A Brief History of the British People

by ratty

‘Twas in the annum, circa 200, (or around about then) that a tribe of Nomadic peoples settled and prospered on a mightie terraine in Northerne Englande.

Ffolke-lore has it that one of its inhabitants, an unfortunate of the male sexe in his forth decade, contracted the Devil’s deformitie of what was called ‘MOOBS’ and the settlement became thereafter known as Man-Chester.

In a secluded quarter of this idyllic paradise lived a commune of peoples who, due to their propensitie for consuming anciente, festering porke, had their village named accordingly.

Mightily, the Llorde, in His Mighteousness, visited a plague on them for their dietary transgression, rendering them just two bushels in vertical stature.

He, the chieftain of the Clan, was knowne to alle as NobblySan, the terme meaning . . .  (Censored) . . . who was betrothed to a faire maiden who went by the name of ‘Happy.’

Twixt the two, they had borne some sixe infantes, Doc, Grumpy, Sleepy, Bashful, Sneezy and Dopey.

NobblySan, in defiance of his or his people’s lack of physical stature, was an industrious Chieftan who toiled tirelesslie to bring wealth and materiale posessiones, firstly for himselfe and his familie and then, secondly and without haste, for his subjects, who he affectionately referred to as ‘Plebs.’

To this ende he could be founde at any houre labouring in his ‘Society for Heightened Economic Development’ (SHED).

In an area situated some three thousand furlongs and three men’s thumbs distance, twixt the borders of this bountiful and plentiful haven and the fall-off of the flat world, lived an olde and ancient tribe, commonly referred to as the men of Yore. The area they occupied they named a Shire and they lived in holes in the ground and spoke a language barely understood by visiting merchants.

These were a religious peoples, devoute in their worshippe of a Diety who heralded from a strange, faraway lande. A lande where the Gods wore female attire and could rip trees from the very ground they grew in and jettison them into the deepe, darke void while angels made strange music on octopussies.

The God they feared and woreshipped the moste was He who bore abundant white facial hair and had an insatiable thirst for liquid nectar. This object of the Yores’ reverence was known by His two heavenly names, Duncan and Robertson (Jammy to his friendes).

The Yores were keene to spread the Gospel to the religiously unenlightened, and to this purpose, commisioned one of their elders to go forthe and enlighten the worlde. This task fell to one known as St. Icky . . .

(To be continued)

14 Comments to “A Brief History of the British People”

  1. Two different type sizes ! Your old ratty’s a ground breaker !

    (Note to self – How the fuck did that happen ?)

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  2. St. Icky was sorely dischuffed bye thisse commissione fromme on highe. “By ‘eck!” he didde thinke whilst rollinge a jointe. “appen as ah remember t’last time we sent one of our lot over’t t’hill to talk to t’ Nobblysan lot”

    [insert dreamy low-budget film flashback music here – NobblySan is sat in his SHED trying to invent stilts, when there is loud thunderclap and a heavenly figure with long white hair, and clad all in gold appears…. ]

    “Nowe thenne….. Nowe thenne….. Howzabout thatte thenne, Guys an’ Galles….”

    NobblySan did looke uppe from his lappetoppe and his licence of SolidWorkes201BC, and didde thinke unto himself.
    “What a knobbe! Ye can gette to fukke ye olde perv. My lotte are blooddee dwarves not kiddes”
    Whereupon, NobblySan did smite Sir Jimmie (for twas he) a swifte boote in ye olde plummes with his dinky little size sevens.

    St. Icky didde wince and whine and clutch at hisse groyne in worried fashion as he recalled thisse tale of old Yore.

    “Ah’ll after be smarter than t’ last bloke”, he didde think unto himselfe……..

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  3. And yea! I say unto thee – dost thou worship the Sacred Wicket of the Lord-Boy Cott – held aloft by his high priest the awe-festering, incontrovertible, invertiginous sticky of Yore !
    For, unless thou payest homage to the Sticky Wicket, how dost thou think thou ist to enter into the Kingdom of Goredale ?
    I sayest unto thee Jammy dodgers, thy will be rent asunder and on the Day of Judgement will be cream crackered and cast into The Pit (before the last one be-eth closed down due to Chinese coal imports).

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  4. Well, that went well.

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    • St. Icky admitting to being invertiginous, smote the villagers verily giddie. For truelie, a man of such advanced years must surely have lain with maiden.

