Sorry Roger
Fans' Favourite
One afternoon of late summer, before the twenty-first century had reached one-quarter of its span, a young man and a woman, the latter carrying an infant in a baby sling, were crossing a wooded park in Sandbourne, Wessex. The baby sling, their clothes - Boden gilets, Joules jeans, Timberland deck shoes - and their general demeanour marked them out for what they were: second home owners from London, come into Sandbourne from their cottage.
Before them they espied a gay and festive sight: a small stadium with before it two tents, flags a fluttering. “Let us stop here Olivia” said Michael Henchard to his wife “for you must be tired of carrying young Elizabeth-Jane.” His wife was not so sure and wavered, but just then they were approached by a cheerful gentleman, wearing a bright waistcoat decorated with the stars and stripes. This matched his accent which was plainly from the New World.
“You all are welcome, very welcome” he exclaimed “please come inside for in this splendid tent you will find all you need to eat and drink for a most modest price, followed by the finest sporting spectacle”. The American gentleman introduced himself as Big Jim and also assured them that the clientele were of the most genteel sort and would be the type of people familiar to them from London. Sure enough, when he lifted the tent flap, there came the familiar sound of braying voices, sounding much like Leadenhall Market on a summer’s evening. Michael, who was intrigued by this and prided himself on his commercial prowess, talked quietly to Big Jim and managed to beat the price down to just £139 each. “But what about those rough fellows there?” asked Olivia indicating a group coming through the park. “But they have their own tent just there, and are much happier for that” came the retort.
Sure enough the tent – their tent – seemed full of Londoners. So, full of enthusiasm, Michael went to the bar and was soon talking animatedly about margin calls, reinsurance syndicates and the like. Olivia sat at one of the further benches with their baby daughter, toying with a vegan pie and wondering why no-one seemed to know what quinoa was.
Michael had surely drunk a little too much and, in an effort to compose himself before seeking out his wife, sat at a bench near the bar. A rather blowsy woman sat next to him and introduced herself with a sly grin: “they call me finney Liz, an’ I ‘ave summat for ‘ee”. With that she showed him an earthenware bowl filled with what looked like porridge and raisins, and with a distinct smell of rum. “That’s furmity, the best there is” she said and Michael responded that he had never tasted it.
He went to hold it up to his nose the better to see and smell it, at which finney Liz became agitated and hissed at him “keep the furmity out of sight, for if HE sees it” (meaning the American gentleman) “he’ll want to take his commission, ‘e’s a terror for that, why he’d sell ‘is own wife if the price were right”. The woman then rummaged in her ample bosoms and after a certain amount of scrabbling about, pulled forth a card reader. Michael wavered, but was convinced when Liz leant towards him and whispered, in a rather husky voice, “I’ll take Amex if you like”.
The furmity was indeed very good and, having drained the bowl, Michael passed it back for more. At this the woman became indignant “it taint Wetherspoons ‘ere, you want more you need to pay ‘gain”, repeating the hunt in her bosom for the card reader. Still warm, noticed Michael as he paid once more, then a third and a fourth time.
He must have fallen asleep for, when he woke, Liz had gone and Olivia was standing over him angrily shouting at him and telling him it was time to go. The tent had fallen quiet as people looked on. Indeed such was the noise that some of the common people from the other tent had gathered in the doorway to watch. At the back of his mind, he struggled to recall something the woman had said to him, and then he remembered. Why shouldn’t I he thought to himself. Rousing himself as best he could in his fuddled state he exclaimed of Olivia “she is a comely young thing, such as anyone would be proud to have as a wife, so who will give me £5,000 for her?”. His former drinking mates at the bar went quiet, but one man at the tent doorway – a sailor by his costume – piped up “why I will do so, and take the bairn as well, provided the woman will come willingly”. Olivia, who was quite furious with Michael by this point, said loudly and clearly that she would.
Her husband swayed, as if having second thoughts, but then said with as much dignity as he could muster, half expecting the sailor to be bluffing, “then show me your money”. The sailor stepped forward and began to count out the notes onto the trestle table. “Just stop there” came a loud American voice, and Big Jim grasped the sailor’s forearm. There was an audible sigh of relief from the customers at the bar, for surely this nonsense was about to be stopped. However the ruffians at the tent door merely smirked, for they knew what was coming. “House rules” said Big Jim “forty percent of all transactions belong to us”. With that, he counted out the money keeping back £2,000 and giving Michael £3,000. The latter was by this stage much too drunk to protest.
After that something of a silence fell. Michael slept and the Londoners were subdued, stumbling off to their seats for the match. The common types slipped away back to their own tent. Only Big Jim seemed animated, as he made notes and appeared to be calculating the returns possible from holding wife auctions. Tis said that he later reached out to the LGBT+ community in an attempt to broaden the auction market.
Michael, they say, never touched a drop of drink again and removed to Casterbridge where, thanks to being teetotal, he proved to be fit and strong and a good footballer. So he played for the local team. Many years later, after the sailor had died, Olivia and her now grown up daughter returned to Sandbourne but could find no trace of the tents and stadium. Instead there seemed to be an estate of executive homes. They could only wonder where Big Jim had gone with the money.
