PREWD'S PRUNINGS

Being those portions of the Mousehold Press book 'Prewd and Prejudice' deemed too long, short, irrelevant, irregular or downright irreverent for inclusion in the original publication.

December 1904

If every day were Christmas day,

We'd never have Easter eggs.

3 December, Saturday

Incidentally, it is interesting to wonder how both St Just-near-Trunch and London could be 'up' from each other.  Surely, if one is up then the other must be down.  Sid Kipper put me right on the matter:

It's just the same as the pub.  If you owe someone a drink then you go down the pub.  If someone owes you a drink then you go up the pub.  You see, it all depends on what's going to happen when you get there.  Of course, if you don't own anyone a drink, and no-one owes you a drink, then you just go to it.  With a will.

7 December, Wednesday

(regarding Farmer Trout and the TMAS)

I arose late this morning, having slept on my bed for only a part of the night.  I must do something about Farmer Trout's ambition if I am ever to sleep soundly again.

The dilemma that man has caused haunted me all of yesterday.  So preoccupied was I that as I passed through the village, returning from Miss Pickerel's house, I quite failed to see the lout himself bearing down on me.  In my confusion I am ashamed to say that I panicked.  Unable to face him I fled through the nearest door.

You may imagine my horror when I realised that I had entered that vile den, the New Goat Inn.  But worse was to come.  As I looked for an escape I saw Albert Kipper, seated at the bar.  When he saw me he leered, and had the temerity to beckon me to join him.  I naturally looked to retreat, but saw, through the window, that my retreat was cut off.  Farmer Trout was heading for the door of the Inn.  What was I to do?  Caught between two evils, and unable to decide which, if either, were the lesser, I was close to despair.  Just in time, however, I saw a sign which gave me a ray of hope.

I think I may have been the first genuine lady ever to enter that disgusting chamber.  Clearly I could not possibly remain there, but neither could I leave.  The only door led directly into the arms of my two tormentors.  So I was forced to remain there until silence told me that the whole sorry rabble had departed.

Such silence did not come until late into the night, during which time I had to endure some quite frightful sounds.  As well as a good deal of talking and shouting, there were rustic attempts at song, and crude music on what I believe are called accordions, although what it is that they are supposed to be in accord with I cannot imagine.  They were accompanied by a hammering sound, such that I imagined the whole place being deservedly demolished.  Above all of that came the voice of the foetid farmer himself, bellowing "Now that's what I call a bit of music.  Play it again, Stan".

I am not certain that Mr Spratt, the landlord, totally believed my explanations when I finally emerged at about 3 a.m., feeling quite defiled.  The most humiliating of all was the four pence three farthing I had been forced to accept in tips from women mistaking me for the attendant.

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I have often enjoyed a musical evening in the Goat, with a heady mix of song, music and step-dancing.  And the centre of such evenings is invariably Sid Kipper, who leads the assembled company in rousing drinking songs - and rousing drinking - all from his family's unequalled repertoire.

On my last visit I thought it would be a good idea, in the interests of my research, to see just what such an evening would sound like from the ladies lavatory.  Unfortunately this was misunderstood by Sid's girlfriend, Raquel Whelk, who was in there at the time.  Further misunderstanding arose when, after I had explained about my research, I foolishly took her invitation to "research my arse" literally.  The ensuing fracas led to several of us continuing the session in the outpatients department of the Fletcher Hospital in Cromer, where, I must say, the acoustics are excellent.

11 December, Sunday

I fear that I am not going to like Christmas here.  It would seem to have started on the first Sunday in Advent, and goodness knows when it will end.  There is a general excitement about the village which I would have thought impossible, unless I had felt it with my own ... well, whatever it is that one feels excitement with.

After the service this morning I asked the vicar if he did not deplore the secular nature of this enthusiasm.  Before replying he spat out his tobacco.  At least, I suppose it was tobacco.  "We must not be quick to condemn, Mrs Prewd," was his answer.  "We must take this natural enthusiasm and use it to our advantage.  For instance, on Wednesday I am holding an evening of uplifting readings in the village hall.  I do hope you will come.  We cannot let the devil have all the best words, can we?"

