Big Ted lived in Fenland, where, on a clear day, a pig could see as far as any far-sighted pig would ever want to see. There, in the rich black loamy soil, you’d find big Ted rooting around for a few turnips, succulent roots or maybe just a snifter of that rich Fenland dirt up his nostrils.
And when he’d had enough, he’d sit down, roll back his old deep blue eyes, take a long breath and sing a song. A song so beautiful, so rich and loamy, that ditch-diggers far and wide stopped their digging, leaned on their ditch-worn spades and wiped long stifled tears from their sun-creased, flint-hardened, wind-stretched, crab apple eyes. Then those hardened old timers, would conjure up dreams. Dreams of such beauty and sharp early morning clarity, dreams of their far-off childhoods, long lost mothers and love’s first chitting, that the black Fenland lime-rich, sock-rotting, ooze would flow gently over their welly tops and stick them so fast in the mud that the farmer would have to break out his Suffolk punches to drag his sinking workers out of his ditches.
“You wanna come up to the farmhouse, boy, give us a song or two,” the farmer said. “With a voice like that, boy, a pig could go far.”
“You wanna come up to the farmhouse, boy, give us a song or two,” the farmer said. “With a voice like that, boy, a pig could go far.”
So, one night, big Ted went up to the farmhouse. The farmer’s wife opened the door and said, “Whasis, a pig? Not in my parlour, boy! You go round back, and wait 'til I got a good layer of pig paper over me marbly tiles.”
But big Ted he just rolled back those old blueberries, took a breath, of Fenland best, and sang a song. A song of such early summer evening's heart-aching beauty that the farmer’s wife lifted her eyes to the waning twilight above, and seeing the evening star in the arms of Jupiter, and hanging as bright as a lover’s dagger in the fading purple West, her thighs twirled and twisted in and out of a lover’s Gordian knot. And then as silently as a pair of Phaeton’s butterflies, her knickers fluttered gently down settling like petals on the kitchen floor around her ankles.
“With a voice like that, boy, you ought to go up Ely,” said the farmer’s wife.
But big Ted he just rolled back those old blueberries, took a breath, of Fenland best, and sang a song. A song of such early summer evening's heart-aching beauty that the farmer’s wife lifted her eyes to the waning twilight above, and seeing the evening star in the arms of Jupiter, and hanging as bright as a lover’s dagger in the fading purple West, her thighs twirled and twisted in and out of a lover’s Gordian knot. And then as silently as a pair of Phaeton’s butterflies, her knickers fluttered gently down settling like petals on the kitchen floor around her ankles.
“With a voice like that, boy, you ought to go up Ely,” said the farmer’s wife.
So, big Ted went up to Ely and made his way to the Inn of the Eel Suckers Lallies, where outside a hurriedly chalked up sign said,
“No pigs, on Tuesdays.”
So, big Ted sat down as comfy as a pig in a pie, rolled back those bubbly blue tumblers, heaved a breath of mono-sodium-glutamate enriched air from Mr Wong’s Chinese Garden Restaurant's extractor fan, and sang a song. A song of such soul-quenching, mind-numbing, suey-chopping beauty, that Mr Wong put down his wok, went to the front of his restaurant and turned the sign hanging in his window around to read, "Gone back to Limehouse". And even the beer starched landlord of the Eel Sucker's Lallies stood as still as a jar of jellied eels on a shelf load of strawberry jam. Dart throwers' darts hovered, and fell to the ocky. Sally, the War-Cry soldier, stretched out her arms, raised her eyes to Kingdom-Come and cried, “I’m ready Jesus; I'm ready Lord”. From behind glasses of port and lemon old biddies sobbed for their long lost fumbling lovers. And around tables of Babycham and Red Barrel adolescent lovers popped their buttons in premature blossoming.
“With a voice like that, boy” said the Landlord, “you ought to go up London.”
“No pigs, on Tuesdays.”
So, big Ted sat down as comfy as a pig in a pie, rolled back those bubbly blue tumblers, heaved a breath of mono-sodium-glutamate enriched air from Mr Wong’s Chinese Garden Restaurant's extractor fan, and sang a song. A song of such soul-quenching, mind-numbing, suey-chopping beauty, that Mr Wong put down his wok, went to the front of his restaurant and turned the sign hanging in his window around to read, "Gone back to Limehouse". And even the beer starched landlord of the Eel Sucker's Lallies stood as still as a jar of jellied eels on a shelf load of strawberry jam. Dart throwers' darts hovered, and fell to the ocky. Sally, the War-Cry soldier, stretched out her arms, raised her eyes to Kingdom-Come and cried, “I’m ready Jesus; I'm ready Lord”. From behind glasses of port and lemon old biddies sobbed for their long lost fumbling lovers. And around tables of Babycham and Red Barrel adolescent lovers popped their buttons in premature blossoming.
“With a voice like that, boy” said the Landlord, “you ought to go up London.”
So, off big Ted went, up to London. To Albert Hall’s Last Night of the Proms.
“No Pigs on a Wednesday,” said a high-nosed flunky. Come back tomorrow, we have a special Prom for pigs, tomorrow.”
