Tuesday, 11 August 2015

The Yorkshire Ripper And The Wath-on-Dearne Crack-House (With A Dash Of Hylda Baker And Silly Con Carney!)

 
Part One of Two

As many followers of this Blog will know, I grew up in this little town in South Yorkshire. My mother, I adored. Not so my father, who was awarded the ignoble nickname O.B. (Old Bastard) by his brother, Bill, for the despicable way he treated my mother. She took her own life in 1971.
Between 1967 and 1969, we ran a pub, and one of our customers was Peter Sutcliffe, who later achieved notoriety as The Yorkshire Ripper--five years later, I hasten to add, for while we knew him, there was no way of telling that he would one day become a despicable monster.
I'm currently writing a book about our "adventure".
 
For a while, Pete (as we all called him) was a rock for my mother and me. He helped us through a very trying time with O.B.--which makes it hard to say that when he was arrested, as much as I had valued his friendship once, I would have been first to tie the rope around his neck. There's much more to this story--to know more, you'll have to wait for the book.
 
My mother's closest friend at the time was Joyce Dickinson--a true rock, and a remarkable lady. Today I asked around about her, and was quite stunned by the reaction. Before she married, Mother was a carer at Middlewood, a mental hospital (that's the term they used then) in Sheffield--though they also took in unmarried mothers at a time when to have a baby out of wedlock was shameful. I'm beginning to think that maybe they should re-open it, after some of the comments that I have read today! Please don't get me wrong, there are some wonderful people living in Wath, and I still have good friends there--but there are also one or two who have very definitely been kissed by the Moon!

Jackie Dickinson Carney, Joyce's daughter who went to the Hylda Baker School For Good English, kicked the first ball into the net by saying that my mother had not existed, adding, [sic] "hes using my mums n dads name am livid. Take them out of ur book. Uv ad no permission."

One henceforth gets the impression that the lady has been reading too much Tennessee Williams? I can see her now, tearing up that hill and screaming "Sebastian!" Save that she looks less like Elizabeth Taylor and more like Dennis on a bad day!

She opines with more pristine English, "I want this shit removing or am gunna police he upset quiet a few people iv heard he wants bloking."

The police? What are you going to tell them that's going to get them dashing across the country to see me? And how do you know that it's "shit" until you read it? Which of course brings one to the conclusion that, if your reading skills are as adequate as your prose, you would probably have to get someone to read it to you!

And "bloking? Are we talking man-to-man love here, Jackie darling? It wasn't that kind of friendship! Here's what I wrote about your Mum:

"Joyce was Mother's rock, a warm and charismatic, very caring lady. I'm sure that without having her to lean upon at times, she would never have survived her ordeal as well as she did."

So, this is shit--saying nice things about a nice lady? What would you like me to say?

But the icing on the cake comes from one Mark Chuck Backhouse, a foul-mouthed oik who likes taking pictures of himself with large fish with gaping mouths almost as big as his own.

Says Mr Backwards, and again all in one breath, "He wants more than blocking he wants his head stoveing in with a hammer half to death. Then see how he feels the fuckin idiot."

Wow! Though it's not acceptable for me to write nice things about a very nice lady, it's perfectly acceptable for a man of psychopathic tendencies--as displayed by Mr Crackhouse--to condemn (and rightly so) The Yorkshire Ripper for the method he employed in dispatching his victims, while suggesting that the same method should be used to dispatch me!

So, Jackie, rattle off your story to the police--if you ask nicely, I'm sure someone will show you how to use a telephone--and while they're thinking of assigning me to a stone floor and a lifelong bread-and-water diet, we'll let them see a couple of screenshots and ask them to have a little word with your would-be hammer-wielding chum! And his fish, of course!

And of course, will all good stories there has to be an epilogue, provided by my very dear estranged stepsister, Angela Usher, who I nominate as "The Uncrowned Queen of The Pot Calling The Kettle Black". Says she, one would assume with a view to joining to expedition to seek me out and turn me into Cecil The Lion Mark II,  "I would willingly come wirh you and know a few more who would hoin us." Obviously a very well-educated lady!

Hmm. I recall her being part of a family group who gave me and my dear wife six months of marriage, and who said that  would never achieve anything in life. I even published their "anonymous" letter in my autobiography, wishing us all the ill in the world.

So, lets' see...I've only been married once and for 42 years, I haven't had children with multiple partners or been involved in a major scandal, and no one in my immediate family has been in jail for a heinous crime. Would you care for me to elaborate, sister dear? And this matter has absolutely nothing to do with you, so why don't you wobble along and wash your hair?


 

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