      Whereupon, St. Icky did draw himself to his impressive full height of 4 Cubits, 2 Rods and a Gnat’s cock and began to speake in thunderous tones of the perils of remaining Llord Jammy dodgers and their penance would be one of eternal internment in Helle’s fires.

      The assembled crowde let out a collective gaspe filling the village of Olde Ham with the stench of rancid, festering porke.

      Juste then, a voice spoketh thro the cloudes. It was none other than one NobblySan, the village elder, balanced precariously on stilts that had been skillfully honed, moste precisely, at the work-bench of his SHED.

      His wordes filled the assembled gathering with bothe dread and wonder, for he did utter the cruellest of tongues at St. Icky, whilst fixing him with the moste maleficent of stares, and he sayeth unto him . . .

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      • …nought, nothinge at alle, zippe, zilche, zeroeth; for in soothe hadde the mightee internette search engines of ye oracle yette faled to reveal the portents of St. Icky’s doome. There hadst bean no such worde in aeons paste, as “invertiginous”, suche as giiggle cudde portend. In shorte, hadde the umpeyer been watchinge, shudde Nobbly moste assuredlie havve been stumpped.
        But instedd it came top arse, that mute retribution more devastateing yet, for St. Icky beganne to imagine whatte might havve been sedd:

        duckbilled platypus
        balky slut pled cupid
        slut did apply buckle
        bad St.Icky led pullup

        …ande soe onn ande soe forthe…

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  5. …and thus spake Nobbly to the assembly:-

    “Testing…. testing…. is it on, Bill? I can’t hear a fucking thing. Turn the volume knob up. No you pillock, I did not say “Turn the volume up, knob!“…Oh, wait …hang on, that’s it. Testing testing, One….one….two….one…one two….one two…. Right, job’s reet, job’s a good ‘un. Leave it there Bill. I said LEAVE IT THERE for fuck’s sake! Don’t fiddle with your fucking knob! Just back away from the console and leave me to do the talking..

    Ahemme….

    St. Icky, I call upon thee in the name of the puddinges of blacknesse from the fair city of Bury, to fucke ye offe back over t’hill past Hartshead Services from whence thee came, and take thy sacred whippettes and trouser-dwelling ferrets with thee. For thou art no more more welcomme in these ‘ere partes than………

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    • …that visiting whore-lorde who claimed to haile from landes far and away to the Southe, enjoyinge the uncommon wealthe and fortune of a bejeweled paradise named Casa Nova Casa Wanker; yet whose appearinse and demeanor bore strikinge resemblance to that bluddy King Dent (or as he calls himself – Roi Dent)…

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      • Legend had it that the Roi Dent of Case-a Vin Blanc-a was sore displeased at being named as a whore-lorde, and didde seek to wreak revenge upon his antippydeeun tormentor.

        “Oil ave the keywee bahhstud. See if oi don’t!” he didde proclaim. Butte alas, no-one was listening, as it was nearing that most sacred of times in this southern desert kingdom, when the good people of the land did dare not venture oute of doores for fear of missing ‘ratty cooks’ on the telly.

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  6. Upon this blasphemous slight (and blasphemous sight), and feeling slightly blasphemed, the slight St Icky grasped his rod of thunder and waved it in the general direction of the hostile Nobbly, towering 2 rods above the ground on his stilted rods, and wobbling erratically from the weight of the the PA system strapped to his back. “I’ll gi’ thee puddings, thou Man-Chested man! The puddings of Yore are renowned far and wide, and t’ most fitting for those of t’ VEGETARIAN persuasion! The festering blood of the pestilent hog, with its plague and disease, will visit misery and death on those who partake of the black satanic pudding! I curse thee with the Oath of St Brain of Blessed: “WHIPPETTE OUT AND WYPE PIT !”

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  7. . . . and thus it became knowen that there be not be one, but TWO NobblySans, both of whome were welle versed in the mad tongue of Gibberish, a language spoken bye the inhabitantse of an Utopian pene-enclave, secreted behinde an impenetrable Walle of Corne and situated a four day goat-ride Weste along a roughlie hewn track named the EM V, a veritably dangerous route where vagabonds a many congregated at regular intervals in straw huts and demanded extravagante monetary tolls from a traveller before allowing him to continue his journey.

    Howe, then, were these simple, goode fflolke of Olde Ham to divine twixt he who spake the verity and he who spaketh the vilest of untruths.

