|(HB pencil on 125mm x 75mm note card)|
Sunday, 5 February 2012
Th'z nowt wrong wi' our Billy. Everyone likes him 'round here. It's only sutherners that have a problem wi'him. We had one not s'long since. A Mister Shanks from 'Home Office. Daft bugger dint know wharri were on abaht and got himsen wound up abaht nowt.
"He's not normal, Mister Ackroyd!" he says to me. "Can't you see that he's made of metal?"
"Probably from Sheffield," I says. "Th've all got steel in their blood ovver there. So they say anyway." Then this Shanks feller turned right nasty.
"Are you completely stupid?!" the cheeky bleeder said to me! In m'own house, and in front o' wife 'n' kids 'n' all! "He's not human," he says. "He's some unearthly freak!" Well, I just snapped dint I? After I gently ushered wife 'n' kids out o' room and closed 'door behind them.
"Now you listen to me, y'pin-striped pillock!" I says, not wanting t'raise m'voice 'coz o' neighbours like. "Just because our Billy dunt drink or smoke dunt make him different. I'm sure that's homophobic, or summat, I dunno. He's a proper man's man. Works his shift at pit and pays his way. He even looks after his pigeons well, and they're 'only ones that shite all ovver him. If you can't accept him for what he is, then y'can just bugger off back down sahth, because y'not welcome 'round here!" And I sent him on his way with a flea in his ear.
"BLOODY SUTHERNERS, EH PHIL?" Billy said to me later on.
Aye, bloody sutherners. None of 'em know what's reet.