Post by yenilira on May 28, 2011 18:34:14 GMT 1
...and associated tales and legends........
Sir Ian of Holloway
by Ye Olde Premier Tangerine (U13874132) 04 May 2010
Verily, in the year of our Lord two thousand and nine, a wandering football Knight by the name of Sir Ian of Holloway happened upon the sandy shores of the land known as the Fylde. A land with a proud history, Sir Stanley of Matthews, Tony of the Green, and Alan the Suddick were legends in local folklore. Sir Ian, far from home, small of stature but huge of heart, had learnt his trade in the treacherous South and carried his past heavily.
Meeting the local lords Belokon and Oyston, he pledged, that for a modest sum of gold, he could get their football team to the fabled playoffs of the English Championship. Oh how the locals rejoiced, ignoring the derision of the peasants from the village at the mouth of the mighty river Ribble. The local fanatics, whose ambitions were to avoid relegation to the depths of the so called primo division, pledged anew to follow the Tangerine favour.
And so it happened. Sir Ian brought the troubled Charles of Adam from the city in the Frozen North, gave him hope, and it was returned fivefold. As his fame and success spread across the nation, knights sent their troubled sons and youngsters to learn at the ground of the Mighty Pool. Barry of the Villa, the troubled DJ of Campbell and Dobbie from the Land of the Swans, all grew in stature, and gained grace. Brett of Ormerod, a wandering man at arms sorely injured some years before, regained his skills under the touch of the healer Sir Ian.
And so to the Final Tourney. The rivals from the Great Forest near Nottingham, from the Land of The Foxes, and the followers of St Ninian all awaited with trepidation. So the Mighty Pool, sporting the fabled Tangerine, went forth, heads high, confident in their skills and the undying support of the fanatics called the Seasiders.
Blackpool .... The Benedictory.
by Yenilira (U13942143) 07 May 2010
Our Ollie, who cometh as a stranger from the Wood of the Kings,
May our Blessings prevail, and do leadeth us in pursuance of the Grail
which be known as the Premiership
To all followers of the Sporte they call the Ffotebale.
So gird thy loins, oh Tangerine-clad virtuosi of the Dark Pool
In the name of the Tower,
and the Hallowed Field of the Bloom.
Be vigilant to the guile of our rivals
That we disappoint them
As we have before disappointed them.
And we entreat that our Foemen,
Who are of the Danelaw, the Leir's Land, and the Silures,
Manipulateth not the sphere once made of pig-skin
in the course of our castle.
And we pray that our adjudicators, all good fellows,
Haveth the Sense that we deem Common,
and our endeavours be not frustrated.
And that the pulmonary swelleth to the Heavens
from the fervent hordes clothed in Tangerine,
And the symbolic rhythmic reverberation of the Drum
Echo throughout the Land.
And we pray, Wee Ollie, so leadeth us to the Guerdon
that is the edifice in the south lands,
which be the Mecca of our sporting peoples.
In the name of Our Valeri, The Oyster and The Holloway
Amen.
YL.
With apologies to Father Damian Feeney, the original 'Flying Vicar'.
The Litany.
And so it came to pass,
on the day the Moon do passeth by Saturn
That the sound of grinding incisors
from the near east
Be heard all around.
And the tumultous discord from the far lands,
Shall reach such a crescendo
That the Tower of the Black Pool
Shall quiver in its groundwork.
And henceforth from this day forward
A Freeman, a Yeoman, of the name Ian
In the town that is of the Sea-Side
Be Ordained.
And those days shall remain forever in our
reminiscence.
Amen.
Sir Ian of Holloway Part II
by Ye Olde Premier Tangerine (U13874132) 13 May 2010
And so the tale continues. Sir Ian’s fame grew, and the Men of the Forrest of Nottingham came to the field of the Bloom to compete. Valiantly, they marched into the Tangerine Cauldron. First blood to the Foresters, a sublime piece of skill for the Priest from the East, causing Older Tangerines to remember Mickey ‘i’ the Walsh’s Golden boot. Back came the Seaside knights, a scramble and Sir Keith the hero. “On” willed the fanatics, and their prayers were heard, DJ of Campbell sealing the victory.