    There was much confusion, discussion and moneys changing handes amongst the Northerne village-dwelling, horny-handed sons of toil, as to who was the true NobblySan, with some saying that he who swayed on stilts was the imposter as he had used the word ‘Bill,’ noting that the NobblySan they kneweth of had a vocabulary bereft of such a word, as evidenced by their shared frequent accompaniments to ye plentiful hostelries, inns and taverns where, at the ende of the nights festivities, he had been incapable of calling the word, and instead, would feel the urgent need to vacate a bowel or empty an overfulle bladdere.

    There was muche nodding of heads and murmers of assent and alle looked lost. Suddenly, the skies were rent assunder by the thunderous sounde of flatulence. The crowd turned their heads on high and saw a greene mist enveloping the lower legs of he on stilts. The crowde applauded rapturously, for it was only the real NobblySan who could accomplish such a feat, one perfected over many years ‘daan a’ t’ pub.”

    The skies darken’d and thence came a flash of lightening of such intesitie and the words ‘Bloody Pommes’ were written in dark, thundery clouds as the false NobblySan disintegrated and reformed in the Hellish place known as Hades, or DounUnner. For it was he, one knowen as Earl Askall, a former aristocrat, banished for his sins to the underworlde, a place on the underside of the flat earth where people wore thick, heavy footware, fashioned from the hides of sheepe, so that they may avoid being sucked into space but held to the gravity-less ground while imbibing an icy, monstrous concoction knowen as ‘Festers’ and roasting flesh and giante shellfishe on the fires of Hell on cruele, devilish devices called ‘Barbies.’

    To be continued . . .

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    • …and it came to passe, that on hearinge the strange tone of voice affected bye Earl Askall, the sleeping Lord-Boy Cott was roused from hisse slumbers.

      Hisse lopsided grinne didde harden into a look of steelie resolve as he recalled battles of long ago, in which he was smote about the boddie til blacke and blue by the fearsome underworlde warriors, known as Lillee and Thommo.

      Though they didde tempt the good Lord to venture into the corridor of uncertainty, he didde smile ruefully unto himself that he didde not succumb, and was still there at stumpes onne 12 notte-owt witha stryke rayte of three-poynte-fower.

      “Ah showed them buggers what battins all abowt” he didde mutter to hisself.

      … and the people didde shake their head in fashion most sadde and think unto themselves “Where is Kevin, son of Pieter when you need him?”

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  8. For it was only Lord Boy Cott who alone hadde awayked fromme his slumbers. Alle ye fieldes men fromme sillye-mid-onne unto deepe-fyne-legge hadde long since passed oute from sheer boredomme, and as the balle yet flew sloely betwixte sleeping slips fieldes men, Lord Boy Cott didde continue to score, albeit atte an average of one runne per over.

    Butt then a vile pestilent odour was visited upon ye players in yon fielde of playe shortlye before tea, causing alle to awayken suddenlie, and Lord Boy Cott was caught behynde. The source of yon foul stenche remaynes a mysterie, although some do swear it hadde come to pass in the royale box of the visiting monarch Roi Dent, after the consummation of a Corniche pastye. That in turn didde of course remynde alle the spectatores from Oldham to unpack their hamme sandewitches…

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  9. St Icky was relieved at the timely intervention of Earl Askall, as he had beene rooted to the spotte, caught out by his lacke of the sacred knowledge of the ancient rite of wicketry, despite being a priest of the temple of the Lord-Boy Cott, and holder of the Sacred Wicket. It had never beene his strong point at priest school, and he had spent most of his time studying the life of the Blessed Yan D’Ury, ‘The Lame One’, who had held sway in the region of the mighty River Ure (although nobody could explain why he ‘talked a bit funny’).

    In the land of DounUnner, Earl Askall had had a vocation to study the ancient mystical arts practised by the Lord-Boy Cott, and ‘He Who Is Known As Fred’. He could recite the Acts of the Accosters down through the centuries (and the sixes), and had graduated as a priest of wicketry, (a ‘wicky’). He was particularly skilled in the art of ‘blinking’ – following the leather-bound projectile which was tossed between the two sacred wickets.

    On the other hand, St Icky, with his devotion to St Yan D’Ury, was an adept in the sacred temple column-licking ceremony, using a gel made from wild berries from The Forest, and had formulated his own prayer in celebration of this ritual. He was accustomed to half-singing, half-chanting it, in the strange accent of The Lame One:

    I’m not a blinking wicky
    I’m pillar-licky Icky
    And I’m chewing berry gel

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