Sundry Efforts
CONFESSIONS OF A MONKEYHANGER
by Frank Swales
Don't blame me. I had the worst possible start in life: I was born and raised a Hartlepudlian. There, I've said it. I don't care who knows it now. I am a native of Hartlepool, a Monkeyhanger.
Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about; everyone knows. The whole world has been laughing at my home town since THAT INCIDENT, almost two centuries ago. You must have heard about it; it was in all the newspapers.
Okay, maybe the story slipped past one or two people; a crofter ruminating in the Outer Hebrides, or a "Neighbours" fan comatose in front of the telly. So, for their benefit, here is the definitive account of THE HANGING OF THE MONKEY.
During the Napoleonic Wars a warning was issued throughout the length and breadth of Britain that the French were about to invade. Martello towers were built along the coastline to give advance warning of the invasion and every man, woman, and child was exhorted to be alert.
At the height of a violent storm a ship was driven onto the rocks in Hartlepool Bay. Every living soul aboard perished, except for the ship's mascot, a monkey. The hapless creature clung for dear life to a piece of wreckage, and was dragged ashore by local fishermen.
To the simple fisher folk the monkey was a curious sight in mascot's uniform of scarlet tunic, pants and sailor cap.
They had never seen such a spectacle, and mistaking the animal's excited gibbering for a foreign language came to the conclusion that they had one of those accursed Frenchmen in their midst.
"Someone get a rope!"
"Aye, we'll learn the Froggy."
"Thinks 'e can get past us, 'e must think we're daft!"
"Hold the little bugger still."
All this to a chorus of squeals from the terrified monkey. But there was to be no lynching that night.
"Hold hard, men," challenged the local squire. "Are we animals, to fall on and tear apart a stranger down on his luck?"
"But 'e's a Froggy."
"Why aye, man...the enemy."
The squire stood his ground, shouting above the clamour. "Listen to me, every man jack of you! There's not a man on God's good Earth who doesn't deserve a fair trial. We must observe due process of law, or in the Lord's eyes we are no better than the foul Frenchies."
That brought the God-fearing Hartlepudlians to their senses. The local garrison was informed of the enemy infiltration, and a troop of militiamen was marched to the beach.
The captain of the guard was an educated man of high breeding. He had travelled widely, some said as far afield as Leeds and York. His scholastic achievements included using four languages to order a pint of beer "In a straight glass!". To the locals, who had difficulty following plain English, this feat was nothing short of miraculous.
The captain interrogated the monkey, listened to its gibberish, watched its excited gestures, and concluded, "This stranger indeed has a case to answer."
The bemused creature was arrested and thrown into gaol.
On the day of the trial the circuit judge presided over a packed courtroom. Everyone wanted to see the Froggy get his just desserts. Even the defence council reckoned he was on a loser; he just hadn't been able to get any sense out of his client. The verdict was a foregone conclusion.
"The prisoner has condemned himself out of his own mouth," said the judge in summing up. "May the Lord have mercy on his soul."
So it was that on a dull Autumnal morning, as the chill Arctic wind gusted into Hartlepool Bay and kept all brass monkeys indoors, one unfortunate unbrassed primate nibbled its last banana. Then, to an animated backdrop of lusty cheers and catcalls, the final act of our tragedy was played out. The manacled monkey was dragged screaming from its cell and, amidst all the pomp and ceremony of a full garrison turnout, was duly executed on a makeshift gallows erected on Hartlepool Pier.
The sad-faced vicar of Stranton prayed for the departed soul, and the victim's clothes were donated to Howbeck Poorhouse.
To set the seal on the whole affair the Hartlepool Council voted to send a messenger at full gallop to the court of King George in London.
His message: "The loyal citizens of Hartlepool have caught a French spy, and hanged him."
From that day to this, Hartlepool has been burdened with guilt. And there's nowhere to hide: anywhere in the world a Hartlepudlian is liable to be confronted with the question, "Who hanged the monkey?"
To which our stock reply is, "Why, have you lost your uncle?"
The End
© Frank Swales
