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Sheffield Memories - Compiled By L.S.Dunone

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Men Are Women:Retort

 

Dear Sir,

I read Gwen Macarthur’s letter in last weeks paper with keen interest. So now, at last, we all know that we were once female. Let that put an end to all this family tree nonsense, who cares who your gran’s mothers mother was? To me it’s all just a narcissistic charade, just another way for people to think that they are somehow important, when they are not. My daughter spends hours in the local library looking up our ancestors, she may as well be running through the streets shouting ‘Look at me, I’m better than you’. We all are, or were, women, let that put and end to it once and for all.

 

Thanks,

 

Langton Tallyway.

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Men Are Women:Retort

 

Dear Sir,

I read Gwen Macarthur’s letter in last weeks paper with keen interest. So now, at last, we all know that we were once female. Let that put an end to all his family tree nonsense, who cares who your gran’s mothers mother was? To me it’s all just a narcissistic charade, just another way for people to think that they are somehow important, when they are not. My daughter spends hours in the local library looking up out ancestors, she may as well be running through the streets shouting ‘Look at me, I’m better than you’. We all are, or were, women, let that put and end to it once and for all.

 

Thanks,

 

Langton Tallyway.

Very good as usual Seriessix. :thumbsup:

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The thing that makes these delightful ditties wonderful is when the author of the letter rambles on in a completely random manner then inadvertently blows themselves out of the water by ending their letter like this like this:

 

Mark Pheelan, who was female at birth, won the raffle and chose to call the shop The Oriental Theater, Sid didn’t like this name so he decided to call the shop Edwards News instead.

 

Thus rendering the preceding paragraphs perfectly pointless.

 

Simple but brilliant!

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The thing that makes these delightful ditties wonderful is when the author of the letter rambles on in a completely random manner then inadvertently blows themselves out of the water by ending their letter like this like this:

 

 

 

Thus rendering the preceding paragraphs perfectly pointless.

 

Simple but brilliant!

Absolutely agree with you here. I was going to quote the exact passage that you have done.I mean I read it over & over again,and laugh out loud. A true writer here, and what a gift this lady has.

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Dear Sir,

I was wondering if any of the readers remember when they used to sell Bat Cheese down at Castle Market. I remember the cheese fondly; it had a lovely creamy texture, a slight yellowy tinge and a rich crusty skin that reeked of ammonia.

 

Ted Willis use to run the stall but it was his son Paul who used to make the produce. They converted one of the lesser used back stair wells of the Kelvin flats into a breeding ground for the Bats. There were hundreds of the buggers; the noise they made was terrible. Those bats would of also made an awful mess of the stairs were it not for the rich flavor of their currants. After the morning milking Ted’s son would sweep up all the droppings and haul them over to Richard Teatleys bakery where they were used to make his famous Bat Currant Buns.

 

My how times change, some big wig in the council brought in new health and safety regulations and put an end to the Willis’s Cheese and Teatley’s buns. I think I can safely say that I have never tasted anything quite like those delicious treats ever since.

 

Thanks,

 

 

Antonio Marquez.

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My auntie Edith used to live in the Kelvin flats on Edith Walk, an ironic address as she was wheelchair bound, this caused all sorts of confusion with the social services.

 

Her flat was right next to the stair well where Paul used to keep the bats and the noise was indeed terrible; however, Auntie Edith was also as deaf as a four poster bed so it didn’t bother her.

 

She used to feed the bats from her window as they erupted from the stairwell to hunt insects at dusk. Sadly she once turned her back on them and the little beggars flew off with her prized model of the Graf Zeppelin that had been presented to her by Hermann Goering.

 

After that she went rapidly downhill, ending up in a flat on Portland Walk two floors below.

 

Regulars from ‘The Halfpenny’ may remember her haranguing the bats at closing time, as would the milkman the following morning. And her neighbours in between.

 

The bats refused to return the airship and would taunt her with it on Bank holidays.

 

Jonathan Concrete-Spalling.

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Have we got a virus running here ? :hihi: :hihi: Both of them excellent stories. I would join in myself but I havent the know how, I do have a currant bun though. Delicious.!!!! :thumbsup:

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Dear Mr. Concrete-Spalling,

I read your recent letter concerning the bats in rapt wonder, but mention also of the Graf Zeppelin turned my mood from one of sombre tense introspection to one of unmitigated joyous abandon. I feel that it is no surprise that it is January 3rd, at this time of year we all have one half of ourselves looking into the darkness and one half gaping out to the light.

 

These feelings bring up many thoughts in my mind, especially early in the mornings before it gets light. I lie there for hours trying to block out the sound of my wife's snoring, alone, thinking.

 

It is amazing what the mind can regurgitate, and at seemingly the most unlikely of moments. This morning I drempt of an old friend of my fathers, a one Anthony Cobham. To be honest I haven't given this character a second thought in over 40 years. Anthony used to breed greyhounds, and after every litter was born would make Cornish style Clotted Cream from the unused dogs milk which he'd sell to the neighbors on our street. My mother would bake up some scones, open some jam and we'd have a feast fit for a king.

 

Later this afternoon I smiled to myself as I perused the isles of the local supermarket, there in amongst the margarine and butter were tubs of Cobham's Clotted Cream, and I am pleased to report Mr. Concrete-Spalling that it is still faithfully made with using the milk of lactating greyhounds.

 

It is indeed a funny old world, but it's not a world that I'd trade or swap.

 

Tonight I'm looking forward to yet another sleepless night in hope that more fond memories come back to me.

 

Thanks,

 

Steven Keith Unk.

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Later this afternoon I smiled to myself as I perused the isles of the local supermarket

 

Dear Mr Unk,

 

I would just like to say that the above sentence brought back many happy memories for me of the time I was assistant manager of the co-op on Upwell Street.

 

As I’m sure fellow Sheffieldiers are aware our branch was particularly prone to flooding due to a combination of factors, huge volumes of turbulent water just being one of them.

 

It was during one such flood that Mr Marciano, the manager, implemented his “boat around the aisles” service to prevent his customer’s feet from getting wet.

 

We had two boats that were hastily constructed from bread trays; myself and Henrietta Cooper were press ganged into ferrying the customers around the store to collect their shopping.

 

We had a dicey moment when Henrietta ran aground on the sugar in aisle 4; Mr Marciano, completely disregarding his own safety, gallantly waded in until the water was lapping dangerously around his ankles and pulled her free.

 

He was awarded an MBE for his bravery, but it was later withdrawn when the Queen was informed that he drove a car like a complete and utter pillock.

 

Happy Days.

 

George Foreman.

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Dear Mr. Foreman,

 

Do you remember when you where my boss at T.W.Wards on Saville St, Sheffield?.My thick stockings kept falling down, as I was collecting the post at night. You used to have cucumber & salmon(tinned of course) sandwiches, and because I was the office junior,you used to leave me some salmon bones and skin in your wooden post box.I devoured it ravenously, never bothering to pull my thick stockings up.Yes, it was I, who stole that whole cucumber out of your drawer, as I wanted to enter it for my local vegetable show.I won actually,and still owe you the prize I got. A packet of broad bean seeds(now sadly shrivelled up) just like your goodself I expect.:D

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It would seem that my misplaced enthusiasm was having a mournful effect on my colleagues.

 

I have been told exactly the same thing on numerous occasions, in fact head office now send our payslips directly to the Samaritans, but the upside is that my holiday requests are authorised instantly with gleeful anticipation and on the odd occasion, party-poppers.

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