The battle then moved to the great city of Nottingham. The mighty castle defences had not been breached since a 9 month, all who attacked were defeated. The mighty Seasiders, secure in the knowledge that only they knew the Key to Unlock the city, laid siege. First blood to the Forrest Men, then to the Tangerines, again the Foresters, again the Pool. Cometh the Hour, cometh the Man. The troubled son of the Foxes grew in stature that day and earned his spurs, aided by Dobbie of the Swans and with all the Mighty Tangerine Host putting their bodies on the line for him, he destroyed the Men from the Forrest. The Fanatics went berserker; Sir Ian was almost lost for words, saying only a small piece in his own humble way, sporting a Tangerine Crown. The Sheriff, a man of Scotland with a name from Wales, rent his raiment in shame.
So Sir Ian called all the sons of the Black Pool to their Temple, to rest, to plan, and to provision. Charles of Adam volunteered to go back to his homeland to consult the Wise Women. Finding the three witches on the blasted heath, he saith unto them “ Crones, how will go the Battle of Wemberlee?”
Smoke erupted from the fire, and the crones saith as one:
“Leg of Toad
Eye of Newt
That DJ’s got
A sweet left foot”
Gladly, Charles made haste back to the Fylde with the Great Augury, and the Host were content.
And so Sir Ian planned for the trip to the Treacherous South. The Tangerine fanatics spake unto each other and made their way South together, by foot, by horse, and by boat. The sons and daughter of the Fylde who serve the Queen abroad came by miraculous flying machine, and those priests spreading the Tangerine message across the world arrived, having seen the message in the Sky.
And so they went forth to meet the Followers of St Ninian, in the Temple known as Wemberlee. Messages of Goodwill from around the land rang in their ears, from the Weegies of the North, the Irons, the Queens Armourers, the Swans, the Hammers, those regarded as Posh, those from the Mouths of the Tees and the Tyne, and even some honourable peasants from the Mouth of the Ribble. Yeoman Ted promised to do penance bare of foot along the Wemberlee Way, for ever doubting the skill of Sir Keith. Proud maidens of Ye Fylde pledged to call their first born after the valiant Sir Ian. Such joy as has not been seen in the land for nearly 40 years.
And so continues the Epic Tale. But shall the ending be that of the Faerie or of the Grimm?
………………………………………………..
Earl Holloway of the Field of Bloom
by Ye Olde Premier Tangerine (U13874132) 25 May 2010
And so continues our Tale. The Tangerine Army grew to a Horde, and, together with the Followers of St Ninian, descended on the dull grey capital city like a coloured blanket of Tangerine and Blue. Outside the great Stadium the Fanatics met, friends from across the known world, exotic Tangerine Sheiks professing their preference for Camels over Sheep, a singer from the colonies across the ocean many thought had passed on years before, women of the Church, maidens too poor to wear more than small rags, young bare chested warriors in their Tangerine wode. They all came, the young, the old, the expectant, the afflicted, and mighty was their voice. The ground echoed to the Primal Chant, in the lowest register, of “Sea, Sea, Seasiders”.
The Famous Wemberlee Tourney Ground was magnificent. The Tangerine hordes, taking their places to watch their heroes do battle, were struck by the full glory of the Sun; those of the Bluebird were hidden in the shade, an Omen, perhaps. Fighters of the King’s forces paraded around the ground, being met with adulation in all corners.
And so it started. First blood to the St Ninians, a sublime strike. Minutes later, the crowds were stunned by a piece of skill by Prince Charlie, a strike which two old men agreed reminded them of the Late and much Revered Banana kick by Allan the Suddick. Again advantage to the Blue army, then a scramble, and Gary, son of Coat and Arrow makers, ignored his own safety to go in where it hurts and strike. Never was a contest more dearly fought, two evenly matched foes, giving their all in the harsh and pitiless sun.
