Yorkshire Man Quotes

We've searched our database for all the quotes and captions related to Yorkshire Man. Here they are! All 23 of them:

Do you mind not intoning the responses, Jeeves?" I said. "This is a most complicated story for a man with a headache to have to tell, and if you interrupt you'll make me lose the thread. As a favour to me, therefore, don't do it. Just nod every now and then to show that you're following me." I closed my eyes and marshalled the facts. "To start with then, Jeeves, you may or may not know that Mr Sipperley is practically dependent on his Aunt Vera." "Would that be Miss Sipperley of the Paddock, Beckley-on-the-Moor, in Yorkshire, sir?" "Yes. Don't tell me you know her!" "Not personally, sir. But I have a cousin residing in the village who has some slight acquaintance with Miss Sipperley. He has described her to me as an imperious and quick-tempered old lady. ... But I beg your pardon, sir, I should have nodded." "Quite right, you should have nodded. Yes, Jeeves, you should have nodded. But it's too late now.
P.G. Wodehouse (Carry On, Jeeves (Jeeves, #3))
And, no, perhaps I wasn't normal in their eyes, but what was normal, anyway? Who decided that?
Jacques Von Kat (Mirror Man: A nostalgic mystery set in 80's Yorkshire)
He had always kept a journal. When he was a young man, in a village outside Rotherham in Yorkshire, he had written a daily examination of his conscience...In the days of the butchery, his journal was full of his desire to be a great man, and his self-castigation... he was a good Latin teacher... a good supervisor... but he was not using his unique gifts, whatever they were, he was *going* nowhere, and he meant to go far. He could not read the circular and painful journals now, with their cries of suffocation and their self-condemnatory periods, but he had them in a bank, for they were part of a record, of an accurate record, of the development of the mind and character of William Adamson, who still meant to be a great man. (-Morpho Eugenia, Angels and Insects)
A.S. Byatt (Angels and Insects)
Mr. Shaw himself said once, “I am a typical Irishman; my family came from Yorkshire.” Scarcely anyone but a typical Irishman could have made the remark. It is in fact a bull, a conscious bull. A bull is only a paradox which people are too stupid to understand. It is the rapid summary of something which is at once so true and so complex that the speaker who has the swift intelligence to perceive it, has not the slow patience to explain it. Mystical dogmas are much of this kind. Dogmas are often spoken of as if they were signs of the slowness or endurance of the human mind. As a matter of fact, they are marks of mental promptitude and lucid impatience. A man will put his meaning mystically because he cannot waste time in putting it rationally. Dogmas are not dark and mysterious; rather a dogma is like a flash of lightning—an instantaneous lucidity that opens across a whole landscape. Of the same nature are Irish bulls; they are summaries which are too true to be consistent. The Irish make Irish bulls for the same reason that they accept Papal bulls. It is because it is better to speak wisdom foolishly, like the Saints, rather than to speak folly wisely, like the Dons.
George Bernard Shaw (George Bernard Shaw: Collected Articles, Lectures, Essays and Letters: Thoughts and Studies from the Renowned Dramaturge and Author of Mrs. Warren's Profession, ... and Cleopatra, Androcles And The Lion)
He had always kept a journal. When he was a young man, in a village outside Rotherham in Yorkshire, he had written a daily examination of his conscience...In the days of the butchery, his journal was full of his desire to be a great man, and his self-castigation... he was a good Latin teacher... a good supervisor... but he was not using his unique gifts, whatever they were, he was *going* nowhere, and he meant to go far. He could not read the circular and painful journals now, with their cries of suffocation and their self-condemnatory periods, but he had them in a bank, for they were part of a record, of an accurate record, of the development of the mind and character of William Adamson, who still meant to be a great man. (-Angels & Insects: Morpho Eugenia)
A.S. Byatt
After I gestured for a beer, a rather frighteningly large bottle of Sapporo appeared, but, just as I reached out for it, a man on my right reached over and took hold of my bottle. Where I was brought up, in Yorkshire, touching someone else’s beer is worse that goosing his wife. It will inevitably lead to a fight and there may well be broken glass and teeth involved. “Pouring own drink bad luck,” said the man with his hand around my beer. So, I allowed him to pour my beer and we began a very faltering conversation.
Simon Majumdar (Eat My Globe: One Year to Go Everywhere and Eat Everything)
They say death aims only once and never misses, but I doubt Ty Yorkshire thought it would strike with a scrubbing brush. Now his face wears the mask of surprise that sometimes accompanies death: his eyes bulge, carp-like, and his mouth curves around a profanity. Does killing a man who tried to rape me count as murder? For me, it probably does. The law in Missouri in this year of our Lord 1849 does not sympathize with a Chinaman's daughter.
