COMPETITIONS

On this page you will find the conditions of entry to each class, the rules for the competition, and the winners and entries for the current year.

TROPHIES

CLASS 1        RICHARD HOLLAND CUP
                           For the best POEM in Lancashire Dialect

CLASS 2    HARRY CRAVEN CUP
                            For the best PIECE OF PROSE in Lancashire Dialect                                                                   Overall limit of 2000 words

CLASS 3 ANNE RIDGEON CUP
                           For the best STORY with a Lancashire Theme in standard English         Overall limit of 2000 words
                           Limited dialogue in dialect permitted
                           Entries which are not Lancashire in theme will be disqualified

CLASS 4    EDITH GRAYSHAN GOBLET
                            For the best POEM with a Lancashire Theme, written in standard English
                            Entries which are not Lancashire in theme will be transferred to Class 5

CLASS 5 PRESIDENT'S CUP
                           For the best POEM in Standard English - subject matter open
                           Entries from new writers who are trying their hand at poetry writing and also to more
                           experienced writers with work that does not comply to the other classes 1 - 4

CLASS 6    JUNE SCHOFIELD CUPS for YOUNG LANCASHIRE WRITERS
   For the best Lancashire story and best Lancashire poem for young people 19 years and under

                           ADDITIONAL TROPHIES

                        VICAR SHAW TROPHY
                            For the BEST OVER-ALL ENTRY, chosen from the winners of Classes 1 - 4

                          TH' OWD TAY CADDY
                            For the BEST ENTRY in Classes 1 - 5 from a competitor who is not a previous winner

        T' KISSIN' SHUTTLE
                            For the best presentation of a DIALECT PIECE at the Waugh Celebration Supper.
      To be decided on the evening by the committee.

RULES
1.              The competition is open to members and non-members of the Society.
2.               Entries should not be named but be accompanied by a covering note indicating the name of the writer.
3.               Writers are advised to keep a copy of their entries. Original entries will be returned at the Waugh Celebration Supper.
4. At the Waugh Celebration Supper, winning writers or their proxy, may be asked to present up to 5 minutes of their entry.
5.               Trophies will be presented at the Waugh Celebration Supper in March. They remain the property of the Society and should be
                   returned no later than the following December meeting.
6. Other than winning entries of our competitions, entries that have been published, won prizes or recited in public may be
   submitted to any of our competitions.
7.    The "Kissing Shuttle" trophy is awarded for the best presentation of a dialect piece at the Waugh Celebration Supper and can be
      won more than once, but not on two consecutive years.
      The "Th'owd Tay Caddy" trophy is awarded to a new entrant who has the best entry in classes 1 - 5 and is not a previous winner.
8. The winner, or their proxy, of any trophy becomes the judge for the following year.
9. The committee reserves the right to withhold a trophy if there are insufficient entries.

Members FREE to enter                          Non-members £2.50

Entries by last day of January to -

MR STEWART CHADWICK                                    TEL. 0161 624 5852
STARKEY FARM,
THORNHAM ROAD
ROYTON, OLDHAM OL2 6YG

Or enter by email to Hon. Secretary  alyson.brailsford@gmail.com

These are the trophy winners for 2020

   1.        RICHARD HOLLAND CUP                                             SALLY JAMES
The best POEM in Lancashire Dialect

   2.    HARRY CRAVEN CUP BETTY LIGHTFOOT
               The best PIECE OF PROSE in Lancashire Dialect

   3. ANNE RIDGEON CUP SALLY JAMES
               The best STORY with a Lancashire Theme in Standard English

   4.      EDITH GRAYSHAN GOBLET FRANK GIBSON
              The best POEM with a Lancashire Theme in Standard English

   5.        PRESIDENT'S CUP NEVILLE SOUTHERN
              The best POEM in Standard English - subject matter open

                             VICAR SHAW TROPHY BETTY LIGHTFOOT    THE BEST OVERALL ENTRY in classes 1 - 5

                          TH' OWD TAY CADDY    NEVILLE SOUTHERN
                            THE BEST ENTRY in classes 1 - 5 from a competitor who is not a previous winner

        T' KISSIN' SHUTTLE
                For the best PRESENTATION of a DIALECT PIECE at the Waugh Supper

As the Presentation Supper had to be cancelled, there is no award this year for T' Kissin Shuttle