And then it happened. Brett of Ormerod, of whom we have spoken before, servant to the Tangerine through many years and battles, threw himself into the Frey and struck the vital blow. The battle continued in the great heat, in a cauldron of noise, but none could change the path. Again and again, the Blue men attacked, again and again our Tangerine heroes threw them back and mounted the Countere Attacke. And then it was over, the Stadium filled with the great battle cries of the men and women from the Black Pool, and the doughty fighters were acclaimed one and all. Again, Sir Ian had planned the battle, trained and placed his warriors, and now he would reap what he had sewn. And sad were the Men of Wales, but rightly proud of their effort.
The mighty Lords Belokon and Oyston received Sir Ian and his men, and mighty was their reward, gold, honours, promises of fealty from all. By popular acclaim, Sir Ian was raised and ennobled to Earl Holloway of the Field of Bloom, and yet, when he spake, he still entertained the Horde in his own inimitable manner. How mighty is the heart of this man of the West. Great was the singing and merry making into the night. Even then, the mighty Lords started their plans to reinforce the Fortress of the Field of Bloom, in expectation of the visit of even stronger and more skilled foes.
Two sunrises after their Great Victory, those of the Tangerine who still lived close to the Black Pool met to welcome their conquering idols home. The whole area of Ye Fylde was covered with Tangerine cloth, and much was the rejoicing amongst those who had returned, and those who were cursed to miss the Great Day. The noble Earl entertained the crowds, regaling them with his wisdom and encouraging his shy young warriors to sing to the crowds. Much Ale was drunk, and the great Sun once again shone down on the Righteous Seasiders.
And so our Tale ends. For the Future is a distant place, known to none but the Lord. And remember, all my young friends, the good and humble can succeed, and the lure of Gold is a false Mistress.
~ ~ ~
Just a wee boost for the forthcoming season, and to re-live our Glory Days -
Hope I dost not incur thy wrath, Ye Olde, for the copyeing of these scribes so well put by thy guid self...
YL.
Sir Ian of Holloway
by Ye Olde Premier Tangerine (U13874132) 04 May 2010
Verily, in the year of our Lord two thousand and nine, a wandering football Knight by the name of Sir Ian of Holloway happened upon the sandy shores of the land known as the Fylde. A land with a proud history, Sir Stanley of Matthews, Tony of the Green, and Alan the Suddick were legends in local folklore. Sir Ian, far from home, small of stature but huge of heart, had learnt his trade in the treacherous South and carried his past heavily.
Meeting the local lords Belokon and Oyston, he pledged, that for a modest sum of gold, he could get their football team to the fabled playoffs of the English Championship. Oh how the locals rejoiced, ignoring the derision of the peasants from the village at the mouth of the mighty river Ribble. The local fanatics, whose ambitions were to avoid relegation to the depths of the so called primo division, pledged anew to follow the Tangerine favour.
And so it happened. Sir Ian brought the troubled Charles of Adam from the city in the Frozen North, gave him hope, and it was returned fivefold. As his fame and success spread across the nation, knights sent their troubled sons and youngsters to learn at the ground of the Mighty Pool. Barry of the Villa, the troubled DJ of Campbell and Dobbie from the Land of the Swans, all grew in stature, and gained grace. Brett of Ormerod, a wandering man at arms sorely injured some years before, regained his skills under the touch of the healer Sir Ian.
And so to the Final Tourney. The rivals from the Great Forest near Nottingham, from the Land of The Foxes, and the followers of St Ninian all awaited with trepidation. So the Mighty Pool, sporting the fabled Tangerine, went forth, heads high, confident in their skills and the undying support of the fanatics called the Seasiders.
Blackpool .... The Benedictory.
by Yenilira (U13942143) 07 May 2010
Our Ollie, who cometh as a stranger from the Wood of the Kings,
May our Blessings prevail, and do leadeth us in pursuance of the Grail
which be known as the Premiership
To all followers of the Sporte they call the Ffotebale.
