In Search Of The North Of England

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I have admitted many times that I am not only an Englishman but a northern Englishman. I have no idea whether this ‘confession’ resonates at all in the good ol’ US of A but, in Blighty, it means a great deal. Southerners are invariably wary of northerners and, generally, are slightly frightened at the prospect of travelling anywhere that could be considered the ‘North of England’.

I suspect that they are looking for signs stating: ‘There Be Dragons’ somewhere after Watford. It is interesting to note – well, it is to me – that the BBC have a ‘North of England’ correspondent but do not have a ‘South of England correspondent’. This, in itself, is sufficient proof that the ‘North of England’ is, for want of a better description, ‘different’ to the south. When one considers the ‘North of England’ – The Pennines and The Lake District can spring easily to mind – to southerners it is a picture of poverty, destitution, whippets and flat caps. When one considers the ‘South of England’ then the only thing that springs generally to mind is ‘London’.

Therein lies the rub. There ‘is’ a ‘North’ of England but there isn’t really a ‘South’ at least in terms of ‘where it is’. Clearly there is a ‘South’. If there wasn’t then the entire country would unravel and everything would sink into the English Channel somewhere around Nuneaton. The problem is that ‘southerners’ are bewildered by the existence of the ‘North’.

The late movie director Michael Winner once famously, or infamously, said “Anything north of Oxford Street (London) is just ridiculous” and that more or less sums up the view of the North of England in the minds of many southerners.

Of course, there is a ‘South of England’. Places like Sussex and Essex and Devon are in the south but, generally, people always think of London as the south – which is a pretty poor show for Southampton really as London is ‘north’ from Southampton’s perspective. Still, despite the obvious concerns of ‘soft’ southerners the North continues to exist and there may well be dragons there.

The North is a proud place. Sometimes so proud it parodies itself – and I say that as a northerner. Elderly northerners can be extraordinarily defensive about some traditional northern foods for example. Tripe springs eternally to mind. I spent many a time in my childhood declining the invitation to eat tripe – which is, basically, cows stomach soaked in vinegar – much to the chagrin of my grandmother who seemed to think my inability to appreciate a cows stomach in vinegar was akin to a betrayal of my northern roots.

The North of England is a much better place than the south mainly because, in the North, you will find people who will say ‘good morning’ to total strangers – if you do that in London you will probably be arrested as a stalker – and will always pass the time of day with you. It is not unknown for a ‘stranger’ to the North saying ‘hello’ to a man in the street finding themselves regaled with said man’s medical ailments and ancestral claims to parts of the farm ‘oop by Diggle’ (Diggle is a northern village) which have been denied him by his mother’s second cousin once removed marrying the son of the brother of his second cousin – or something like that.

Saying ‘Hello’ to a total stranger in the North of England can occupy much of the morning.

Most northerners take an inordinate pride in being completely different to southerners. After nearly 40 years living in the south I have proudly retained my northern accent – ‘I don’t want to sound like a southern softie’.

As a Lancastrian I have a grudging respect for Yorkshire men (see ‘The Wars Of The Roses’) as they, perhaps, more eponymously than most, radiate the North of England more than anyone else. They have, as all us northerners have, a self deprecating humour par excellence.

“Yorkshire born n Yorkshire bred

thick in’th arm n’ thick in’th ‘ed” (thick in the arm and thick in the head – in case you are currently lost)

The best example, I think, of the North of England’s glorious self deprecating humour – most valued because the South of England hasn’t, generally, got a sense of humour – is ‘The Four Yorkshire Men’. It is, for want of a better description, the alternative to Texas where they would say of your very large German Shepherd dog “Call that a dog? I have mice in my barn bigger than that!” and so forth.

Welcome, dear readers, to the true England. The England of the North. Undefeated by Thatcher and Blair. Undaunted by the British governments ambivalence to anything north of Watford. The North of England. The true England.

FIRST YORKSHIREMAN: Aye, very passable, that, very passable bit of risotto.

SECOND YORKSHIREMAN: Nothing like a good glass of Château de Chasselas, eh, Josiah?

THIRD YORKSHIREMAN: You’re right there, Obadiah.

FOURTH YORKSHIREMAN: Who’d have thought thirty year ago we’d all be sittin’ here drinking Château de Chasselas, eh?

FIRST YORKSHIREMAN: In them days we was glad to have the price of a cup o’ tea.

SECOND YORKSHIREMAN: A cup o’ cold tea.