                            Congratulations to all the winners and to all who took part
   __________________________

A LOVELY GROUP OF TALENTED WINNERS 2020

Sally James - winner of the Richard Holland Cup and the Anne Ridgeon Cup

Neville Southern - winner of the President's Cup and Th' Owd Tay Caddy

Betty Lightfoot - winner of the Harry Craven Cup and the Vicar Shaw Trophy

Frank Gibson - winner of the Edith Grayshan Goblet

___________________________________

These are the winning entries from 2020 :-

SALLY JAMES The best POEM in Lancashire Dialect
The winner of the Richard Holland Cup

ODE TO A COTTON REEL

Dancin’on mi sewin’ machine
is a gradely reel o’ cotton
it twirls an’ warks its magic
mekkin’ aw mi cares forgotten.
It spins its songs i’ merriment
meks mi layf mi thowts away
with mi treadle swayin’ feet
dancin’ through t’dull day.
Ah start at 6 oclock in t’morn
sometimes it’s black as neet
an’ ah walks toh wark wi’ sadness
when ah ‘ave to leave eawr street.
Ah leaves me childer wi mi mam
whilst ah goo eawt to wark
un monny a time when ah geets whoam
ahm walkin’ theer in t’dark.
Ah knows t’factory ull still bi buzzin’
when ah’m weel deeod an’ gone
fert t’place is mi bread un butter neaw
fer mi dowter an’ mi son.
Ah allus ceawnt mi blessin’s
as a treadles aw t’day through
dancin’ like th’owd cotton reel
so ah’ll bi merry too.

Sally James
________________________________

SALLY JAMES The best STORY with a Lancashire Theme in Standard English
Winner of the Anne Ridgeon Cup

   PICKING COAL WITH DAD

Maggie got ready for her walk with her father like she always did on a Sunday morning when he didn’t go down the pit. She liked the smell of him on those days as if her mother’s soap had stuck to his newly ironed shirt and lodged in the seams. He didn’t smell of sweat and dust like he did on work days, this was his Sunday smell and when he bent down to kiss her she would notice how smooth his chin was once the bristles had been shaved away.

He smelled of tobacco too, the rough cut heavy kind that lingered in his hair and made yellow marks on his fingers. He always lit up first thing in the morning, whilst he waited for the kettle to boil for his pint pot of tea. Maggie wondered how he could drink it so strong. She liked tea too but weak and diluted with creamy milk and sweetened with brown cane sugar left over from the Christmas cake baking.

Maggie loved these Sunday mornings when she had her dad all to herself and her mother and baby sister were sleeping in the big iron bed that rattled each time she turned over in her sleep. Sometimes the rattling was so bad she wondered why this was so but nevertheless fell asleep to the musical jangling of her parent’s bed.

Her father would sing in-between slurps of tea and long draws from a cigarette he had rolled himself with his coal ingrained fingers. He needed the nicotine to clear his lungs out he said one morning when Maggie grimaced as the coal fire spluttered when he spat into it.

He had been off work a week or two now so she had him all to herself for a few hours each day before he went scavenging for work or waiting outside the pit for news to come through that the strike was over.

But they never missed their Sunday walk even in those grey days when cupboards were bare and houses cold. Despite all the odds women still went to church in their Sunday best, the feathers in their hats ruffling in the wind and their long skirts swirling in the puddles they tried to avoid. Her mother would have gone to church too if she could find someone to mind the baby but Maggie and her father would be out walking. Maggie with her tin pram jiggling on the cobbles and her best doll wrapped up in an old sheet, her father by her side with his whippet Jack wearing the worn leather collar with a long piece of string attached.

This happiness was sheer bliss even on cold misty mornings when the low clouds hung like dirty sheets on an old washing line. “Look at those sinners going to church” he would laugh and Maggie would laugh with him even though she would be decked in her finery a few hours later when she went to Sunday school.

This particular Sunday morning would be different from the rest. Her father had woken her earlier than usual the bristles on his unshaven face pricking her cheek when he kissed her.

“Come on luv, wak up” he had cheered. Maggie didn’t want to get out of bed this morning, her head felt cold and when she finally emerged felt the cold lino on her bare feet. Her clothes were downstairs folded on a chair waiting for her to dress by the warmth of the fire but it wasn’t crackling up the chimney like it usually did and the windows had iced up and the net curtains stuck to them.