So gird thy loins, oh Tangerine-clad virtuosi of the Dark Pool
In the name of the Tower,
and the Hallowed Field of the Bloom.
Be vigilant to the guile of our rivals
That we disappoint them
As we have before disappointed them.
And we entreat that our Foemen,
Who are of the Danelaw, the Leir's Land, and the Silures,
Manipulateth not the sphere once made of pig-skin
in the course of our castle.
And we pray that our adjudicators, all good fellows,
Haveth the Sense that we deem Common,
and our endeavours be not frustrated.
And that the pulmonary swelleth to the Heavens
from the fervent hordes clothed in Tangerine,
And the symbolic rhythmic reverberation of the Drum
Echo throughout the Land.
And we pray, Wee Ollie, so leadeth us to the Guerdon
that is the edifice in the south lands,
which be the Mecca of our sporting peoples.
In the name of Our Valeri, The Oyster and The Holloway
Amen.
YL.
With apologies to Father Damian Feeney, the original 'Flying Vicar'.
The Litany.
And so it came to pass,
on the day the Moon do passeth by Saturn
That the sound of grinding incisors
from the near east
Be heard all around.
And the tumultous discord from the far lands,
Shall reach such a crescendo
That the Tower of the Black Pool
Shall quiver in its groundwork.
And henceforth from this day forward
A Freeman, a Yeoman, of the name Ian
In the town that is of the Sea-Side
Be Ordained.
And those days shall remain forever in our
reminiscence.
Amen.
Sir Ian of Holloway Part II
by Ye Olde Premier Tangerine (U13874132) 13 May 2010
And so the tale continues. Sir Ian’s fame grew, and the Men of the Forrest of Nottingham came to the field of the Bloom to compete. Valiantly, they marched into the Tangerine Cauldron. First blood to the Foresters, a sublime piece of skill for the Priest from the East, causing Older Tangerines to remember Mickey ‘i’ the Walsh’s Golden boot. Back came the Seaside knights, a scramble and Sir Keith the hero. “On” willed the fanatics, and their prayers were heard, DJ of Campbell sealing the victory.
The battle then moved to the great city of Nottingham. The mighty castle defences had not been breached since a 9 month, all who attacked were defeated. The mighty Seasiders, secure in the knowledge that only they knew the Key to Unlock the city, laid siege. First blood to the Forrest Men, then to the Tangerines, again the Foresters, again the Pool. Cometh the Hour, cometh the Man. The troubled son of the Foxes grew in stature that day and earned his spurs, aided by Dobbie of the Swans and with all the Mighty Tangerine Host putting their bodies on the line for him, he destroyed the Men from the Forrest. The Fanatics went berserker; Sir Ian was almost lost for words, saying only a small piece in his own humble way, sporting a Tangerine Crown. The Sheriff, a man of Scotland with a name from Wales, rent his raiment in shame.
So Sir Ian called all the sons of the Black Pool to their Temple, to rest, to plan, and to provision. Charles of Adam volunteered to go back to his homeland to consult the Wise Women. Finding the three witches on the blasted heath, he saith unto them “ Crones, how will go the Battle of Wemberlee?”
Smoke erupted from the fire, and the crones saith as one:
“Leg of Toad
Eye of Newt
That DJ’s got
A sweet left foot”
Gladly, Charles made haste back to the Fylde with the Great Augury, and the Host were content.
And so Sir Ian planned for the trip to the Treacherous South. The Tangerine fanatics spake unto each other and made their way South together, by foot, by horse, and by boat. The sons and daughter of the Fylde who serve the Queen abroad came by miraculous flying machine, and those priests spreading the Tangerine message across the world arrived, having seen the message in the Sky.