But big Ted he just rolled back those Fenny mincers, took a deep breath and sang a song. A song of such richness, such deep basso profundo, such tessitura, a note rising to such a pitch, so clear and harmonious, then falling and trilling through a never-before-heard sequence of suspended fourths and sixths, that the conductor, inside the hall, put down his batten, left the auditorium, stepped on a number 52 bus and was never seen again. The leader of the orchestra took a bow, put violin on the floor and crushed it under foot. The three tenors left the rostra and there-and-then made a tripartite pact never ever to utter another note.
“With a voice a-like that,” said Luciano. “You oughta a-travel the world.”
“No Pigs on a Wednesday,” said a high-nosed flunky. Come back tomorrow, we have a special Prom for pigs, tomorrow.”
But big Ted he just rolled back those Fenny mincers, took a deep breath and sang a song. A song of such richness, such deep basso profundo, such tessitura, a note rising to such a pitch, so clear and harmonious, then falling and trilling through a never-before-heard sequence of suspended fourths and sixths, that the conductor, inside the hall, put down his batten, left the auditorium, stepped on a number 52 bus and was never seen again. The leader of the orchestra took a bow, put violin on the floor and crushed it under foot. The three tenors left the rostra and there-and-then made a tripartite pact never ever to utter another note.
“With a voice a-like that,” said Luciano. “You oughta a-travel the world.”
So, big Ted went to the Palace of Versailles where Madame, at the ticket booth said,
“Aucun porc n'a permis un mercredi. Revenez jeudi, s'il vous plaît "
But big Ted... well you know what he did with those eyes of his, and then he sang a song. A song with such crystal clear notes, such perfectly pitched precision, with such a sustained rising crescendo that every crystal chandelier in the palace shattered, all the bats in the belfry lost their grip and took off in premature swarming clouds, thousands of pigeons flew from their palace roosts and, once upon the wing, found their tiny avian bowels could hold it no longer and they let their droppings fall like droplets of mayonnaise from heaven, onto a coach load of snapping Taiwanese on the steps below.
“With a voice like that,” said the Capel Meister, “you should sing in Heaven.”
“Aucun porc n'a permis un mercredi. Revenez jeudi, s'il vous plaît "
But big Ted... well you know what he did with those eyes of his, and then he sang a song. A song with such crystal clear notes, such perfectly pitched precision, with such a sustained rising crescendo that every crystal chandelier in the palace shattered, all the bats in the belfry lost their grip and took off in premature swarming clouds, thousands of pigeons flew from their palace roosts and, once upon the wing, found their tiny avian bowels could hold it no longer and they let their droppings fall like droplets of mayonnaise from heaven, onto a coach load of snapping Taiwanese on the steps below.
“With a voice like that,” said the Capel Meister, “you should sing in Heaven.”
But big Ted, he’d done with travelling and wanted home. Wanted the smell of Fenland peat, wanted the taste of Wickham wurzels, wanted that Stetson-hat-sky hanging over his ears, wanted air that a pig could chew and spit out.
So, big Ted turned back and headed home to Fenland. And it was then, on that very day. And it was there, on that very Fenland road. Across an open lime-black freshly turned turnip clamp, digging and a filling her trug with turnips, that big Ted first saw her. His own, long dreamed of, princess. And he fell in love... fell in love quicker than a frog can catch a fly... quicker than a swarming bee's heart beats... quicker than a woodpecker can drop a fart between pecks... quicker than the wise old crow can skip from the flattened dead badger’s carcass, just as the drunken teenage joyriders race their stolen Cortina on a Friday night to meet the only tree, on the only bend, along the Prickwillow Road.
“Well boy,” she said, “I ain' got nothing against ‘em, personally, but you’re ... a pig.. and it’s Friday... and I always goes to my Winkle-in-a-Bucket classes on a Friday night!"
Well, big Ted, he took a deep breath of that sweet, sweet air floating down from the Bury sugar beet factory cooling towers, rolled back those lapis lazuli millstone-stunners, smarmed back his whiskers and sang a song. A song of such whirling romantic mind-emptying beauty that at that very moment, in front of the princess’s eyes, opened wondrous apparitions and visions of castles and towers, dragons and knights, turquoise and gold, and champagne and chips. The princess’s heart missed a thousand-and-one beats, cupids hovered around her ears like only horse flies had before.
And she too, fell... like an ‘apenny-worth dollop of cream off a shilling stick, helplessly, and headlong into a half-a-crown bowl of sticky-pudding love.
And before she had realised it, she’d bitten the top off her turnip.
Fields of sprouting green turned to harvest gold, fields of harvest gold turned to winter snow-speckled-black and fields of black fen dirt turned back to turnip green and big Ted and his Princess, had their littlern.
The littlern, was half pig, half Princess, as everyone ‘spected.
And they all called her Littlern. That weren’t her name but that’s what they called her.
And the three were as happy as any pig, princess and littlern could be in that Fenland windscape. The Princess making little cupple-cakes and sugar beet lollipops for the littlern and big Ted off out on the Fen, a-gleaning around in the black, black soil for a few roots to take home to his littlern.
