The Weird Weekend, the largest predominantly cryptozoological conference in the English Speaking world is only five months away. You can read all about the 2009 event, and buy tickets, at http://www.weirdweekend.org/ or by clicking on the logo at the top of the page. Corinna will be covering the preparations for the event, and profiling the speakers over on Her Blog and there will be lots of other fun stuff in the months to come. However, completely unprovoked, Mike Hallowell, who was one of the speakers at the first event, relives his memories over five mornings this week...Don't believe a bloody word..
There must have been eight of us unloading the gear from a flotilla of cars. There were two loudspeakers which looked like yeti coffins, and by the weight of the bloody things felt as if the carcass of a hairy hominid was still inside. Bit by bit, like roadies at a concert, we carted in an assortment of bits and pieces. One chap, I noticed, was carrying a piece of metal piping with what looked like a plastic doll’s arm sticking out of the end. Wondering if this was going to be a prop in some bizarre ritual, I decided to be patient and wait and see. (Actually, I never did get to the bottom of it. I never saw the pipe or the doll’s arm again, and forgot to ask the guy what in hell he was going to do with it.)
In the large lounge, where the meeting was to be held, Nick Redfern was busy sticking cables into black boxes of various shapes and sizes. Happy to defer to his greater technical expertise, I headed straight for the bar to see what local beverages were on offer to perk up my sluggish liver. Cider was available under a number of different labels, but I deferred. It’s true that you can get pissed as a fart on cider, but I’ve never liked the after-effects. These include passing enough wind to blow your arse into orbit around Pluto and your teeth being set on edge. Stick with what you know, they say, and so I did. I asked the barman did he, pray perchance, have a bottle or five of Brown Ale in his cellar?
“Oi zurdainly doo zurr”, he replied, and, God bless ‘im, toddled straight off to retrieve them. Minutes later I was, alcoholically if not literally, in the land of my forefathers. If you’re an ex-pat Geordie, you’re never far from home if you can get your hands on a bottle of Broon. Broon is to Geordies what Soma was to the ancient Vedics, saki is to the Japs, vodka is to Russians and whisky is to our tartan brethren north of the border; i.e., the water of life.
There is an old nickname for Brown Ale. Years ago it was called Lunatics’ Broth, and had a reputation for sending you crazy if you over-imbibed. Hardened drinkers, who would think nothing of downing half a bucket of silver polish for breakfast, would still treat Broon with respect.
Actually, I don’t think that the effect of Brown Ale was really any different to that of other beers of similar strength, but the legend became a sort of self-fulfilling prophecy. If you sunk two bottles of Broon in rapid succession, people would expect you to start swinging from the chandeliers, groping the barmaids and eating the beer mats, and so you did. (In one case, a guy drinking in the Switchblade & Gumshield, at Byker, tried swinging from the beer mats, groping the chandelier and eating the barmaids. He’s currently doing twelve years in Durham for attempted cannibalism.) The author has never, for the record, involved himself with any of these lurid activities. This was not for the want of trying, but rather because of the sudden onset of unconsciousness. God, its good stuff, that Brown Ale. Anyway, I digress.
There was I, standing at the bar in the Cowick Barton with my Broon, when I heard a familiar voice. Or rather, not so much a familiar voice, but more of a familiar accent. To understand the significance of this you must indulge me whilst I digress once again, and force-feed you with some brief notes regarding the Geordie dialect.
Strictly speaking, the heart of Geordieland is the area covered by the city of Newcastle, on the north bank of the River Tyne, and surrounding districts. However, what many North-Tynesiders do not realise is that there is a sizeable Geordie population on the other side of the river, living in South Shields, Jarrow, Hebburn, Gateshead, etc. One of the farthest outposts of what we may call South Geordieland is a group of villages collectively known as the Boldons. West Boldon, East Boldon and Boldon Colliery are on the southern border of the Borough of South Tyneside, and will be the first line of defence if we ever get invaded by that lot from Sunderland. The folk of Sunderland (colloquially known as Mackems, for historical reasons too complex to detail here) are, for the record, the deadly enemies of the Geordies, and the two sides stand on the opposite banks of a cultural divide which is wider than the Persian bloody Gulf.
The animosity between the cities of Newcastle and Sunderland is generated by several factors, the main one being one’s choice of allegiance in the world of professional football. 100% of Geordies support Newcastle United. The Mackems, to a man, support Sunderland AFC. Should a Mackem actually prove thick enough to venture north of the Tyne wearing a red-and white striped Sunderland top, he will be lucky if he gets out of the bus station without being hung by his testicles from the nearest lamp-post. Conversely, should a Geordie wind his merry way to Wearside sporting a black-and-white Newcastle shirt, he will be subject to the unspeakable tortures of the damned before being barbecued and eaten.
