Open Writing

One of the advertisements I remember from boyhood was for Turog Brown Bread. It boldly declared, "Nothing is impossible when your energy comes from Turog Brown Bread!"

It was an audacious statement, especially in Yorkshire where literalism ranks high as a necessary attribute. Methodists, Congregationalists, Presbyterians and others of the independent persuasion that has flourished in the West Riding of God’s Own Country were familiar with the biblical passage, "with God nothing shall be impossible," Although few would consider Turog’s claim to be its equal in authority, some would have asked, "Why not put it to the test?"

A cinema advertisement for Turog showed an apparently driverless motor car going uphill. As the camera panned towards the back end of the vehicle to reveal a man of slight physique pushing the vehicle the voiceover affirmed, "Nothing is impossible when your energy comes from Turog Brown Bread!"

There was a rumour that at least three men and one big woman had been run over by their own cars when attempting to reproduce this feat. Turog would have been seen to be concerned not to have its customers squash themselves if they had added a warning, such as "Do not try this at home," or "If you are daft enough to try this, keep the handbrake on!"

But there were no warnings. Not even a hint of a hint that any limitation in attempting to do the impossible should be applied by the experimenter, however full of Turog’s whole wheat bread they were.

Nor was there any hint of how much Turog had to be ingested before striving to achieve the impossible. There was no health warning, no dosage instruction, no table of contra-indications, no cautionary tales of those who had unwisely undertaken bread-laden impossibles, and no disclaimer for Turog’s responsibility for personal injury, property damage, or death in the event of a hopeless case engaged in a hopeless cause inspired by the breadmaker ending up in a hopeless condition. None!

Thus, Turog eaters were left to their own devices and to the mercies of whatever tests they undertook as they chomped on the magic bread and set off on their quests. With a little imagination one can picture scenes of the literalists who took seriously the loaf and the interior properties that its bakers advertised.

A husband, we will call him Frank, is setting off for work at six o’clock in the morning. He slurped the last of his pint of sergeant-major’s tea, spat a mouthful of tea leaves into the sink, stuffed his Turog sandwiches into his ex-army haversack, and called upstairs, "I’m off now, Glad." To which Gladys sleepily replied, "G’bye, luv."

At lunchtime, he unwrapped his sandwiches and chewed on meat paste between two slices of whole wheat, the nearest to delicatessen fare he ever got. At the third swallow he was inspired to do the impossible. This meant facing and taming his mother-in-law, a crude woman who cracked walnuts by putting them in her eyes and blinking, who had been the bane of his life for greater than two score years.

She lived round the corner from his work so a lunchtime visit could be undertaken in a few minutes. Between the mill and the dragon’s lair is a baker’s shop in the window of which was a display of papier mâchè baked goods, including a giant-sized loaf of Turog, surmounted by the dusty legend, "Nothing is impossible…"

Reinforced by what he took to be an omen that his mission was as good as accomplished, he lengthened his stride and quickened his pace, until, in a matter of moments, he stood before the ogresses’ door. He pounded on the door like a tallyman. His ‘ready money’ knock brought ‘she-who-must-be-obeyed to the door in a flash. She didn’t usually wear a flash; she was more of a triple-weave bombazine dress and wrap-around pinafore woman.

When she saw that her door was in danger of being knocked off its hinges by her favourite victim she turned giblet green with purple tinges, inhaled ten gallons of industrial air, an amount she calculated sufficient to deliver a crushing lambaste in one breath, and began at the top of her bellow, "YOU … " but got no further than that.

Frank, full of Turog, bolstered by the omen, and with courage in the strength of these, released the dam that had suppressed his resentment against her interference and mean spiritedness for more years than he could bring to mind, he interrupted her at full volume, without pause, and in language that suited the changing colours of her countenance. For the first time in her life she was shaken, cowed, and convicted of her just condemnation.

Saint George – alias Frank Clogger - had slain the beast by recounting the complete catalogue of its crimes against a marriage in which, although a mere spectator, she did not hesitate to interfere. For her further reference he delivered a list of ‘Thou Shalts’ and ‘Thou Shalt Nots,’ which, besides being punctuated by his stabbing forefinger, were inviolable, and non-negotiable. She did not respond but her now pallid face and trembling lip told him that he had not spoken in vain.

On his way back to work he called in at the bakery and bought two loaves of Turog. His workmates wondered where his sudden smiles had come from. They were used to seeing on his face marks of the underling. But he not only smiled throughout the afternoon, but was also heard whistling at his loom.

As hundreds of workers poured through the mill gates onto the cobbles, he was gratified to hear two men behind him talking about him.

"If tha’d a towl me as ‘ee’d ivver look as he wer injyin’ ‘issen, A’dda called thi a foowil."

"Tha’rt reight," his mate answered, "A’ve nivver sin owt lahke it in all mi days."

"Aye," said the first, "an’ he simms ter ‘ave moower confidence nor a failed polytishun!"

Frank gave his loaves a gentle pat through the greasy fabric of his snap bag, but kept his silence. He had done enough talking for one day.

In the weeks and months following this event, Gladys couldn’t fathom the change that had overtaken her mother. "Shoo semms ter hav hed a relygiss mekkovver!" Freed from her interference and peacebreaking, Glad’s marriage became what she had always known it could be.

"Ee, lad," she said one night as she cut off some doorsteps from Frank’s favourite loaf, "A’hm sewer as Ah dooan’t nooa whet’s getten inter ‘er.

Folding his paper back to back at arms’ length, Frank smiled behind the sports page and said "Turog!"

"Turog?" said Gladys.

"Aye, lass, Turog."

"That’s nooan possible, our Frank. She nivver eyts it!"

Frank chuckled and resumed his reading, wondering when Town was going to get it together and win the FA Cup again.

"Ah wonder if yon Shankly nooas owt abaht Turog," he mused.

Frank’s victory was definitely one to Turog. However, it is unlikely that there were many more. Anyone attempting to leap Huddersfield Narrow Canal in a single bound, scale the outside of Castle Hill’s Jubilee Tower, run up Pip Hill steps without getting a stitch, walk through the Monday market without buying anything, or kissing red-headed Joyce from Birkby without wanting to marry her, was safer not trusting bread to supply what was lacking in himself. Turog had its limitations, even if this was not made clear in its advertisements.

Whatever sorcery was baked into a crusty Turog obviously had no power over the physical universe. It worked only on the mind of Turogists who allowed the dough demons to supply the courage to do doughty deeds. And thus it was that, in spite of assurances from a trusted and well-liked company, what was impossible before ingestion tended to remain impossible after the devouring was done.

There’s a lesson in all this for those among us who are prone to gullibility. These are they who believe what they read in advertisements, however extravagant or unlikely the claim. Countries with truth in advertising standards are less troubled by charlatans, and the gullible, who need saving from their own follies, are often saved by the rigid application of this and similar legislation.

I could go on at length about this and these easily led people, but I have just had an e-mail message from the International President of Nigeroil Ltd who wants to share a big percentage of a multi-million dollar cache of money he has hidden from his company, the police, and the income tax people. All I have to do is send him my bank account details, social security number, driving licence number, all my Internet passwords, etc, etc. I don’t want to miss out on this unexpected piece of good fortune, so please excuse me if I run!

Copyright © 2007 – Ronnie Bray

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Other stories at:
http://www.2theheart.com/author_ronnie_bray
http://www.meridianmagazine.com/voices/011024summer.html