This set my mind spinning.  I could think of a host of words which I would be more than happy to let the devil have.  While compiling an initial, mental list, I found that I had purchased two tickets for Wednesday's event.  Of course, I must support this venture, but who shall I take as my companion?

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Christmas in the country was indeed a lengthy season.  Sid Kipper recalls some of the long, joyous Christmases of his youth:

It all used to start with the beginning of the season of Advert.  For a month or more there were all sorts of events and things as people built up to Christmas itself.  The Waits used to go round the streets, playing.  That's why they were called the Players Waits.  That and the fact that they were made up of the ordinary people.  The posh ones had their own band, called Gentlemen's Relish.

In our area we had lots of celebrations that you wouldn't find anywhere else.  Like December 21st.  We always had a big do in our house on December 21st.  That was one of the chief days of the season.  We had a huge party, with balloons and everything.  That was my mother's birthday, you see.

Of course, it was a great time for invitations.  Mostly it was people being invited outside for a fight, but there were other dos as well.  I remember when the Cockles had a fancy dress party where everyone had to come as a scarecrow.  That was right up my bridle path, of course.  We all got done up in old clothes with straw stuffed in them, and broomsticks through the sleeves of our jackets so our arms stuck out stiff.  It became an outdoor event, as a matter of fact, because nobody could get through the door into the house.  And drinking took a fair amount of co-operation, I can tell you.  Three people got hurt due to other people turning round quickly, but they all saw the joke eventually.

Another do I like is the vicar's readings.  They've been going on for as long as anyone can remember - or, if not, it certainly seems like that when you're there.  They're very educational.  We have all the old traditional Trunch readings;  A Christmas With Carol, Christmas At Dankly Dull, Biggles and the Christmas Fairy - all of those.  Our new vicar, Derek Bream, he calls it A Christmas Nosegay, and he has singing and acting as well.  Last year we did an old mystery play called Snow White and the Seven Deadly Sins, and his hit song 'Do The Rock Of Ages' - it was great fun.

December 18th, Sunday

The mummers play has a long tradition in England, being a way of passing on knowledge to an illiterate population.  It is related to the mystery play, so recently popular at the National Theatre.

In the Trunch area it was customary for the vicar to play a part.  In one play, 'Snow White and the Seven Deadly Sins', he actually plays all of the sins.  Rev Derek Bream has recently been involved in a revival of this play, and claims that it has a special power:

"We have a duty to help keep alive some of the traditions of this country, so I was tremendously excited when I discovered a script of this old morality play under some old hassocks in the vestry.  It was tremendously exciting.  I feel that I know so much more about sin than I did before, having seen it, so to speak, from the inside.  My dear wife Bridget has commented in particular on the expansion of my knowledge of lust.  Some might feel that such a play has no place in today's world, where we have so many new sins to worry about, but I still feel that I may say that the old sins are still the worst.

21 December, Wednesday

(regarding turkey rustling)

Sid:  They never found out who it was who nicked all them turkeys, but they must have had a hell of a job getting rid of them all.  For the next few weeks the whole village was full of turkey steaks, turkey rolls, turkey burgers, gobbler au van - anything you could think of to do with a turkey, they did it.  They were lucky the RSPCA didn't get them.

Of course, nowadays, with the street lamp in the village, it would be more difficult if you were to try to get up to anything on the longest night.  Not that I would, you understand.  Like I told P.C. Chubb, I was tucked up in bed with my pet pheasants straight after supper.  Which is why he found them there the next morning, tragically smothered.