“Jack Frost’s bin” her dad said with a shiver and she noticed how there was no pint pot of tea and the kettle wasn’t hissing like it usually did. The only steam was that of her own breath as she hurriedly dressed.

Jack the whippet yelped in excitement when he saw the collar with the string in his master’s hands and pranced up and down on the stone flags his paws rat a tatting.  “Ere tek thi little pram, wi’ll need it,” her dad said with a grin and Maggie even at her tender age knew instinctively that he was up to no good.

The three of them set out earlier than usual, there was an angry mist sloping down from the slag heaps and Maggie was surprised when instead of walking past the church towards the meadow they headed towards the pit. There was hardly anyone about, and there were icy patches in the rainbow puddles. The mud had frozen and imprints of clogs looked sinister in the grey morning. Her father’s whistling stopped short as they neared the slag heap. She noticed a few men scuttling in the slack, and then run off at high speed.

“Come on lass” he whispered and together they neared the dark mass. Like the others he scuttled and foraged among the slippery slack only to emerge with a large lump of glistening coal. Three times he did this placing his treasure under the covers in Maggie’s doll’s pram. She grumbled at first that her doll would get dirty then saw the strained look on her father’s face.

They walked back down the lane, Maggie puffing with the weight in her pram and the little dog sniffing around in case a rabbit had made its way from across the fields. Her father muttered something about acting normal as they walked past two hefty looking men one in a policeman’s uniform. They smiled at the father and daughter walking out together as a pale sun emerged from behind the slag heap.
“How ert thi Alf “the man in the policeman’s uniform said.
“Ar reet Tom teckin eawr Maggie eawrt fer walk afoor er gust Sunday schoo.”
“Looks like it’s warmin up a bit” the other man said.
But Maggie thought she saw a look like suspicion in his eyes so made up as if she was cold and tired and wanted to go home.
Her father nodded and said “See thi ert bowlin green later on, better ger er wom ers cowd neaw”.
The man in the special police man’s uniform nodded and Maggie and her father hurried on their way. They had to pass the church to their little terraced house and saw the ladies and a few men walking silently, a few nodded and smiled but Maggie’s father didn’t stop like he usually did. They just scurried past them and down the back lane to their house.

The house was cold and empty when they got back and the lacy patterns were still etched on to the window panes so he guessed his wife had taken the baby to her mother’s a few doors down the street to keep warm.
“Come on lass lets get this fire agate afoor her comes back wom” her father said raking the cold ashes out of the fire grate and placing the smaller pieces of coal on top of sticks of firewood and newspaper.
“The’s a big cob here as ull keep us warm ar day and there’s a bit er slack int backyard so wi can keep it backed up ar neet” he said his whiskered face broadening into a grin.

It wasn’t long before the fire was roaring up the chimney and melting the frosted panes and the kettle singing in the flames.
“Go un fotch thi mam Maggie don’t tell her why a want it bi a surprise.”
Maggie ran down the street and into her grandmother’s house which was only slightly warmer than their own but at least there were cups of tea on the table and a smell of toast warming the air.

“Come on Mam, mi dad wants thi” Maggie urged and was so impatient that her grandmother scolded her and asked her to leave her mother alone. Maggie’s mam went back home all the same wrapping a woollen shawl around her slim shoulders with the baby snuggled next to her. She expected a cold house when she got in and decided she may go back to her mother’s later or maybe her aunt’s who lived across the road. She got a surprise when she noticed smoke puffing out of the chimney and the windows so clear she could see inside and the reflection of the firelight dancing on the walls. She was even more surprised to find her husband sat in the rocking chair by the fire with a toasting fork in his hand and some crusty bread on the table oozing butter.

“Don’t ask any questions neaw, it’s nowt ter do wi thee” her husband said as he poured tea from a brown teapot that had been kept warm by the fire.

Maggie lived to be almost eighty years of age and has long since been dead. She experienced the depression, the soup kitchens and the Second World War. She went to work on the pit brew sorting coal when she was older and met her future husband walking down the pit lane. They married had children and grandchildren.

