Having read the recent article about the sprout picking championship, Brian Smith was reminded of the poem he wrote on the subject in 2016.
* * * * *
Shovel Hands
Some say it's a made up tale,
Others swear every word is true.
You must judge that for yourself,
When I pass it on to you.Sprout picking never was an easy job
And played havoc with your back.
Some pickers had a natural skill,
Others never acquired the knack.Many suffered from rheumatics
From all the damp and cold.
They became worn out and worked to death
Before they were very old.Champion pickers would come and go,
Earned big money for a while.
But put them to a different task
Then they would run a mile.One day, this giant of a man appeared,
Standing over seven feet in his boots.
He asked the 'gaffer' for a job,
Said he'd do 'anything as suits'.And, before he'd been there very long
He proved to be a lucky find.
He ate more taters than a pig,
(Well, he was a giant, mind!)He would turn his hand to anything.
There was no job he couldn't do.
He was as strong as any horse,
Perhaps as strong as two.When he tried his hand at picking sprouts,
He cleared an acre, in no time at all.
And carried them out single handed,
A dozen nets at a time he'd maul.His hands were just like shovels.
Stripping 'stoms' in no time flat.
"Yer, 'ees the Champion Picker of the Wurld,
Thur's no doubt at all 'bout that!"The 'gaffer', he was as pleased as Punch.
"Well now, I must confess,
That since I took on Shovel Hands,
I could do with three men less!"Some thought that they would be sacked
Now that the giant man was there.
They would have somehow to be rid of him.
By foul means if not by fair.One day, picking on the Cotswold Hills,
A thick fog started to descend.
"There’s a shed at the top of this here rise,
There we'll take a break, my friend."The ringleader, Frank, he led the way,
Then stopped, pretending to tie a lace.
Shovel Hands now went in front,
At his quick, long striding pace.There was now evil in the air.
They all knew he was in danger.
He couldn't see through all the fog,
They had betrayed the giant stranger.They say that his blood curdling scream,
Was heard down in the Vale.
As he fell into the quarry, but,
That's not the finish of the tale.They thought that they were rid of him,
That nobody could survive that fall.
But his head popped up over the edge.
He wasn't dead, or hurt at all!"I fell into a quarry,
Then eventually, I lands.
But with good luck I broke my fall
With this big pair of hands!"But still they had it in for him,
They wouldn't speak to him any more.
He knew they didn't want him there,
Time to get out of the door.The 'gaffer' begged for him to stay,
But as to Coventry he'd been sent,
And as he'd nowhere else to go,
Off to Coventry he went.'Gaffer' said : "I know those b - - - - -s drove you out,
And I'm as vexed as Hell.
I've lost the Champion Picker of the Wurld,
Good luck, I know you will do well."We will leave Shovel Hands for a while
As he goes off to a new location.
There are no sprouts at Coventry,
He will need a different occupation!The pickers thought they'd won the day,
But the 'Gaffer' was so annoyed
That he sacked the whole darned lot of them,
And then a new gang he employed.Nothing more was heard of Shovel Hands,
Until later, on Midlands News,
A lot of fuss was being made about
A goalkeeper at Sky Blues.Not once beaten in eight matches,
His name was chanted in the stands.
He had enormous hands and feet,
And they called him ...... Shovel Hands!
Any truth in this ? Er, no.
Brian Smith, 2016