FOURTH YORKSHIREMAN: Without milk or sugar.

THIRD YORKSHIREMAN: Or tea.

FIRST YORKSHIREMAN: In a cracked cup, an’ all.

FOURTH YORKSHIREMAN: Oh, we never had a cup. We used to have to drink out of a rolled up newspaper.

SECOND YORKSHIREMAN: The best we could manage was to suck on a piece of damp cloth.

THIRD YORKSHIREMAN: But you know, we were happy in those days, though we were poor.

FIRST YORKSHIREMAN: Because we were poor. My old Dad used to say to me, “Money doesn’t buy you happiness, son”.

FOURTH YORKSHIREMAN: Aye, ‘e was right.

FIRST YORKSHIREMAN: Aye, ‘e was.

FOURTH YORKSHIREMAN: I was happier then and I had nothin’. We used to live in this tiny old house with great big holes in the roof.

SECOND YORKSHIREMAN: A house! You were lucky to live in a house! We used to live in one room, all twenty-six of us, no furniture, ‘alf the floor was missing, and we were all ‘uddled together in one corner for fear of falling.

THIRD YORKSHIREMAN: Eh, you were lucky to have a room! We used to have to live in t’ corridor!

FIRST YORKSHIREMAN: Oh, we used to dream of livin’ in a corridor! Would ha’ been a palace to us. We used to live in an old water tank on a rubbish tip. We got woke up every morning by having a load of rotting fish dumped all over us! House? Huh!

FOURTH YORKSHIREMAN: Well, when I say ‘house’ it was only a hole in the ground covered by a sheet of tarpaulin, but it was a house to us.

SECOND YORKSHIREMAN: We were evicted from our ‘ole in the ground; we ‘ad to go and live in a lake.

THIRD YORKSHIREMAN: You were lucky to have a lake! There were a hundred and fifty of us living in t’ shoebox in t’ middle o’ road.

FIRST YORKSHIREMAN: Cardboard box?

THIRD YORKSHIREMAN: Aye.

FIRST YORKSHIREMAN: You were lucky. We lived for three months in a paper bag in a septic tank. We used to have to get up at six in the morning, clean the paper bag, eat a crust of stale bread, go to work down t’ mill, fourteen hours a day, week-in week-out, for sixpence a week, and when we got home our Dad would thrash us to sleep wi’ his belt.

SECOND YORKSHIREMAN: Luxury. We used to have to get out of the lake at six o’clock in the morning, clean the lake, eat a handful of ‘ot gravel, work twenty hour day at mill for tuppence a month, come home, and Dad would thrash us to sleep with a broken bottle, if we were lucky!

THIRD YORKSHIREMAN: Well, of course, we had it tough. We used to ‘ave to get up out of shoebox at twelve o’clock at night and lick road clean wit’ tongue. We had two bits of cold gravel, worked twenty-four hours a day at mill for sixpence every four years, and when we got home our Dad would slice us in two wit’ bread knife.

FOURTH YORKSHIREMAN: Right. I had to get up in the morning at ten o’clock at night half an hour before I went to bed, drink a cup of sulphuric acid, work twenty-nine hours a day down mill, and pay mill owner for permission to come to work, and when we got home, our Dad and our mother would kill us and dance about on our graves singing Hallelujah.

FIRST YORKSHIREMAN: And you try and tell the young people of today that ….. they won’t believe you.

ALL: They won’t!

Incidentally, this sketch is often credited to the glorious Monty Python’s Flying Circus when, in actual fact, it was written and performed by John Cleese, Graham Chapman (both Monty Python), Tim Brooke-Taylor and Marty Feldman (neither Monty Python). The sketch was actually from ‘At Last, The 1948 Show’ but has, in the mists of time, become resolutely if wrongly associated with Monty Python.

I leave you with the video of the true, self deprecating, glorious, magnificent North of England. The TRUE England. MY England.

– and bugger the Queen, she’s in London. Well, when I say ‘bugger’ I clearly don”t really mean ‘bugger’. After all, one has to have some respect and decorum. Besides, at her age you might be in a fleshy crease and not know – I’ll shut up now shall I?

About Post Author

Neil Bamforth

I am English first, British second and never ever European. I have supported Oldham Athletic FC for 50 years which has made me immune from depression. My taste buds have died due to too many red hot curries so I drink Kronenburg beer and milk - sometimes in the same glass. I have a wife, daughter, 9 cats and I like toast.

fourdinners14223647@aol.com