22 December, Thursday

The wassail bowl used in St Just is an object of great interest.  It was carved from an old oak tree reputedly used as a hiding place for 'Bonnie' Charles Prince, when his affair with a plough boy was discovered by the plough girl.  The tree was also the rallying point for Kemps Rebellion, and was known as Kemp's oak.  Will Kemp led a massed band of morris men against the city of Norwich, in protest at the new handkerchief tax.  The enterprise failed, largely because of the difficulty of creeping up on the guards while wearing a set of bells around the ankles.

The bole (or bowl) of the tree was carved into a massive bowl (or bole) which was mounted on wheels and pushed (or bowled) through the streets and lanes.  It is said to have a capacity of 52½ gallons, or one hogshead, but I have been unable to find out which.  The wassailers themselves have a capacity of considerably more than that, and so take the bowl from house to house, where a contribution of the local cider, Trunch Black, is demanded.  This potent brew is produced by treading, rather than pressing, the apples, and is said by some to have a quality of flavour comparable to the finest goat's cheese.

23 December, Friday

The village has been bustling with activities of an un-Christian nature.  The natives have pulled veritable hedges of greenery through the lanes, which I must say makes a welcome change.  Said natives usually appear to have been pulled through said hedges themselves, backwards.  Maud's awful brother passed at one point, typically out of step, for he was staggering along bearing a gigantic red flag.

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It was the local custom to decorate the house for Christmas with much greenery.  Holly and ivy were both used, as was mistletoe.  They were all considered deeply symbolic.  Holly, with it's prickly leaves and bitter red berries, stood for the blood, sweat and tears which Lord Silver-Darling regularly promised them.  Mistletoe stood for the old religion, of which many traces remained, especially, as I have already pointed out, at Christmas time.

Ivy seems to have stood for a girl who was well known to most of the men of the village a generation or so before.  The red flag, however, is more obscure.

Sid:  Albert sailed the seven seas in his time.  Well, he couldn't sail it in anyone else's time, could he?  Anyhow, one Christmas he was over in Germany, and he really liked the Christmas trees they had over there.  So he wrote home, and said as how we should have one.  But since they didn't have them in England, then there wasn't a proper name for it.  So he sent us a copy of this song they had about it, but that wasn't a lot of help because it was all in German.  So grandfather took it to the vicar to be translated.  He couldn't read German either, but he could read music, go he hummed grandfather the tune.

Well, father knew it straight off.  That was 'The Red Flag', or the 'Home and Colonialle'.  So that year they had a red flag, all tricolated up with tinsels and balls and the like.  It looked so good that when Albert came home and explained the mistake they decided to keep it anyhow.  I mean, you don't get a lot of needles dropping of a red flag and messing up the floor, do you?  Plus, when you'd done with it, you could just roll it up and put it up in the loft for next year, which you couldn't do with Christmas trees until they came up with them artificially inseminated ones.

Of course, when the motor car came in round here they made a man walk in front of it with a Christmas tree, to avoid confusion.  As a matter of fact, that was a very good arrangement, because the candles showed up a treat in the dark.

24 December, Saturday

Not being an orchestral instrument the blowpipes, along with other so-called 'folk' instruments, are little mentioned in musical literature.  Graves Golden Treasury of Music, however, does cover the instrument fairly well:

THE BLOWPIPE FAMILY  Little is known as their origin.  The family ranges from the tiny Blowpipette to the truly impressive Grand Pipes.  The Marching Pipes require both pipes and piper to be transported in some sort of vehicle, but otherwise resemble closely nothing on earth.

Works for the instrument include William Vaughan's 'The Blowpipe in the Clear Air', and F.N. Bach's '48 Preludes and Fudges', sometimes known as 'The Ill Tempered Blowpipes'.  Recordings are few, but include Kathleen Perrier playing 'Blow The Pipes Southerly', and a selection of pieces by Manual of the Mountains and his 1001 Blowpipers.

Sid Kipper adds further:

They reckon the Flemms brought the blowpipes with them when they come to Norfolk, due to the fact that they had trouble with any instrument what you had to blow down.  Of course, originally they were played using a goat's bladder, but that got replaced by something more up to date when the goat died.