She experienced many holidays abroad with her husband in their later years. They went to countries she had only dreamed about. They bought a house with a garden and central heating but Maggie never forgot that cold frosty day when she went picking coal with her dad.
____________________________________

BETTY LIGHTFOOT The best PIECE OF PROSE in Lancashire Dialect
Winner of the Harry Craven Cup and the Vicar Shaw trophy

ABSENT FRIENDS .... NODDLE YED'S TALE

“Tha’t a fause un, a reet fause crate egg Billy Birchall” sez Ah. “An tha’t a noddle yed mardy bum, Albert Burton!” Weeal, Ah wur aw wun up an Ah rownded on ‘im; “Tha wur cheeytin’ Ahm noan partin’ wi’ mi best murp so theear... ” An’ afore ee cud say owt Ah set abowt ‘im. Hecky thump it wur like Battle o’ Hastings an Trafalgar rowlt inta wun. Pur on us kicked an punced til we topplt o’er. Durnt tut tut thi Grondfayther Ah’ve nooan growd another yed – Ah met bi as owd as Stanley Matthews bur Ahve forgetten mooar abowt owden days an yon battles than thy’all larn wi’ yon computher in a month o’ Sundays!

Didst tha know them theear foncy green wellies tha wurrs tek dog owt wur christent afther th‘iron Duke aye, and yon beef butty yer gollopin’ wur another on ‘is ideas so’s sowdyers didn’t keel o’er fra lack o’ grub. Wheear wur Ah, aye th’Iron Duke wur awreet, a gradely mon. Trayted men as family, kept in check, geet thur respect 24/7 as yer met sey. Feyt to win wur Wellington’s motto – er so’s Ah wur towd at Schoo. Nooan o’ that theear ponsy stuff – signin trayties that arnt worth papper thi writ on an ar brokken afore th’inks dreys. Lesson wun done, lesson two. Billy Birchall cawd thi Grondfayther a Noddle Yed wunce an wunce only. Yon feyt tha’ll bi plessed to larn wur furst an last. We shuck onds, cawd a truce an it still stonds – er wud, if Billy weren’t six foot under. Ah’ll miss him, tha knows, ee wur awreet, we’d sit theear, in’t snug, chewin owr baccy an mekkin plans, aye, pur on us ‘ad big ideas. Neear crosst owr minds thur wur war brewin. We cud a done wi th’Iron Duke back then. Aye, th’Iron Duke wud a med a wakes on Hitler, jest as ee did wi Boney.

Seventy six yer, six wick and three days best mates wi wur; five yer o’ that under Monty – ee wur brave, a gradely sowdyer, nowt pur im off. Sem as Wellington, dogged, determined. Thurs nowt wrung wi’t owd noddle box, eeh, Ah weesh Ah cud sey sem fer’t rest o’ mi! Weear wur Ah – oh aye, Wellington. Best sowdyer, best planner, best mon fert job. Duke stopped Boney’s antics. Like as not tha’s sin oyl paintins o’ yon lardie daa Frenchmon on ‘ orseback but Ah bet tha’s ne’er sin ‘im wi a white flag – no that wurnt, lad. Seems Boney wur as mard as –
weal, fert wont on a bether word – ‘orsemuck – freetent stiff on owr duke, givvin orders fra rear, on ‘orseback, top o’t’ hill, sun in his een, teks owt onky – white, wi Belgian lace. Aye lad, thurs no need rowl thi een, Ah yerd aw abowt it fra mi fayther’s pal, Jonty Mathews –Distant relative to Stanley as it ‘appens. Picture yon Froggie eytin a beef bagget –butty to likes on us – sun in is een, missin ‘is cake ole, buther er mustard – er both – aw o’er gowd braid an breeches. Boney teks owt onky, mops isself off, wipes sweat off is yed and bingo – Duke showts “THE FRENCH HAVE SURRENDERED,-‘ ONWARD AND UPWARD MEN!” er summat er sort. Battle wur o’er in a fleysh. Thure wur nowt Boney cud sey er do t’alter outcome.