Fortunately, Geordies and Mackems are able to recognise each other without having to resort to the asking of discrete but probing questions. The main give-away is the accent. To the untrained ear, or to those who hail from other parts of our green and pleasant isle, Newcastle folk and Sunderland folk may all seem to speak the same tongue. You will be forgiven for harbouring this notion, but it is, nonetheless, complete and utter bollocks. The Geordie tongue is harsh and sometimes quite guttural. When a Geordie approaches you in the street and sounds as if he is getting ready to expectorate a generous dollop of lung-butter all over your chest, judge him not harshly; he’s probably just asking you the time. By comparison, the Sunderland accent is soft, rounded and extenuated. Mackems, like those bloody Australians, have an awful habit of adding a high note to the end of every word. This makes them sound like a cat mewing for its milk, or worse, a dog with colic.
All of this will help you appreciate, I hope, the rather difficult position I was in when I heard a distinctly Mackem accent sing forth from the person standing next to me at the bar of the Cowick Barton. By listening to the subtle nuances, I was able to locate his place of origin within a two mile radius. He was either from Town End Farm, Redhouse or Hylton Castle – three housing estates in Mackemland which are only a stones-throw from my own dwelling, which is just over the border in Geordie territory.
In the large lounge, where the meeting was to be held, Nick Redfern was busy sticking cables into black boxes of various shapes and sizes. Happy to defer to his greater technical expertise, I headed straight for the bar to see what local beverages were on offer to perk up my sluggish liver. Cider was available under a number of different labels, but I deferred. It’s true that you can get pissed as a fart on cider, but I’ve never liked the after-effects. These include passing enough wind to blow your arse into orbit around Pluto and your teeth being set on edge. Stick with what you know, they say, and so I did. I asked the barman did he, pray perchance, have a bottle or five of Brown Ale in his cellar?
“Oi zurdainly doo zurr”, he replied, and, God bless ‘im, toddled straight off to retrieve them. Minutes later I was, alcoholically if not literally, in the land of my forefathers. If you’re an ex-pat Geordie, you’re never far from home if you can get your hands on a bottle of Broon. Broon is to Geordies what Soma was to the ancient Vedics, saki is to the Japs, vodka is to Russians and whisky is to our tartan brethren north of the border; i.e., the water of life.
There is an old nickname for Brown Ale. Years ago it was called Lunatics’ Broth, and had a reputation for sending you crazy if you over-imbibed. Hardened drinkers, who would think nothing of downing half a bucket of silver polish for breakfast, would still treat Broon with respect.
Actually, I don’t think that the effect of Brown Ale was really any different to that of other beers of similar strength, but the legend became a sort of self-fulfilling prophecy. If you sunk two bottles of Broon in rapid succession, people would expect you to start swinging from the chandeliers, groping the barmaids and eating the beer mats, and so you did. (In one case, a guy drinking in the Switchblade & Gumshield, at Byker, tried swinging from the beer mats, groping the chandelier and eating the barmaids. He’s currently doing twelve years in Durham for attempted cannibalism.) The author has never, for the record, involved himself with any of these lurid activities. This was not for the want of trying, but rather because of the sudden onset of unconsciousness. God, its good stuff, that Brown Ale. Anyway, I digress.
There was I, standing at the bar in the Cowick Barton with my Broon, when I heard a familiar voice. Or rather, not so much a familiar voice, but more of a familiar accent. To understand the significance of this you must indulge me whilst I digress once again, and force-feed you with some brief notes regarding the Geordie dialect.
Strictly speaking, the heart of Geordieland is the area covered by the city of Newcastle, on the north bank of the River Tyne, and surrounding districts. However, what many North-Tynesiders do not realise is that there is a sizeable Geordie population on the other side of the river, living in South Shields, Jarrow, Hebburn, Gateshead, etc. One of the farthest outposts of what we may call South Geordieland is a group of villages collectively known as the Boldons. West Boldon, East Boldon and Boldon Colliery are on the southern border of the Borough of South Tyneside, and will be the first line of defence if we ever get invaded by that lot from Sunderland. The folk of Sunderland (colloquially known as Mackems, for historical reasons too complex to detail here) are, for the record, the deadly enemies of the Geordies, and the two sides stand on the opposite banks of a cultural divide which is wider than the Persian bloody Gulf.
The animosity between the cities of Newcastle and Sunderland is generated by several factors, the main one being one’s choice of allegiance in the world of professional football. 100% of Geordies support Newcastle United. The Mackems, to a man, support Sunderland AFC. Should a Mackem actually prove thick enough to venture north of the Tyne wearing a red-and white striped Sunderland top, he will be lucky if he gets out of the bus station without being hung by his testicles from the nearest lamp-post. Conversely, should a Geordie wind his merry way to Wearside sporting a black-and-white Newcastle shirt, he will be subject to the unspeakable tortures of the damned before being barbecued and eaten.