It seems a terrible shame that many people should be denied hearing such instruments as the blowpipes simply because of the prejudices of the likes of Mrs Prewd and her Musical Appreciation Society.  Any reader wishing to help make the instrument more widely known should have their hearing examined at once.

25 December, Sunday

This morning Maud busied herself in the kitchen while I wrapped up her present.  I have thought long and hard whether or not to get her some small gift.  She might think that I am grateful for her clumsy efforts at service, rather than, as is the actual case, expecting no less as my due.  Nevertheless I did decide to give her a small token of my contempt, and so purchased at my own expense a new scrubbing brush for her.  She seemed both surprised and ungrateful when I gave it to her, and gave me nothing in return.  I had, however, anticipated this, and so had sent to London for some rather expensive chocolate which I allowed her to give to me.  I will recover the cost from her wages, at a reasonable rate of interest.

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Mrs Prewd's encounter with the turkey seems almost comical now, since it has almost universally displaced the goose as the centre of the Christmas feat all over the country.  But the history of the turkey is a long and fascinating one, which I cannot possible do justice to here.  I will, therefore, do it an injustice.

The Iceni believed that if the mythical turkey (or torquay as it was originally called) could only be captured and owned, it would bring great wealth to its owner.  This belief is still held today by people in the Great Witchingham area.

When Brenda brought back the real thing, the Norfolk people took to them immediately, and now, of course, they are the basis of a huge industry, most evident in Colonel Winkle's Eastern Fried Turkey chain, with its instantly recognisable catch phrase, 'They're Phooeyful.

27 December, Tuesday

(more about alms)

The Kipper family have quite a hoard of items given to them over the centuries by the local gentry.  Sid and his mother proudly showed me their unique collection.  The first thing they pointed out was a single, wrinkled shoe, with a curled toe and bells attached:

Sid:  That was the earliest thing they ever gave us.  It's complete footwear for a one legged jester.  We've also got the spoutless coffee pot they gave grandfather in 1913, the legless table we had in 1932, and the baseless rumour they spread in 1966.  Some people say that the Cockle Family got their Cyril the same way, and given that he's totally witless you have to wonder if it isn't true.

It seems that, as far as the Lord of the Manor of St Just-bear-Trunch was concerned, it was very much better to give than to receive.

28 December, Wednesday

(regarding the Lord of Misrule)

In 1883 the lots drew one Sidney Sturgeon, a man who suffered from delusions of grandeur following a visit to a fortune teller in nearby Cromer, Gypsy Rosebaywillowherb.  She told him, he reported, that he would one day better himself, although local rumour had it that she actually told him that he couldn't get any worse.  When he was selected as Lord of Misrule he forced his unwilling subjects to construct a huge wooden throne on an elevated podium, and spent the day sitting on it while they had to bend the knee beneath.  Sadly, as night fell and his period of rule ended, someone carelessly dropped a lighted match on the offcuts and shavings which had been tidied under the throne, and Sidney's reign ended in a blaze of ignominy, as did Sidney.

31 December, Saturday

(regarding 'the year dot')

Sid:  That business about 'the year dot' was very important for me, because otherwise I wouldn't be here.  You see, when my old father was a boy he kept hearing people going on about "a hundred and thirty after Dot", and every year there seemed to be more of them after her.  So he thought this Dot must be a bit of alright.  Well, in 1937 he was up at the agricultural show, and he bumped into her.  And when he found out she was the famous Dot he decided to marry her, there and then.  But then wider counsel prevailed, and he was persuaded it wouldn't be right to get married in a pile of horse muck, so they put it off till December 31st.

In due course he led her to the altar, only to discover that she already knew the way.  Well, there they were, and the minister got to the hard bit where you have to remember all your names, and it turned out that she wasn't properly called Dot at all.  It was short for Agnes.  But by then it was too late, because they'd already booked the honeymoon.  Mother had a lovely week in Gorleston, and father had a quiet week at home, decorating the cottage.  But eventually they got together, and here I am.