Wavin a white flag fra then on meant surrender. Naw ee wur fause, wur th’Iron Duke, ee wurnt freetent o’ Boney – ee wurnt freetent o nowt. Duke thowt it wur time an pur on end to senseless killin. A gradely mon, a statesmon an Ah’d raise mi cap if Ah cud. Maybe tha’ll do it for thi owd Grondfeather – chuck it hegh an catch it. Ta, lad. Weeal Ah reckon Ah cud manage wun er two beef butties wi a gill. Yon feyt o’er a murp- marble to thee – mi best un, mind , turned owt awreet. Durnt sey owt to thi Grondma – hoo ne’er wur fond on ‘im – bur if it wur thi Grondfayther they’d plonted today, Billy Birchall wud bi sittin wi thi now, eytin fer England. Aye an sup thee under t’ table. It met seem daft t’ thee, feytin o’er a murp – bur that theear truce wert mekkin o’ Billy. Birchall’s wur ruff yeds – incummers t’Bowton- aw family wur Owdham born n’bred. Onyroad Ah wur sem age as Billy, sem seyze – peas in a pod teychur sed on a gud dey- bad deys Turrible Twins! Aye, an Turrible Twins nickname stuck aw thru war.....

It wur Thursday wick Billy played double five, won twenty pee off thi Grndfayther, so Ah thowt it wur about time t’cum clen abowt youn murp. Billy winked at mi, sed ee knowd aw along Ah’d bin fibbin, shuck mi ond, then keeled o’er. Seventy six yer, six wick an three days, best mates. That theear murp fell dewn a grid day afther ower feyt. Seems Ah’ve bin tipped t’wink bi Billy’s dowter fert sey summat..... Weeal Ah’m nooan wun fer prattlin er praisin er upsethin fowk.... “CUD YER BE UPSTONDIN, LASSES AND LADS FER A TOAST TO............ ABSENT FRIENDS.”
“ABSENT FRIENDS”
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NEVILLE SOUTHERN   The best POEM in Standard English
Winner of the President's Cup and Th' Owd Tay Caddy

  NIGHT SHIFT

  Wednesday morning is not halfway
To the next earned rest they treasure;
Last Sunday seems an age away;
Folk’s lives all work, not pleasure.

These night shifts come from drudgery,
Where gas-jets light their lives,
With hearing numbed by machinery,
They return home to glimpse their wives,

To cooling beds in empty rooms,
As wives and children trudge away
To desks and mills and weaving looms
To start their own work day.

Night shifts wake later in the day
For the all too brief reunion:
Eating, talking, love and play
In family communion.

But they live dislocated lives,
Like ebb tide and the swell.
Though their hope still gamely strives,
In the end, all may not be well.

They do not look for sorrow,
They know that joy is never sure.
Today will always end tomorrow
But all may hope as they endure.
_______________________________

FRANK GIBSON    The best POEM with a Lancashire Theme in Standard English
The winner of the Edith Grayshan Goblet

Frank prefers that we do not publish his entry, as he may want to use it in future competitions.
________________________________

These are the winning entries from 2019 :-

RON WILLIAMS  The best POEM in Lancashire Dialect
The winner of the Richard Holland Cup

  A LUVIN’ ‘USBANT’S TREAT

   Aye ah do like mi missus a lot
   So ah thowt as ah’d gi’e ‘er a treat,
   Ah,d tek ‘er eawt fer a meal
   Toh t’ garden centre ut’s usually awreet.
   So ah towd ‘er toh poot on ‘er glad rags
   Ah wer tekkin’ ‘er eawt fer ‘er lunch,
   We went un queue’d op in’t’ café
   Fer summut thi’ reckont wer brunch.

   We sat theer un enjoyed a fair meal,
Swilled deawn wi’ a pot o’ freysh tay,
Hoo wer thrilled when ah towd ‘er mi plan
Ut hoo’d ‘ave nobbut toh pay.
Thir wer a brid table theer o’ sale,
(wun ut’s awhoam’s noan soh good)
Soh ah towd ‘er toh go choose a new un,
A gradely un med o’ beech wood.

   Hoo wasted noh time pickin’ a freysh un,
Un ah took it toh t’ checkeawt toh pay,
Theer thi’d Uncle Joes Mintballs,
A tin o’ thoose ud fere mek ‘er day!
Hoo towd foak heaw gen’ rous ah’d bin
   Un hoo sung t’ praises o’ this second rate bard,
   …….. But weeks later hoo cawed mi a che’pskate
When hoo discovvert ah’d paid wi’t JOINT CARD!

