I’ve just got back from a immensely enjoyable weekend where I spent the first night at the “World’s Biggest Liar” competition, held annually at the “Bridge Inn” pub in the Lake District.
As luck would have it my flight touched down at Manchester ten minutes early which miraculously enabled me to catch the last available train to Ravenglass which, as far as I’m aware is the nearest point of civilization to (a) Holmrook – the location of my B and B, and (b) Santon Bridge itself where the competition will be held.
It’s six o’clock on the dot as I breeze through the door at the “Ratty Arms” pub, which I’m guessing in former times was the waiting room for Ravenglass station as it is actually located on the platform itself. I’m figuring I’m going to time this thing just about right as it says on the ticket in my back pocket that the starting time is 7pm (the ticket also enables me to partake of the “Tattie Supper”, whatever that is, but whatever, I’ll tackle it as I’m ravenous). As there was no sign of a telephone box I ask the young barmaid for a taxi number, and she very kindly offers to phone one for me. After a short conversation on the somewhat less than reliable mobile phone she gladly informs me that there is a taxi available – at about 7:15! – the sole driver allocated to these parts obviously doesn’t like rushing his tea.
I muttered some mild expletive under my breathe and asked if there wasn’t some other firm that might take me now, but she looked annoyed at my annoyance and said that there wasn’t. “Ok, I’ll take it, - thank you” I said, as I stood deflated against the bar counting my change all crestfallen. I sat with a pint of “John Smiths” as I weighed up my options.
The taxi driver showed up at around 7:25pm and I scurried out of that very pleasant hostelry and into the awaiting vehicle. I had him drop me off at the “Lutwidge Arms” pub which was to be my bed for the night. I flew through the door like some wild west villain explaining that “the clock was running” and I didn’t have time for pleasantries as I breathlessly gave my name to the amiable if somewhat startled woman and told her thank you very much as I threw my bag into room 9 and haired back down the stairs and out into the car park.
The lengthy pause that greeted my inquiry as to what my chances were to getting a taxi back again later on left me squirming, before feigning relief with – “Oh it doesn’t matter, if I know which way I’m going I’d rather walk anyway”
As I forced my way into the packed venue, - us club people would call it a “Function Room” I could see that I didn’t have a hope of finding a seat and I was going to struggle to find any sort of standing position come to that. I naturally sort sanctuary at the bar and awkwardly cradled a pint of “Cumberland Ale” as the compere, addressed the massed ranks of local dignitaries, film crew, busy photographers, assorted hacks and increasingly restless audience. I was relieved of my ticket, telling me that all the “Tattie Suppers” were gone and would I like some lamb stew. I politely declined.
Nearly all thirteen entrants were of local origin, I have never been to this part of the country before I am slightly perplexed to hear that the local accent has a sound of watered down “Geordie” about it, now geography isn’t my strong suit exactly but that’s across the other side of the country isn’t it?
First up is a young student type with ginger hair who, although obviously nervous, - and who wouldn’t be with television cameras and flash bulbs rammed under your nose end – made a fairly decent fist of it. Being stuck at the back and with most contestants not laying claim to the greatest of microphone techniques it was difficult to decipher exactly what was said but our student friend opened with “I was born in a wicker basket in 2000” which seemed like a decent start, and he went on to receive a passable ripple of appreciation. Next up was “James Mason – Butler to the rich and famous” who mumbled a bit and I didn’t have the slightest notion what he was going on about. Next up enter stage left Glenn “Cloth Ears” Boyland, who with his curious tale of the downfall of the Roman Empire due to their carnivorous diet – i.e eating people instead of food, would eventually prove good enough to clinch third spot.
Others included a “Brain Surgeon” who told of his club trip to Kabul with companion Norman (A Jack Russell), a pop eyed barmy individual whose occupation was announced as a “Wasp Whisperer” and finished with line, “You know shite? – well I shit pink shite!!” (Well, it got a laugh from me). There was an elderly lady in a blue cardigan who was the spit of “Mrs. Doubtfire”, an ample young lady who used the opportunity as a sort of an open mic spot in a comedy club and finished with – “I’m actually a size zero but I keep it wrapped up in this fat so as not to scratch it”, and some old bloke who went on about trying to capture fog for his uncles fog horn
After the break Andrew Halls and Aisha were very entertaining, he acting as interpreter for his Turkish lady friend (actually from Preston) and through him she told of the underwater tunnel from Constantinople to Coniston in years gone by and explained that they’d arrived by submarine that day, which was now parked round the back and apologised to the owner of the blue “Astra” for any inconvenience. We then sat through some of the most tedious ramblings from contestants with all the panache and delivery of my old History teacher, which had pretty much the same effect on the audience as it had on 2T in 1976.
Joyfully though, the reigning world champ “Johnny Liar” a 70 year old local farmer, treated us to a scintillating performance, regaling us with a fantastical tale of his day out in Whitehaven, travelling up there along the sea bed on the back of his trusty horse Daisy and completing the return journey cadging a lift on the fin of a giant skate.
Nice one Johnny and long may you rein.
Nice one Johnny and long may you rein.
