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Sibton's Story
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Sibton was born in a quiet corner of Ireland to parents of mixed race. Her mother was an itinerant peat cutter and her father was a Leprachaun. At the time of her birth her father was away from home on business (interfering with fairies rings) and her mother decided to send him a telegram. After much deliberation she composed the line - She Is Born- Things Orl Normal and then nearly fainted when she learned it cost a shilling a word to send. She promptly abbrieviated the telegram to the initials S.I.B.T.O.N. Her father assumed that was the name chosen for the baby and it stuck.
Sibton had human features (apart from her father's pointy ears and lack of height). She had bright ginger hair, pale skin and hated the sun. She occasionally showed flashes of her paternal inheritance and her first words were Diddle de Dee, Diddle de Dee.
She left school with qualifications in Advanced Peat Cutting, Toadstool Management, Potato Blight Identification, Pillion Riding and Shillelagh Carving. Unwilling to join the family peat cutting business she subscribed to several English newspapers and scoured the job columns. Having been made to attend Irish dancing classes as a child her eye was drawn to an advert for Lap Dancers. She figured that she was a reasonable dancer and the cold climate of Lapland would suit her just fine.
She travelled across the water to England and duly arrived at the interview venue. It must be pointed out for the benefit of readers that Sibton was gullible and never queried why an interview for a job at the North pole would be held in a pub in the quiet English village of Answerbank Under the Wold. The recruiter, who was really a pimp, took one look at Sibton, and being gingerist he dismissed her out of hand.
Sibton decided to stay in the area and tried living on her wits, which meant she quickly came close to starvation. She was taken under the wing of several kind villagers who gave her odd jobs and the local supermodel, philanthropist and all round good egg provided her with a roof over her head. Her saving grace came when a local witch opened a holistic centre (and owl sanctuary) and Sibton discovered that she had a real talent for administering the colonic irrigations. This was partly due to her lack of height which meant she was at eye level with the necessary parts. She finally felt settled and the only thing missing from her life was male company. After talking to a happy (if somewhat strange) couple in the pub who had met through the Desperado Dating Agency, she took the plunge and submitted and application form. She quickly received a reply and was surprised to learn she had a date.
Sibton had human features (apart from her father's pointy ears and lack of height). She had bright ginger hair, pale skin and hated the sun. She occasionally showed flashes of her paternal inheritance and her first words were Diddle de Dee, Diddle de Dee.
She left school with qualifications in Advanced Peat Cutting, Toadstool Management, Potato Blight Identification, Pillion Riding and Shillelagh Carving. Unwilling to join the family peat cutting business she subscribed to several English newspapers and scoured the job columns. Having been made to attend Irish dancing classes as a child her eye was drawn to an advert for Lap Dancers. She figured that she was a reasonable dancer and the cold climate of Lapland would suit her just fine.
She travelled across the water to England and duly arrived at the interview venue. It must be pointed out for the benefit of readers that Sibton was gullible and never queried why an interview for a job at the North pole would be held in a pub in the quiet English village of Answerbank Under the Wold. The recruiter, who was really a pimp, took one look at Sibton, and being gingerist he dismissed her out of hand.
Sibton decided to stay in the area and tried living on her wits, which meant she quickly came close to starvation. She was taken under the wing of several kind villagers who gave her odd jobs and the local supermodel, philanthropist and all round good egg provided her with a roof over her head. Her saving grace came when a local witch opened a holistic centre (and owl sanctuary) and Sibton discovered that she had a real talent for administering the colonic irrigations. This was partly due to her lack of height which meant she was at eye level with the necessary parts. She finally felt settled and the only thing missing from her life was male company. After talking to a happy (if somewhat strange) couple in the pub who had met through the Desperado Dating Agency, she took the plunge and submitted and application form. She quickly received a reply and was surprised to learn she had a date.
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ABers lay waiting
between turf-face and demesne wall,
between heathery levels
and gness-toothed stone.
