“Oi cairnt goo, but I dornt trubble, cuz I shairnt ‘ev much toime. Air Mum sez ombin ernuff wen I wer a kid.”
“Wur – Oi shouldn’t stan’ that. Om gooin’ ev’ry noight. C’o’n wi’me.”
The ladies I heard conversing were referring to the Fair ever associated with the name of Mr. Charles Thurston.
“Stinker offer’d ter pay fer me uz menny toimes uz I cud goo round on the “dragoons” the first lady went on.
“Wur! Yer loier!” the other politely retorted. “He sed the same ter me; und wot’s more he gammy sixpence wen we got air seats.”
I’d heard of “gammy” limbs and should have thought a “gammy sixpence” was a bent or counterfeit coin. Not so. This is “Ruzdin” slang for “gave me”. Some day – when I’ve retired – I’m going to compile a dictionary : Rushden- English and English-Rushden. Languages other than English always appeal to me. But I shall have to revise “Ruzdin” pronunciation fairly often. “Go” used to be almost correctly pronounced – even in Ruzdin – but a generation ago it became distinctly “goo” and now is being further improved (?) to “gew”.
Rushden Feast which to all Rushdenites, Higham Ferriers, Irthlingburians, Finedonians, Irchestrians and other Hittites and Feasturists means the varied and never-failing amusements brought here annually by Mr. Thurston, is the place to hear “Ruzdin as she is spoke.” Incidentally, Mr. Thurston is not the cause of it, or he would need more than my prayers when he had to answer for it. Further to improve my education, I paid a visit to the Fair one night, and heard some youths speaking in the vernacular.
Said one: “Weer onny bin loozin’ Satdy mornin’s since Orgust. Afore that we lorst three artnoons a week.”
“Shuttup ‘bout work” his pal delicately requested “ weer ut the Feast now.”
“’Ow’s that dun?” asked ‘Smiffie’. ( I hadn’t the advantage of knowing ‘Smiffie’ but that’s what they called the gentleman.) The party were watching the new game played with diminutive tanks that hop down an incline like the “bigger fleas” but without the “lesser fleas” and so on ad infinitum.
“Wer yer git ‘old onnum und then let goo, und they goo theirsalves,” another of the party explained.
“Yuh, Oi know that; but wot makes ‘em jump?” Smiffie further asked.
“Oddno, les it’s a weight insoide.”
“Jist wot Oi wanted to know,” said Smiffie very aggressively. “Let’s orl ev a goo,” he suggested.
“Weer adda goo we-salves,” two or three chimed in. “You goo.”
So Smiffie tried his luck, but his “fleas” didn’t jump straight. They would go careering madly heels over head (if these Tanks can be said to possess heels and heads) down the slope, and then would become humourously and ignominiously stranded “heels” in the air, against one of the barriers, instead of going between and winning Smiffie a packet of Woodbines.
“Put a pair o’ reins on em” one of the youths advised. “Dorn’t stare attem s’ard” another volunteered. “Yorl win if yer keep on w’ile’ about arps lev’n” said a third. “Dornt tek no nortice of wot thair torkin about” chimed in the third, wishing to encourage Smiffie, but he need not have bothered. Smiffie was a good sport and, by an adroit placing of his “fleas” luck favoured him. Of four, three hopped home as winners. Smiffie generously divided the prizes and the party floated away to seek other Feast amusements.
They were just sliding off to the fat lady show when some of their own lady friends trickled along and hoicked them on to the “dragoons”, for such violence of flinging about that it is necessary to call it “pleasure” and charge would-be riders to distinguish it from work. If there was any conversation going on ( I had nearly written “gooin’ on”) I could not hear it but being in the foreground, I was able to watch Smiffie and Co. as they came round and listen for audible expressions indicative of aesthetic enjoyment. By oral sifting I “picked up” a series of ear-splitting shrieks reminding me of London Zoological parrot house, only more so. This shrieking was given off with the power of ten valves and four loud speakers.
I was getting on famously with my acquaintances, so I waited for them to finish with the roundabouts and hear their opinions on the fat lady show. They made a bee-line for it. So did I – after them.
“Yorn ent loike that, are they, Kate?” one of the lads said, pointing to the picture of the acres of clothing apparently necessary to encompass the hulk of human feminine blubber.
Kate squawked at her inquirer – “shrieked” should it be? Anyhow it was a smile that could be heard a mile off and was like a painful blow to one’s eardrums from close quarters. “No they ent, “ Kate replied, “we dornt want to get lorst in miles o’ cloze. Our null be uz big uz ‘ern wen we git uz many tons o’ fat on us uz she’s got, wunt they, Mord?”
“Yuh,” Mord assented.
“If she’s got an uzbun, Oi expect Oi should be lorst in izzn,” the lad surmised. “Ooz’n?” Kate asked. “Ur uzbun’s; Oi mean Oi should be lorst in iz cloze.”
“Wur, yer fat’ead,” Mord chipped in; “that’s ‘er uzbun shouting there!”
The uzbun if such he was, had failed to hear the compliments.
I won’t record for posterity what the party said, let alone thought of the fat lady. The next event was a “goo” on the overhead swings. This reminded me of the cackling, squawking and chortling of farmyard fowls and geese when the dog rushed in and makes the feathers fly. Screams wafted or rather shot into the air from the scared young ladies until the end of the first ride, after which they descended.
“C’o’n” one of the lads said “’ev anuther goo. Y’ent ‘ad enuff yit, ayer.”
“Yis I am. I wunt goo on there agen for nubdy.”
