I have a story ta tell you. This story is about a bottle of gin. Not just your average bottle, no, this was a legendary gin and still is ta this day. I hope I’m doing this right. Me Da, he’s the storyteller in the family. He would have a hundred different ways of pulling the imaginary blanket round ya, get ya nice and ready for the tale. Me, I’m a bit of a flummox. But I’ll do me best ta tell this story in the way me Da used ta tell ‘em.
The gin, I had never heard of it before me Da told me of it whilst lying upon his deathbed. But of course, that’s what makes it legend, in’nt? Things being told on death beds and such.
Me Da was a great man. They called him Al Over, a funny name I know. They called him thus because when he first came ta town he spent an hour in the pub. As a new face, people were naturally curious. I suppose it would be more accurate ta call our town a village, and in a village people are driven ta make other people’s business their own. So they ask him, “Where you come from? We haven’t seen a new face in here in weeks.”
“Me?” says me Da. “I come from all over.”
“All over?” asks they. “What kind of answer is that. No one comes from all over. Where are you from originally?”
Me Da looked inta his beer and smiled. “All over,” he replied. He came from Victania originally, but that is not a place people like ta be associated with in these parts. In any case, he practically was from all over.
So when they asked, “Are ye from the main land, then?” me Da said, “Yes, in a manner of speaking.”
“In a manner of speaking? So was you born in the isles then and matriculated inta the main land?”
“Not exactly,” says he, “But it wouldn’t be far from the truth.”
“Well then,” says they, “Tell us exactly, where you from?”
So me Da told his story of how he traveled about the world. In each region he had enough stories ta fill a book. By the time he had finished his third beer, they had gathered around him, huddled in close ta listen ta his tales. By the end of the night, they asked him, “So, are you setting up kip or is this just another glamorous stop on your travels round the globe?”
“Kip? Yes, me traveling days are behind me, and this seems as good a spot as any. We’ve purchased the empty house at the end of the lane. I have a child on the way and the way I see it, there is no better place ta raise a child than far away from the bub and bustle of the cities. And there is no better people ta settle around than the workers. So this is now home, and this is my home pub.”
“And what can we call ye then?” asks they. But before he could answer old drunk McKennen shouts, “’aven’t ye heard? ‘is names Al! Al Over.”
“Shut up McKennen,” shouted they.
“No, he’s quite right,” says me Da with a twinkle in his eye. “Al’s me name. Al Over.”
Thus it came that he was known in these parts forever as Al Over. Me Da worked like the others, but he told stories in the pub too. Every night he had another story, and the more he told the more they loved him. Soon his name turned ta Mr. Al Over, and eventually, jokingly, ta Sir Al Over. He liked that. He rode it out, told newcomers that he was a knight tried and true. Though the patrons knew it wasn’t so, they backed him up. Thus me Da, by the time me flummox of story begins, was known as Sir Al Over in our village and in all the land surrounding us.
When he told a story, or rather, when he spun a tale as he used ta say, he’d use such a powerful voice unlike anyone had ever heard, a real showman. He didn’t speak like this all the time, mind. Only when he told a story. He would start by lowering his voice ta a deep baritone, like a singer almost, but nothing so fancy as all that. Still, his voice could shake the walls if he willed it. I ain’t pulling your leg, he could hit such a note that the ground felt as though it would rumble and burst open. Such was his talent.
