainment, Claribel Sings Classical,
when in walked a fellow I vaguely recognised,
Bob the drag artiste.

While outside stretched a queue of teenagers,
and on the noticeboard was a poster saying,
‘Before the main act a surprise guest will
dress as a woman, and sing falsetto.’

A figure loomed at my shoulder,
'Looks like it’s going to be a good show,’
and I looked round to see a Catholic priest.

Then Bob came out, ‘Do you think I could
borrow Claribel’s skirt?’

A battered old car then braked to a halt,
disgorging an old chap, followed by Fr McBoffin,
crying, ‘Let there be praise for
a sinner returned, Michael O’Leary.’

The island’s policeman, Guarda Hank McHandcuff,
muttered, ‘Aye, better known to the FBI as
Michael-The-Chop McGurk.’

Just then I heard a ship’s bell ring, and to my amazement
that rusty shipwreck we’d earlier encountered sailed
in and berthed at the quay,
disgorging a load of bedraggled sailors,
led by Claribel, singing a sea shanty,
Sweet Ladies Of Plymouth.

‘How do you like my choir,’ she called out.

The lead sailor responded, ‘We’d sing better
with a barrel of rum.’

As they all piled into the hall, I said to the cleric,
‘Can I wake up now?’

‘I wouldn’t,’ he said, ‘you’d miss all the fun.’










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