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THE WALLSEND BUTCHER Written by Leonard Barras

Arbuthnot Wutherfoot was a butcher.

He was a fairly humane man, in spite of his grisly trade, arguing that if people wanted to eat scorched corpses, he might as well supply them as the next man.

However, his humanity fought a constant battle with his butchery. In the end, in a torment of compensation, he founded the Wallsend Butchers' Poetry and Tulip Society.

Presently he was obsessed with poetry and tulips, and took to reciting Wordsworth's 'Tulips' to his wife, Blanche.

She would ask him if he wouldn't rather go out and get drunk.

He was a fairly self-important butcher, given to sententious pontification.

"We pass this way but once," he would say, "and you're a long time dead."

His wife would ask him if he wouldn't rather recite Wordsworth's 'Tulips'.

He was also obsessed with death: "Mind you, I don't want to be cremated", he frequently insisted over his dinner of scorched pigs' corpses. "When the Great Reaper calls, take care to have me covered with muck."

He would then go on to catalogue the merits of decent burial.

His wife would ask him if he wouldn't rather do some sententious pontification.

"I want you to plant tulip bulbs on my grave," he instructed, "while the massed butchers of Wallsend recite Wordsworth's 'Tulips'."

"I think you mean Wordsworth's 'Daffodils'", his wife murmured.

"Pass the gravy, woman!" he shouted, for he hated to be contradicted.

However, his wife's amendment had sown some doubt in his mind, and he fell to wondering why 'Floats on high o'er vales and hills' didn't rhyme with 'tulips'.

This affected his butchery, and he began to imagine he was being persecuted.

"I was kicked by a chicken today, Hilda", he said one night.

"My name's Blanche", his wife reminded him. "Oh, you were kicked by a chicken?"

"Don't be silly, woman!" he shouted. "How could a chicken kick anybody? You know the trouble with you, Rose: you get everything wrong.”

This affected his wife, and she began to get everything wrong, and went about with an absent smile, icing the Christmas cake with toothpaste.

"You'll be the death of me", he said, sententiously.

"Merry Christmas, Oscar or Billy", his wife replied. "You know the trouble with you: you're foaming at the mouth. Why don't you catalogue the merits of decent burial?"

"I'd rather go out and get drunk", he said. And he did.

On his way back from 'The Dun Cow' he was kicked by a chicken, and being obsessed with death, he died.

At his funeral, his confused wife invited the massed florists of Wallsend to recite Lamb's 'Dissertation on Roast Pig'. Afterwards, with an absent smile, she planted three dozen bulbs.

The next time you're in Wallsend Cemetery, look for his grave: it's the one that's covered with onions.

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This monologue appeared during the early 1970's in a BBC Radio Programme, The Northern Drift (and possibly the later Television incarnation "Get the Drift") where it was spoken by Henry Livings.

The above was transcribed from the radio by J. Bridgeman and additional line breaks added by a Duck.

Quack!

Geoff the Duck (pleased to have the full words).