   15 03 2018
________________________

SALLY JAMES     The best PIECE OF PROSE in Lancashire Dialect
      The winner of the Harry Craven Cup

Mollie’s Meanderings

Well here ah am sat in mi cheer bit winder, t’carer’s just bin an geet mi ready so a’ll no deawt bi ‘ere all day on mi own unless sumby calls bu’ ah reckon they’ll not.

Onnyroad ‘ave geet mi memories keep mi comp’ny. When tha thinks on it, the’s more years behind mi neaw than ther’ ar’ i’ front o’ mi, bur it comes to us all i’ time so I’ll noan worry abeawt it. ‘ave lived ‘ere all mi life born ‘n bred i’ this street, eeh ‘ave sin some comin’s un gooin’s.
Ah remember when ah wheer o young un mi grandma seyin’ “ Hey hast tha read this in t’papper it ses ‘ere that St Nats, church ‘s bin moved overneet.” Weel wi all went eawtside un gawp at it. Weel heaw did thi do that mi auntie Maggie said weighin’ it up wi’ ‘er ‘ead cocked toh one side. Then mi mam said “Weel ah never ‘eard um move it, un ah lives nearer than thee.” “Weel ah thinks it’s a bit mooer toh left neaw ah comes toh think o’ it,” mi Auntie Hannah said as ‘er waddled intoh back yard.

Ah weer only abeawt six then un ‘ad just startin’ readin’ un ah knew folks reawnd ‘ere wer’ o bit gullible like un would belief eawt tha towd um or read in t’papper but movin’ a huge church steeple overneet wer’ just too much fer even’t me toh believe. So ah looks at t’papper agen an’ ah solved puzzle whilst they were all in t’backyard still gawpin’ at church. Ah towd um " ‘ave a look in’t papper agen,” then ah ‘eard um laughin’ i’ disbelief. It were in t‘fifty years ago column back in t’early nineteen ‘undereds. In them days the were an owd corrugated iron church tha’ the’ used toh use whilst new un wer’ bein’ built an’ that were t’one the’ shifted overneet, not the one wit’ t’big church steeple. Eeh some things tha ne’er forgeets un that weer one of um.

The’s sommut abeawt Wiggin folks especially t’ women that wer’ allus a bit niave, a bit backards ert commin forrads if that knows wor ah mean. The’ were’ daicent folk i’ them days, hard workin’ an God fearin’. Not like they ar’ neaw

Neaw look ert them young uns walkin’ deawn street neaw wi the skirts up toh the backsides and their busts ‘angin’ eawt, eeh mi mam ud ‘ave ‘ad o fit if onny of us ‘ad er gone eawt lookin’ like that. Trollops shid cor um un as common as muck un slopstone blondes as well. But they’re all at it these days un nob’dy seems toh bother. ‘ave sin um fallin’ abeawt in’t middle o t’cart road Friday neets after pubs’ave shut, as drunk as flamin’ mops un thi ‘ave babies too awhoam wor ‘ave no dad’s. Ah knows times change but nor allus fert best.

Un I’ll tell thi summat else, road eawtside this heawse used toh bi cobbled but neaw it’s tarmacked un wi’ ‘pot ‘oles in it wheer thi keep diggin’ it up an’ layin pipes er summat. Aye un trams use toh run past ‘ere years ago un t‘funny thing is the’re layin’ a knew metro link on’t main road neaw wi’ cables over ‘ead just like t’owd trams ‘ad.

Eeh ah ‘ope somb’dy comes tohday, it ud bi nice’toh ‘ave sombdy chat too. ‘ave geet mi telly an’ ah con waatch wor ah wants when ah like but the’s nowt like o’ bit o company.

Eeh tha ud laugh ert this though it’s not really funny bur again it’s true. Afoor ah weer born when mi dad were a young un he lived in o place called “Clinkey Valley”. Neaw don’t asked mi why thi called it that cos ah don’t really know. It weren’t a valley as such it were just set back oft main road in er bit on o field. It weer ‘appen a bit posher theer but ah don’t really know, Onnyroad durin’ war Gerrys use toh drop onny stray bombs thi ‘ad on t’flight back toh Germany after bombin’ Liverpoo’.
One dropped i’ mi dads back yard un blew all back ert t’heawse in, bur mi dad wer’ in t’petty at t’ time which were at t’bottom o t’yard. It weer one o them owd middens type cos water closets ‘addn’t come toh that part o’ Wiggin yet. Mi dad were’ safe enough though cos petty dooer fell on ‘im an’ saved ‘is life. He escaped wi just o few cuts un bruises so that were o’ good job. If it had bin different then ah wouldna bin ‘ere toh tell thi t’tale.

