4 September 2014

TMB appoints new Tripe Poet Laureate

The Tripe Marketing Board today appointed Mr Jonathan Humble as its new Tripe Poet Laureate.

Mr Jonathan Humble
The appointment follows the recent retirement of Nataya Ripley, who has been increasingly unwell and unable to attend engagements.

Mr Humble, who is 73, is an accomplished poet who performs his works regularly across the north west and elsewhere.  He is best-known for his seminal work The Tripe Hound Of Little Ormstonmere, which is reproduced by kind permission below.

An ex-lettuce picker and itinerant beard grower, he lists his hobbies as including beard growing and keeping the international coffee industry afloat with his patronage.

In making the appointment, TMB Sir Norman Wrassle said:  "Tripe has always played a key role in literature and the arts, including cinema, opera and West End musicals.  In Jonathan, we have someone who we are confident will wear the mantle of Tripe Poet Laureate with pride and distinction, and we look forward to many more tripe-based poems during his tenure."

Jonathan's first appearance in his new role will be on 13 September at Sprint Mill in Cumbria as part of C-Art, a festival of visual arts.  

"Sadly, I will not be able to see this performance myself as I am scheduled to be in Wigan that day for the Wigan Digger's Festival, but I wish Mr Humble every success.  What with our publication of Bill Cawley's new book, Tales from the Till and the performance later this month in Royston of Bill Tidy's Fosdyke Saga, this is shaping up to be an autumn of tripe and literature the like of which we've never seen before!" Sir Norman said.

The Tripe Hound Of Little Ormstonmere

Amongst the dark foreboding hills of ancient Lancashire,
The eerie howls rolled down the moors o'er misty peatland bogs,
To echo round the cobbled streets of Little Ormstonmere
And cause the good folk there to stare and shudder in their clogs.

For knew they well this howl from Hell and what it did portend,
And how great loss was wreaked upon the town in times long past,
When from the realms of Lucifer, the beast's leash did extend,
And Tripe Hound ran amok, to leave all mournful and aghast.

With sadness and reluctance moved the townsfolk to the square,
Each citizen a-burdened with a tribute to the feast,
Which lovingly they lay upon a table by the Mayor,
Who checked its weight would satisfy and sate the evil beast.

Then from the hills emerged the brute with eyes aflame and cruel,
As townsfolk scuttled off to hide behind their bolted doors
And leave a trough of tripe o'er which the Tripe Hound could now drool,
And scoff the lot, before it disappeared amongst the moors.

No morsel left for Little Ormstonmerians to eat,
The town would have to live on offal served up in a skin.
With tripe now gone, and plans postponed for all to be replete,
Black Pudding topped the carte de jour and stopped them getting thin.

Amongst the dark foreboding hills of ancient Lancashire,
Satanic howls can still be heard o'er misty peatland bogs,
And there behind locked doors the folk of Little Ormstonmere
Have cause enough to hide their tripe and shiver in their clogs.