(At night, on the streets of York, with hearing attenuated by two small bottles of Jacques)
- “IT’S THE FINAL PILTDOWN, DIDDLE-DAA-DAAA, DIDDLE-DA-DA-DA” – a lad slurrily having a crack at karaoke, and I’m guessing he’s an archaeology student.
- “John, if you don’t come over here this second I’ll bloody well come over there!” – Another triumph for male psychology.
- “Of course’ss stone. Is’s same stone that the Romans used to build the Minster.” – Bless.
- “What do you mean, keep your f***in’ voice down?” – shouted by a lady into her mobile phone outside Marks and Spencers at 11pm, into a silent street, at a volume you’d normally associate with football matches.
Ah, York.
Image: gerry balding
Clearly this isn’t the whole story.
I suggest that as you were the common denominator in these events all four incidents relate to you Mike.
Only you could ever dream of singing ‘It’s the final Piltdown’… No self respecting archaeologist ever would.
Is John some random bloke you met at a bus stop who was desperately running away (having heard your Piltdown efforts)?
You have a track record with Stones (Orkney 2002 – the evidence exists in the photo reigster I believe). Presumably you were looking at a wedding cake through a shop window… and now believe the Minster is made from Roman icing.
John having escaped you, you then got an earful from some passing woman for repeating your final Piltdown effort (like a wolf howling at the moon) in Parliament St at 11pm.
I am merely an humble organ of the Muse.
(Please do not try to identify specifically which organ).
To address specifics:
1) It must have been an archaeologist with a self-respect problem. Or putting it another way, an Undergraduate. But it’s true, it’s horribly true. If I misheard it, then the roar of laughter from everyone just afterwards needs to be explained. I stand by my ears. (Makes me sound like a contortionist).
2) John was a chap in a fleece with that special hunched look that you only get in blokes who wish their lass would pop off to Bingo and leave them to talk about why fishing should be an Olympic sport.
3) The suggestion that the Minster is made from icing is a ludicrous one. As any vaguely clued-up history buff knows, it’s been MDF ever since all the stonework was robbed out by English Heritage and used to repair the city wall.
(What do you mean, ‘minimal repairs’? Are you mad? You think a stone wall of that size could remain standing for 700-odd years – in *Yorkshire*? We’re only 50 miles from Hull – if you buy a house round here, there’s only a slim chance it’ll be standing by Christmas).
So nowadays, repairs to the Minster are incredibly affordable, offset only by the fact that it tends to swell alarmingly in the rain.
4) Your reconstruction is admirable and I must applaud it as a feat of mental engineering. Alas, though, I was quite a way down Stonebow when she making her Terrible Noises. Not guilty, and thankfully not nearby either.
Whats a “self respecting archaeologist”?
I think it’s an archaeologist that is on a sustainable income.
Or put another way, it’s an urban myth.
I cannot speak. I am actually having a hard time hearing. Is York really that varied at night? Hardly seems creditable.
That’s York at its least variable. You should see what happens when the Viking Festival is on, for example – people in plain clothes standing in the street, shouting Norse poetry, and nobody knows if they’re being clever or just deranged (the same as with hands-free phone users, jabbering into thin air).
Also, it waxes and wanes in all sorts of weird ways. When the races are on, the madness is of a better-dressed, top-hatted ilk. (I nearly wrote “elk” there, which would have changed the meaning considerably). And in the summer months, there are many many more tourists, and the streets glitter with camera-flashes.
http://applejuzz.blogspot.com/
I am sending you a nice Italian boy who lives near you, or at least nearer to you than me. His photos resemble some of yours and he’s sorta funny, too.
Ta.
(Wait – “sorta funny? *outrage*).
I will run his blog through Google translate and have a read (these programs usually allow you to get the gist, if not the specifics).
Leaving comments on there, translated into Italian, well, I’ll have to pass on that one.
Ms Moss points out the flaw in my logic. Darnation… perhaps ‘Piltdown’ is also a type of real ale and it was merely a squeal of despair as the barrel ran dry. I have no self respect, having given it away long ago.
I hope you sold it. That’s what I did with mine. (Good old eBay).