A week later the were o joke gooin’ areawnd Wiggin Hipp that Germans wer’ flyin’ ore Wiggin un saw a building marked WC so bombed it cos thi thowt it stood fer Winston Churchill. Foaks ‘ad toh ‘ave sommut smile abeawt i’them days.

Thi don’t know the born these days, neaw just look at um theer, he’s not workin’ i’ ses bur is short er nowt un thi ‘ave an heawse full o’ kids too, an’ thi all ‘ave mobile phones and a big screen tele. Kids o allus kickin’ th’ dam football intoh mi gardin’ ‘ave banged on t’winder monny o time but thi jus pull the faces un run off.

Ah suppose ‘ave some need talk missel though cos eawr kids ‘ave done the fair share o’ kickin balls i’ foak’s garden’s i’ the time. Neaw the’s grandkids givin’ mi trouble doin’ just same. Eeh the’s soh monny of um neaw ah don’t know which is which an heaw owd thi all are. Ah ‘m allus glad toh see um when thi come to visit but ah’m fain when thiv gone.

Eeh bi thi eck just look whose commin’ deawn eawr path its eawr Billy mi youngest, mi babby . Lovely lad he allus thinks a lor abeawt ‘is mam. Eeh ‘ad best put kettle on. Ah con just abeawt ger abeawt wi’ this walkin’ frame. Ah‘m nor altogether ‘elpless tha knows. Onnyroad it’s bin nice gooin’ back o’er mi memories, it passes time and keeps mi mind occupied.

Ah thinks i’ Wiggin dialect tha sees as weel as speyckin’ in it, allus ‘ave done, Tha knows seyin’ “Tha con tek a lass eawt er Wiggin but tha cornt tek Wiggin eawt o’ t’lass”, weel that’s me. Though mi dad ud go mad if he ‘eard mi neaw. He said once “ Ah don’t know weer tha gets that talk from, cos there’s no one in this heawse speycks broad like thee does!

Sally James
      ________________________

FRANK GIBSON    The best STORY with a Lancashire Theme in Standard English,
the winner of the Anne Ridgeon Cup

Frank prefers that we do not publish his entry, as he may want to use it in future competitions.
   ________________________

SALLY JAMES     The best POEM with a Lancashire Theme in Standard English
The winner of the Edith Grayshan Goblet

   Blood Brothers

   My Lancashire has gone
   like a pit siren
   whistling in the wind
   a mineshaft filled in
slag heaps flattened
  and a loom silenced.

My Lancashire was
  like a clog iron
  sparking on cobbles
  a donkey stone scraping
   coal fires burning
and a chimney belching.

  My Lancashire disappeared
  like steam from a kettle
pit headgears in the sunset
ashes in the grate
granddad’s rocking chair
   and the rag and bone man.

  Your Lancashire is different
  like a giant superstore
  a computer website
  an industrial estate
  land reclamation
  and a sanctuary for wild life.

Your Lancashire is today
not yesterday
grasp my red rose
by it’s thorns
let your reality
bleed into my memories
   so that our red rose will never fade.

   Sally James
  _____________________

SALLY JAMES     The best POEM in Standard English - subject matter open
   The winner of the President's Cup

   The Old Mill Stream

   I love to walk by the old mill stream
where the Rose Bay Willow grows
where catkins weep and bluebells peep
and entwine the Briar Rose.

   I love to hear the cuckoo call
   near the crumbling dry stone wall
   yet that rippling stream isn’t all it seems
near the flowing waterfall.

For I hear the voice of yesterday
babbling through cold waters
   echoing words tired fathers said
   to mothers, sons and daughters.

   They talk of hours long and hard
   and the meagre lowly pay
   of children’s laughter turned to tears
   in the early hours of day.

Half-timers juggling work with school
too young to know the shame
of crawling under lashing looms
   oblivious of who’s to blame.

   Those days are gone and glad I am
   that the old mill stream still flows
   rambling on in the same old way
   where the Rose Bay Willow grows.

   Sally James
  _____________________

Frank Gibson - winner of the Edith Grayshan Goblet