Nothing changes around Worksop

some things never change do they? Especially in Worksop.

I had to chuckle when one of the cub reporters offered up at conference a tall tale relating to a stitch in time now known as ‘The Battle of Worksop’.

Apparently a skull is resident now at Worksop’s Priory with an arrow head lodged in it, which goes some way to authenticating the claims of this historic event.

Now I’m no historian but the thought of The Grand Old Duke of York, along with his ten thousand men, marching on to the Battle of Wakefield – through Worksop – during the Wars of the Roses fills me with intrigue and fascination.

Along their arduous journey these fearless warriors stopped off at Worksop Monastery for food, water and shelter.

Some say they also intended pillaging Worksop’s then famous market for hogsheads and ale, others claim there was unfinished business following a previous ‘Battle of Northampton’ at Worksop Manor.

But what these soldiers didn’t reckon on was a bunch of yobbos bowling down from Manton after a skinful of Mead whilst watching the jousting.

Rumour has it the Manton massive stoved this army’s heads in, leaving the batallion so depleted that it went on to lose the Battle of Wakefield at which Richard, Duke of York was killed.

Did nobody warn them that the ‘Manton Massive’ (which consisted of two toothless maids and a handful of wiry lerchers) took no prisoners?

You only have to pop into Worksop on a Friday and Saturday night and you can see the lineage back to swollen-skulled Worksopians whose fists were as big as blown up pigs’ bladders and arms as long as apes’.

Oh and you’re almost certain to see a re-enactment of the ‘Battle of Worksop’ on every other street corner, only it won’t be arrow heads that people are walking around with embedded in their skulls, but booze bottles.

If you’d like to speak directly to one of the toothless maids’ family ancestors then pop down to Manton Club where you can find a whole army of them, all fully armed with bingo dobbers.

In the other room will be a load of blokes ‘tooled up’ with snooker queues – not to hit each other with, or even to play snooker with, but to defend themselves from the Manton Maids and their wiry lerchers, who always end up kicking off after losing the meat raffle. Like I said, nothing ever changes.