Sibton’s body was braille
for the creeping influences:
dawn Irish suns groped over her head
and cooled her feet,
through her tweed fabrics and oilskins
the seeps of winter
digested her,
the illiterate roots of the peat
pondered and died
in the cavings
of stomach and socket.
She lay waiting, We laid waiting, watching
on the gravel bottom,
Sibton’s brain darkening,
a brain covered in ginger locks
fermenting underground
dreams of Scandinavian lap-dancing.
Bruised berries under her nails,
the vital hoard reducing
in the crock of her gyrating pelvis.
Her diadem grew curious,
gemstones dropped
in the peat floe
like the bearings of history.
Her luggage was the colour of a black glacier
wrinkling, dyed weaves
and Erin stitch-work
retted on her breasts
She left the soft moraines.
Her Northern Irish winter cold
like the nuzzle of Loughs
at her thighs.
The soaked fledge, the heavy
swaddle of sheep hides.
Her skull hibernated
in the wet nest of her hair.
To yon Answerbank she came.
She was barbered
and mentally stripped
by a pimp’s dirty spade
The villagers veiled Sibton again
and packed coomb softly
between the stone jambs
at her head and her feet of bedroom walls.
Till the local egg’s wife bribed her.
the plait of her hair,
a slimy, earthy birth-cord
of a North Yorks Moor bog, had been cut
Soon as the turf was freshly cut
Sibton returned to the pub
glasses and Jamesons,
The Rowan offering her sanctuary
Colonic irrigation
became her talented thing,
not as wet as turf-cutting,
the smiling gleams on the bench.
A man but beckoned forth,
Desperado Dating,
her local source.
That man watching her from our bank.
We ABer men, we lay waiting
between turf-face and demesne wall,
between heathery levels
and gness-toothed stone.
Sibton’s working Mrs Overall’s peat
for her craving influences.
Memories of Irish dawn groped over her head
and cooled her feet.
between turf-face and demesne wall,
between heathery levels
and gness-toothed stone.
Sibton’s body was braille
for the creeping influences:
dawn Irish suns groped over her head
and cooled her feet,
through her tweed fabrics and oilskins
the seeps of winter
digested her,
the illiterate roots of the peat
pondered and died
in the cavings
of stomach and socket.
She lay waiting, We laid waiting, watching
on the gravel bottom,
Sibton’s brain darkening,
a brain covered in ginger locks
fermenting underground
dreams of Scandinavian lap-dancing.
Bruised berries under her nails,
the vital hoard reducing
in the crock of her gyrating pelvis.
Her diadem grew curious,
gemstones dropped
in the peat floe
like the bearings of history.
Her luggage was the colour of a black glacier
wrinkling, dyed weaves
and Erin stitch-work
retted on her breasts
She left the soft moraines.
Her Northern Irish winter cold
like the nuzzle of Loughs
at her thighs.
The soaked fledge, the heavy
swaddle of sheep hides.
Her skull hibernated
in the wet nest of her hair.
To yon Answerbank she came.
She was barbered
and mentally stripped
by a pimp’s dirty spade
The villagers veiled Sibton again
and packed coomb softly
between the stone jambs
at her head and her feet of bedroom walls.
Till the local egg’s wife bribed her.
the plait of her hair,
a slimy, earthy birth-cord
of a North Yorks Moor bog, had been cut
Soon as the turf was freshly cut
Sibton returned to the pub
glasses and Jamesons,
The Rowan offering her sanctuary
Colonic irrigation
became her talented thing,
not as wet as turf-cutting,
the smiling gleams on the bench.
A man but beckoned forth,
Desperado Dating,
her local source.
That man watching her from our bank.
We ABer men, we lay waiting
between turf-face and demesne wall,
between heathery levels
and gness-toothed stone.
Sibton’s working Mrs Overall’s peat
for her craving influences.
Memories of Irish dawn groped over her head
and cooled her feet.
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