And so they went forth to meet the Followers of St Ninian, in the Temple known as Wemberlee. Messages of Goodwill from around the land rang in their ears, from the Weegies of the North, the Irons, the Queens Armourers, the Swans, the Hammers, those regarded as Posh, those from the Mouths of the Tees and the Tyne, and even some honourable peasants from the Mouth of the Ribble. Yeoman Ted promised to do penance bare of foot along the Wemberlee Way, for ever doubting the skill of Sir Keith. Proud maidens of Ye Fylde pledged to call their first born after the valiant Sir Ian. Such joy as has not been seen in the land for nearly 40 years.
And so continues the Epic Tale. But shall the ending be that of the Faerie or of the Grimm?
………………………………………………..
Earl Holloway of the Field of Bloom
by Ye Olde Premier Tangerine (U13874132) 25 May 2010
And so continues our Tale. The Tangerine Army grew to a Horde, and, together with the Followers of St Ninian, descended on the dull grey capital city like a coloured blanket of Tangerine and Blue. Outside the great Stadium the Fanatics met, friends from across the known world, exotic Tangerine Sheiks professing their preference for Camels over Sheep, a singer from the colonies across the ocean many thought had passed on years before, women of the Church, maidens too poor to wear more than small rags, young bare chested warriors in their Tangerine wode. They all came, the young, the old, the expectant, the afflicted, and mighty was their voice. The ground echoed to the Primal Chant, in the lowest register, of “Sea, Sea, Seasiders”.
The Famous Wemberlee Tourney Ground was magnificent. The Tangerine hordes, taking their places to watch their heroes do battle, were struck by the full glory of the Sun; those of the Bluebird were hidden in the shade, an Omen, perhaps. Fighters of the King’s forces paraded around the ground, being met with adulation in all corners.
And so it started. First blood to the St Ninians, a sublime strike. Minutes later, the crowds were stunned by a piece of skill by Prince Charlie, a strike which two old men agreed reminded them of the Late and much Revered Banana kick by Allan the Suddick. Again advantage to the Blue army, then a scramble, and Gary, son of Coat and Arrow makers, ignored his own safety to go in where it hurts and strike. Never was a contest more dearly fought, two evenly matched foes, giving their all in the harsh and pitiless sun.
And then it happened. Brett of Ormerod, of whom we have spoken before, servant to the Tangerine through many years and battles, threw himself into the Frey and struck the vital blow. The battle continued in the great heat, in a cauldron of noise, but none could change the path. Again and again, the Blue men attacked, again and again our Tangerine heroes threw them back and mounted the Countere Attacke. And then it was over, the Stadium filled with the great battle cries of the men and women from the Black Pool, and the doughty fighters were acclaimed one and all. Again, Sir Ian had planned the battle, trained and placed his warriors, and now he would reap what he had sewn. And sad were the Men of Wales, but rightly proud of their effort.
The mighty Lords Belokon and Oyston received Sir Ian and his men, and mighty was their reward, gold, honours, promises of fealty from all. By popular acclaim, Sir Ian was raised and ennobled to Earl Holloway of the Field of Bloom, and yet, when he spake, he still entertained the Horde in his own inimitable manner. How mighty is the heart of this man of the West. Great was the singing and merry making into the night. Even then, the mighty Lords started their plans to reinforce the Fortress of the Field of Bloom, in expectation of the visit of even stronger and more skilled foes.
Two sunrises after their Great Victory, those of the Tangerine who still lived close to the Black Pool met to welcome their conquering idols home. The whole area of Ye Fylde was covered with Tangerine cloth, and much was the rejoicing amongst those who had returned, and those who were cursed to miss the Great Day. The noble Earl entertained the crowds, regaling them with his wisdom and encouraging his shy young warriors to sing to the crowds. Much Ale was drunk, and the great Sun once again shone down on the Righteous Seasiders.
And so our Tale ends. For the Future is a distant place, known to none but the Lord. And remember, all my young friends, the good and humble can succeed, and the lure of Gold is a false Mistress.
~ ~ ~
Just a wee boost for the forthcoming season, and to re-live our Glory Days -
Hope I dost not incur thy wrath, Ye Olde, for the copyeing of these scribes so well put by thy guid self...
YL.