Fortunately, Geordies and Mackems are able to recognise each other without having to resort to the asking of discrete but probing questions. The main give-away is the accent. To the untrained ear, or to those who hail from other parts of our green and pleasant isle, Newcastle folk and Sunderland folk may all seem to speak the same tongue. You will be forgiven for harbouring this notion, but it is, nonetheless, complete and utter bollocks. The Geordie tongue is harsh and sometimes quite guttural. When a Geordie approaches you in the street and sounds as if he is getting ready to expectorate a generous dollop of lung-butter all over your chest, judge him not harshly; he’s probably just asking you the time. By comparison, the Sunderland accent is soft, rounded and extenuated. Mackems, like those bloody Australians, have an awful habit of adding a high note to the end of every word. This makes them sound like a cat mewing for its milk, or worse, a dog with colic.
All of this will help you appreciate, I hope, the rather difficult position I was in when I heard a distinctly Mackem accent sing forth from the person standing next to me at the bar of the Cowick Barton. By listening to the subtle nuances, I was able to locate his place of origin within a two mile radius. He was either from Town End Farm, Redhouse or Hylton Castle – three housing estates in Mackemland which are only a stones-throw from my own dwelling, which is just over the border in Geordie territory.
Despite everything I was taught at school – how to catch Sunderland supporters, how to skin them without getting blood all over the carpet, etc. – the peaceful atmos of this lovely little Devonshire town was getting to me. Love and light filled my soul, and I began to ask myself searching questions. Was it really right to loathe a fellow human being just because he supported a different soccer team? Could I really bring myself to turn on hundreds of thousands of people, like a snarling hyena, and condemn them just because they spoke with a stupid accent? Of course, the answer to all these questions is a resounding “yes”, so I promptly turned round and nutted the bastard.
Now before you get yourself all excited…I’m only kidding. Of course I didn’t nut him. In fact, I was so glad to hear a northern accent – even if it was a Mackem one – that my stony heart simply melted. What’s more, it turned out that he liked Newcastle Brown Ale, so he couldn’t have been all that bad. Its generally true that those Mackems who live close to the Geordie border are more civilised than their fellow tribesmen who live in the uncharted regions further south. Some even have radios and flush toilets.
Even my new-found Mackem friend – who did indeed hail from Hylton Castle, as I had suspected – was taken aback by this extraordinary coincidence. Two blokes, who live hardly a mile from each other, bumping into each other at the other end of the country in a quiet little pub in Devon. Bloody amazing.
Within minutes our differing tribal affinities were forgotten, and we were soul mates. To show how magnanimous we Geordies are, I even invited him and his missus to visit us any time they liked. Now this may not seem like much of a sacrifice, but it is. I have, you see, sired a thoroughly dysfunctional family.
I have three sons. The oldest is a Newcastle fan, but has let the side down somewhat by marrying a Mackem lass from Thorney Close. Worse, she’s a bloody nice Mackem, and they’re the worst sort because they make it hard for you to rip the piss out of them. She’s a real stunner, polite, intelligent, articulate and friendly. How can you hate someone like that? True, she still has the silly accent, but no one’s perfect.
And then there’s Number Two son. I blame myself for letting him knock around with the wrong crowd. Two of his best mates were Mackems, and he swore that he could handle it. Well, my granny used to say that if you dance with the Devil he’ll stand on your feet, and that’s exactly what happened. One day the cheeky little bugger waltzes in the house as bold as you like wearing a RED AND WHITE SUNDERLAND AFC SHIRT. Well, that just did it. “You’ve chosen those colours well, son.” I said. “The bloodstains will be far less noticeable by the time I've finished with you”.
I blame the social workers and their carey-sharey ideas. They poison the minds of our youth with liberal, trendy notions, when what they should really be doing is poisoning all the bloody Sunderland supporters. But I’m only joshing again. I don’t really hate anyone from Sunderland, and there are more than a few decent paranormal investigators from that neck of the woods. Incredibly, only minutes after sharing a pint with our wayward Hylton Castletonian, I then approached the bar and bumped into another northerner who only lived three miles in the other direction.
“By lad”, he said in a rock solid Geordie brogue, “Are ye from up the Toon, like?”
“Not quite”, I replied. “South Shields – just across the river”
“Shields? Why, yuh bugger, ah used to work at Westoe Pit before that a****** [name removed for legal reasons] that was supposed to be fighting our corner f****** everything up. Fancy meeting a Geordie aal the way doon heor, but! Amazin’ that, like!”
And indeedy-doody it was. Within the space of half an hour the manager was desperately searching for more Brown Ale, as well as wondering what the hell to do with all the empty bottles. Even our Mackem friend – who was there for the convention – joined in with gusto, and the bar manager must have thought that we belonged to some Geordie Mafia trying to take over the place. Not a bad idea, come to think of it.
Just then, Richie walked over from the lounge. “I think we’re about ready to kick off, Mike”...
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