“Well boy,” she said, “I ain' got nothing against ‘em, personally, but you’re ... a pig.. and it’s Friday... and I always goes to my Winkle-in-a-Bucket classes on a Friday night!"
Well, big Ted, he took a deep breath of that sweet, sweet air floating down from the Bury sugar beet factory cooling towers, rolled back those lapis lazuli millstone-stunners, smarmed back his whiskers and sang a song. A song of such whirling romantic mind-emptying beauty that at that very moment, in front of the princess’s eyes, opened wondrous apparitions and visions of castles and towers, dragons and knights, turquoise and gold, and champagne and chips. The princess’s heart missed a thousand-and-one beats, cupids hovered around her ears like only horse flies had before.
And she too, fell... like an ‘apenny-worth dollop of cream off a shilling stick, helplessly, and headlong into a half-a-crown bowl of sticky-pudding love.
And before she had realised it, she’d bitten the top off her turnip.
Fields of sprouting green turned to harvest gold, fields of harvest gold turned to winter snow-speckled-black and fields of black fen dirt turned back to turnip green and big Ted and his Princess, had their littlern.
The littlern, was half pig, half Princess, as everyone ‘spected.
And they all called her Littlern. That weren’t her name but that’s what they called her.
And the three were as happy as any pig, princess and littlern could be in that Fenland windscape. The Princess making little cupple-cakes and sugar beet lollipops for the littlern and big Ted off out on the Fen, a-gleaning around in the black, black soil for a few roots to take home to his littlern.
It was while big Ted was off digging and rooting that he came across the weasels for the first time. First off, he just stuck his snout in, out of curiosity, testing it out. Just a little sniff.
But that smell of those weasels was something else, specially to a pig like big Ted and for a few moments big Ted began to forget... forget that he was a pig.
Folks about Fenland knew about Weasels and said, “Ted, you stay away from those weasels, boy! You know what weasels can do to a pig?”
But big Ted just rolled back his eyes and said... nothing.
Folks came from Ely and said, “Boy, you lay off those weasels, you hear?”
But big Ted just rolled back those eyes, but still said nothing.
They came from London, France and all over... and all agreed, “Big Ted those weasels gonna be the ruin of you, boy!”
But big Ted just rolled back those red neon eyes and said, “What the Pudding! I can take ‘em or leave ‘em.”
Then, one cold dark Saturday night, big Ted went off for a late snifter at the weasels’ hole, leaving his Princess and littlern fretting.
And that’s when they got him.
Dragged big Ted down by the snout and whiskers, and he didn’t take much pulling, no shouting or yelling, just let himself slip under like it was just the end of another song. And down he went into that sweet black Fenland ooze. Poor old Ted, he was a gonna.
But big Ted just rolled back his eyes and said... nothing.
Folks came from Ely and said, “Boy, you lay off those weasels, you hear?”
But big Ted just rolled back those eyes, but still said nothing.
They came from London, France and all over... and all agreed, “Big Ted those weasels gonna be the ruin of you, boy!”
But big Ted just rolled back those red neon eyes and said, “What the Pudding! I can take ‘em or leave ‘em.”
Then, one cold dark Saturday night, big Ted went off for a late snifter at the weasels’ hole, leaving his Princess and littlern fretting.
And that’s when they got him.
Dragged big Ted down by the snout and whiskers, and he didn’t take much pulling, no shouting or yelling, just let himself slip under like it was just the end of another song. And down he went into that sweet black Fenland ooze. Poor old Ted, he was a gonna.
Not a long passed before he found himself waiting in a winding queue, waiting for the Pearly Gates. Eventually, when his turn came old Saint Peter said, “What’s this? Pigs up here? And on a Sunday too? Pigs is to go and see the Black-Pudding-Man down bellow, boy.
But big Ted, had been awaiting in that long, long queue for nearly another lifetime and had got himself as straight as pig can ever get himself and he just sat there, rolled back his old Saint Cecilia windows, and sang a song. A song of such beauty, a song that circled the world, drifted out amongst the heavenly spheres and out across the Milky Way. A song so wondrous that every angel put down their harp forever, saying, “Well bugger me, but that pig can sing!” And there and then, for one day only, angels tears fell like gossamer mayfly wings. And all over Fenland church bells rang out Hallelujahs and all over the world peace broke out. And old Saint Peter says, “You better come in, boy, sit over there on the nimbus cloud by the big chair, put up you feet and wait ‘til the old man comes back on Monday.”
And that’s where big Ted is to this very day; up there, flying around over Fenland.
And Princess and littlern? Well they’re still there too... living under the wide rolling Fenland sky. And sometimes, when the wind blows the soil from one place to some other place or the sun twinkles on the frozen water, or the little children try to catch moorhens in rusting supermarket trolleys, or the rain falls from the can't-hang-around-here-for-God’s-sake skies... they look up... look up from their black mud-clamped boots... look up from their turnip stained fingers and, without trying very hard at all, they can see big Ted rolling back those old blue cockle-catchers and they can hear big Ted sing a song.
A song of such lasting beauty and sparkling humour, such love and joy... they know, that big Ted’s at home and in that Fenland sky, wind and soil, he will endure.