Sent from Mail for Windows
Before them they espied a gay and festive sight: a small stadium with before it two tents, flags a fluttering. “Let us stop here Olivia” said Michael Henchard to his wife “for you must be tired of carrying young Elizabeth-Jane.” His wife was not so sure and wavered, but just then they were approached by a cheerful gentleman, wearing a bright waistcoat decorated with the stars and stripes. This matched his accent which was plainly from the New World.
“You all are welcome, very welcome” he exclaimed “please come inside for in this splendid tent you will find all you need to eat and drink for a most modest price, followed by the finest sporting spectacle”. The American gentleman introduced himself as Big Jim and also assured them that the clientele were of the most genteel sort and would be the type of people familiar to them from London. Sure enough, when he lifted the tent flap, there came the familiar sound of braying voices, sounding much like Leadenhall Market on a summer’s evening. Michael, who was intrigued by this and prided himself on his commercial prowess, talked quietly to Big Jim and managed to beat the price down to just £139 each. “But what about those rough fellows there?” asked Olivia indicating a group coming through the park. “But they have their own tent just there, and are much happier for that” came the retort.
Sure enough the tent – their tent – seemed full of Londoners. So, full of enthusiasm, Michael went to the bar and was soon talking animatedly about margin calls, reinsurance syndicates and the like. Olivia sat at one of the further benches with their baby daughter, toying with a vegan pie and wondering why no-one seemed to know what quinoa was.
Michael had surely drunk a little too much and, in an effort to compose himself before seeking out his wife, sat at a bench near the bar. A rather blowsy woman sat next to him and introduced herself with a sly grin: “they call me finney Liz, an’ I ‘ave summat for ‘ee”. With that she showed him an earthenware bowl filled with what looked like porridge and raisins, and with a distinct smell of rum. “That’s furmity, the best there is” she said and Michael responded that he had never tasted it.
He went to hold it up to his nose the better to see and smell it, at which finney Liz became agitated and hissed at him “keep the furmity out of sight, for if HE sees it” (meaning the American gentleman) “he’ll want to take his commission, ‘e’s a terror for that, why he’d sell ‘is own wife if the price were right”. The woman then rummaged in her ample bosoms and after a certain amount of scrabbling about, pulled forth a card reader. Michael wavered, but was convinced when Liz leant towards him and whispered, in a rather husky voice, “I’ll take Amex if you like”.
The furmity was indeed very good and, having drained the bowl, Michael passed it back for more. At this the woman became indignant “it taint Wetherspoons ‘ere, you want more you need to pay ‘gain”, repeating the hunt in her bosom for the card reader. Still warm, noticed Michael as he paid once more, then a third and a fourth time.
He must have fallen asleep for, when he woke, Liz had gone and Olivia was standing over him angrily shouting at him and telling him it was time to go. The tent had fallen quiet as people looked on. Indeed such was the noise that some of the common people from the other tent had gathered in the doorway to watch. At the back of his mind, he struggled to recall something the woman had said to him, and then he remembered. Why shouldn’t I he thought to himself. Rousing himself as best he could in his fuddled state he exclaimed of Olivia “she is a comely young thing, such as anyone would be proud to have as a wife, so who will give me £5,000 for her?”. His former drinking mates at the bar went quiet, but one man at the tent doorway – a sailor by his costume – piped up “why I will do so, and take the bairn as well, provided the woman will come willingly”. Olivia, who was quite furious with Michael by this point, said loudly and clearly that she would.
Her husband swayed, as if having second thoughts, but then said with as much dignity as he could muster, half expecting the sailor to be bluffing, “then show me your money”. The sailor stepped forward and began to count out the notes onto the trestle table. “Just stop there” came a loud American voice, and Big Jim grasped the sailor’s forearm. There was an audible sigh of relief from the customers at the bar, for surely this nonsense was about to be stopped. However the ruffians at the tent door merely smirked, for they knew what was coming. “House rules” said Big Jim “forty percent of all transactions belong to us”. With that, he counted out the money keeping back £2,000 and giving Michael £3,000. The latter was by this stage much too drunk to protest.
After that something of a silence fell. Michael slept and the Londoners were subdued, stumbling off to their seats for the match. The common types slipped away back to their own tent. Only Big Jim seemed animated, as he made notes and appeared to be calculating the returns possible from holding wife auctions. Tis said that he later reached out to the LGBT+ community in an attempt to broaden the auction market.
Michael, they say, never touched a drop of drink again and removed to Casterbridge where, thanks to being teetotal, he proved to be fit and strong and a good footballer. So he played for the local team. Many years later, after the sailor had died, Olivia and her now grown up daughter returned to Sandbourne but could find no trace of the tents and stadium. Instead there seemed to be an estate of executive homes. They could only wonder where Big Jim had gone with the money.
Sent from Mail for Windows
Last edited:
