THE STORY OF SAINT NICK OF TRUNCH

THE STORY OF SAINT NICK OF TRUNCH

(from the storytelling of Sid Kipper)

Saint Nick, the patron saint of burgulars, started off as Just Plane Nick. He was called Just Plane because he came from the village of St Just, which is in the flat part of Norfolk. Now being a burgular isn't easy in the flat part of Norfolk, because people can see you coming from a long way off. They can see you going from a long way off too. Consequently poor old Plane Nick had to do his business when people was otherwise detained - otherwise he might have been detained himself!

Now the only night he could be sure of being safe was Christmas Eve. On Christmas Eve everyone was distracted. They was all busy scrubbing behind their various bits and pieces because their in-laws would be coming to Christmas dinner the next day, whether they liked it or not. Nick's wife always used to say he should stay in on Christmas Eve, like the other men did. But he always used to say that if the other men were staying in he might as well go out, as she'd have her hands full anyway.

So on Christmas Eve Nick would set off with his sack, which had the letters S.W.A.G. written on it - well, he'd nicked it from the Swaffield Womens Anti-crime Group. Now, when he was working he always wore a red, fur trimmed coat, with a hood, a big white beard, and a pillow up his jumper. That was his disguise. At least, that's what he said. I mean, it wasn't much of a disguise, because as soon as anyone saw it they said "Oh look, there's Nick dressed for work - it must be Christmas Eve, then".

Now in them days burgulars used to specialise - that way the police knew who done what, so that was alright. Nick, for instance, had his own way of breaking in, which was to come down the chimney. And he only ever stole two things - mince pies and sherry. So on Christmas Eve people used to put the fire out and leave mince pies and sherry for him. That way they saved themselves the bother of having him poking around in their drawers - with his clothes on fire. This worked very well, because nearly everyone hated mince pies and sherry, and would rather have sausage rolls and whisky, but they were too polite to say so. So Nick was performing a public service, really.

But this is the story of how he become Saint Nick. Well, it all happened one year when these new people from London moved into the village, and invited all their London friends round for a traditional country Christmas. Come Christmas Eve Nick set off on his rounds. In due time he come to the new people's house, and that's when the trouble started. In them days new people didn't hardly move into the village at all. Not like these days. These days aren't particular in the slightest, and new people are moving into the village all the time. Mind you, mostly they're just replacing the old new people, who can't afford to stay here, due to negative equality. Anyhow, these people, being Londoners, was ignorant as sin. They didn't know a thing about traditional country Christmases. They hadn't put out no mince pies nor sherry nor nothing. They hadn't put the fire out, either!

So, when Plane Nick went down the chimney he had a nasty surprise. So did they, when he landed in the grate all black and smoking and swearing fit to print.

Well, they panicked. They all ran out of the house, shouting and screaming. Some said as how the house was haunted. And some said it was Old Nick himself, come to get them. And some said that was what happened when you moved out of London and come to places what didn't have no culture. And they ran and ran, and were never seen again.

Well, the traditional country villagers all cheered. They said good riddance. They said as how Nick ought be a Saint for the driving out of them people. And so, from then on, he was always known as Saint Nick. And when he died they wanted to bury him in the church, but there was some dispute over whether he was a proper saint or not. So they did the next best thing. They buried him up the vicarage chimney.

And that's why, on Christmas Eve, people leave out mince pies and sherry in the memory of Saint Nick. And that's why, no matter how he tries, the vicar can never get a decent fire going.