Poor Owd Tup
ONE of the highlights of childhood Christmases was the ritual of "Goo-in rahnd wi t'tup" - though we little knew, or cared, that we were helping to perpetuate a Derbyshire tradition going back to the days of the Mummers - our interest was purely financial.
Weeks were spent in preparation: 'glory holes' were ransacked and jumble sales combed for the requisite clothing - a top hat or bowler (preferably several sizes too big) for the Mester; frock, bonnet and boned corsets for Sally (the corsets were worn on the outside of the frock) and an apron for the butcher.
The tup's head was the thing on which we lavished most attention.
While some were content with a simple plywood cut-out, ours was always an intricate affair, usually two old brush heads fastened together, the near worn-out bristles forming the teeth and the bottom brush sawn in two and hinged to make the lower jaw.
The tongue, which hung down at least a foot, was from an old red inner tube and the eyes were the biggest 'Ponty' marbles we could get.
Cow horns and wool gleaned from barbed wire fencing, completed the effigy.
Nostrils were burnt through the head with a red hot poker and lengths of gas tubing inserted into the back of the holes.
The lad playing Tup could light a fag end as he crouched under the blanket forming the body, and, in between coughs, make the beast emit smoke in a most theatrical manner.
Inevitably, during the evening, he would either set his hair, clothing or blanket alight but, it all added to the entertainment and the coppers!
Judging the right time was important: too early and we'd get nowt, too late and we'd be forestalled.
On the night, we'd get togged up, blacken our faces (soot from the fireback) and, with kale knife for the butcher, a supply of fgag ends (gathered from pavements on dry days) and, most important a collecting tin.
Knocking on the first door we'd loudly chant the preamble; sometimes we'd be told to remove ourselves (or words to that effect) but mostly we'd be invited to perform on the doorstep or inside the house.
Indoor performances not only usually meant more money, but mince pies and a drink and there were always those who pressed drink upon us knowing that, as the evening wore on, our performances would reflect on our increased state of inebriation.
Best of all, from a financial point of view, was being allowed into a pub, club or dance hall, but these occasions were few and far between.
Recite: Here comes me and ahr owd lass, short 'er money and short 'er brass.
Pay for a pint and let's all sup, and then we'll act ahr jolly owd Tup.
Sing: We have a little Tup, Sir, comes knocking at your door,
And if you let us in Sir, we'll please you more and more - Poor Owd Tup, Poor Owd Tup.
Dialogue: "Sally, Sally, is there a butcher in this tahn?
Ah 'mi uncle Bob's a blacksmith.
We want a butcher, not a blacksmith yer silly blockee-ad.
Here I am, a jolly butcher, what's to be done?
Kill this Tup.
Wheer shall ah stick him?
Has thar been a butcher all these years and don't know where ter stick a tup.
Ah can cut four pahnd er beef off a bare leg er mutton - nah wheer shall ah stick him?
Heart, sir, rump, sir.
Put thi hand o'er his eyes.
Sally puts her hand to mthe rear of tup: Them's not his eyes, yer silly begger, put thi hand o'er his eyes.
Sally does so and the butcher stabs tup. Tup bleats, threshes about and dies noisily, milking it for all it's worth.
All sing: The butcher has killed the Tup, Sir, in danger of his life,
He's up to the knees in blood, Sir, cried out for a longer knife.
Poor Owd Tup; Poor owd Tup.
The horns that grew on the Tup, Sir, they grew so mighty High,
That every time he nods his head, they scrape the bright blue sky
Poor owd Tup, Poor owd Tup.
The wool that grew on the Tup, Sir, it grew so mighty high,
The ravens built their nests in it, I heard the young ones cry
Poor Owd Tup; Poor Owd Tup.
All the lads in Derby came begging for his eyes
To kick them up and down the street, for they were football size.
Poor Owd Tup, Poor Owd Tup.
All the women in Derby came begging for his ears,
To make them leather aprons to last for forty years.
Pood owd Tup, Poor Owd Tup.
All the men in Derby came begging for his tail.
To ring St George's Passing Bell, that hangs in Derby Jail.
Poor Owd Tup, Poor owd Tup
And now our tale is ended, we have no more to say
So please to give us a Christmas Box and let us on our way
Poor Owd Tup, Poor owd Tup.
In these days of sophisticated entertainment, I suppose there is now no room for such simple and repetitve perormances, except maybe in the hearts of those of us who mourn our lost youth and join the refrain: Poor Owd Tup, Poor Owd Tup.
Dave Froggatt, Sheffield 21.
Following the publication of Fred Pass's latest book of amusing childhood escapades, Weerz Me Mam?, we invited readers to tell us their memories.
Keep them coming, email them to staronline@sheffieldnewspapers.co.uk
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Saturday 26 May 2012
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