Stacey Lee
excitement. Shelley picked it up, opened it, and glanced at its muddled contents. “Quite right, Mr. Fairhurst,” he admitted. “Well, that clinches the whole affair. Mr. Wallace has Miss Arnell here in Yorkshire. And they can’t be very far away, judging by the heat of the coffee in the pot on the breakfast-table downstairs.” “How are you going to catch them?” asked Henry. “Watch me and see,” answered Shelley. He ran down the stairs, the others following him helter-skelter. Out of the front door Shelley ran; Cunningham, who was a burly man, puffed in his wake, and the others straggled along in the rear. Shelley paused in front of the house, anxiously scanning the gravel, which was loosely thrown on the little private road which led from the main road up to the house itself, and up which they had driven a mere few minutes earlier. “Ah!” he exclaimed at length. “Here we are. See, Cunningham?” Henry Fairhurst peered at the two detectives, as they looked at the ground. “Yes,” said Cunningham. “An old Dunlop with a patch. That should be easy enough to follow.” “Good,” answered Shelley. “In the car, quickly, gentlemen, if you don’t mind. We’re close to them now, and we shall soon have them.” Soon they were in the car, and Shelley gave his instructions to the driver. “Drive down to the main road as fast as you can,” he
John Rowland (Murder in the Museum)
And that was not all. There was a letter from Tom Eliot to his publisher Geoffrey Faber about an event which brought all the Pollicle Dogs and Jellicle Cats together who then ascended to the “Heaviside Layer” in a great big air balloon. There was even a couplet to go with it: “Up, up, up, past the Russell Hotel, / Up, up, up, to the Heaviside Layer.” So Eliot himself had an idea for a bigger structure for these poems, very vague, but it was there. I knew then that I had the bare bones of a stage musical. Most importantly Grizabella the Glamour Cat gave me a tragic character, a character who you would really care about. I asked Cameron and Gillie to join Valerie and Matthew, and the excitement was tangible. There were other poems too, the story of a parrot called Billy McCaw, who lived on the bar of an East End pub. There was the saga of a Yorkshire terrier called Little Tom Pollicle which was apparently Eliot’s nickname, and a long poem about a man in white spats who meets a casual diner in a pub called the Princess Louise and starts talking about “this’s and thats and Pollicle Dogs and Jellicle Cats.” I asked Valerie what the words “Pollicle” and “Jellicle” meant. She explained it was Eliot’s private joke about how the British upper class slurred the words “poor little dogs” and “dear little cats.” She also revealed that Eliot intended the “Princess Louise” poem, as we came to call it, to be the preface of a book about dogs and cats, but in the end cats prevailed. “The Awefull Battle of the
Andrew Lloyd Webber (Unmasked: A Memoir)
The villagers were used to pothole rescues and the occasional accidental death. Murder was a different matter, especially of a man known as the local rogue. This was no outsider’s crime where the body had been brought in and dumped. This, in all likelihood, had been committed by one of them.
J.R. Ellis (The Body in the Dales (Yorkshire Murder Mysteries, #1))
She haunted many a low resort, Round the grimy road of Tottenham Court. She flitted around the no man’s land From The Rising Sun to The Friend At Hand And the postman sighed as he scratched his head You really would have thought she ought to be dead And who would ever suppose that that Was Grizabella The Glamour Cat. And that was not all. There was a letter from Tom Eliot to his publisher Geoffrey Faber about an event which brought all the Pollicle Dogs and Jellicle Cats together who then ascended to the “Heaviside Layer” in a great big air balloon. There was even a couplet to go with it: “Up, up, up, past the Russell Hotel, / Up, up, up, to the Heaviside Layer.” So Eliot himself had an idea for a bigger structure for these poems, very vague, but it was there. I knew then that I had the bare bones of a stage musical. Most importantly Grizabella the Glamour Cat gave me a tragic character, a character who you would really care about. I asked Cameron and Gillie to join Valerie and Matthew, and the excitement was tangible. There were other poems too, the story of a parrot called Billy McCaw, who lived on the bar of an East End pub. There was the saga of a Yorkshire terrier called Little Tom Pollicle which was apparently Eliot’s nickname, and a long poem about a man in white spats who meets a casual diner in a pub called the Princess Louise and starts talking about “this’s and thats and Pollicle Dogs and Jellicle Cats.” I asked Valerie what the words “Pollicle” and “Jellicle” meant. She explained it was Eliot’s private joke about how the British upper class slurred the words “poor little dogs” and “dear little cats.” She also revealed that Eliot intended the “Princess Louise” poem, as we came to call it, to be the preface of a book about dogs and cats, but in the end cats prevailed. “The Awefull Battle of the
Andrew Lloyd Webber (Unmasked: A Memoir)
The Captain experienced a feeling of elation which was extraordinarily pleasant. He was a man who was profoundly interested in the art of living. Rembrandt gave him pleasure, and so did the Fifth Symphony; so did bouillabaisse at Marseilles or Southern cooking at New Orleans or a properly served Yorkshire pudding in the North of England; so did a pretty girl or an elegant woman; so did a successful winning hazard from a difficult position at billiards, or a Vienna coup at bridge; and so did success in battle. These were the things that gilded the bitter pill of life which everyone had to swallow. They were as important as life and death; not because they were very important, but because life and death were not very important.
C.S. Forester (The Ship)
his gut told him that Logan was a man he could probably work with, and Harry said that about very few.
David J. Gatward (Ashes of Betrayal: A Yorkshire Murder Mystery (DCI Harry Grimm Crime Thrillers Book 18))
admit, and explained about Scott taking his wife and mother-in-law back to Yorkshire. “So you see I wasn’t expecting him to necessarily be here on the doorstep, but the house hasn’t been properly locked up at all. And I know I don’t know Mr Hawkesmoor well, but he came across as the kind of professional who wouldn’t be that careless. “And there’s another thing. I wasn’t quite sure whether to contact the police, because to be honest I have no evidence of what’s happened, but the way Mrs Hawkesmoor and Mrs Underhill left seems, well …just odd. Like they stepped out of the door and vanished. Maybe they were just sloppy people, but stuff like the milk has been left out on the side – as if they were either expecting to come back before they left, or were expecting somebody else to come and tidy up after them straight away.” “Show me, would you?” the man who she now knew was Sergeant Miles asked, and so Kat took him around to the cottage and unlocked the door. “I locked it up simply for security,” she explained, letting him go in alone. When he reappeared it was with a frown on his face. “I agree it doesn’t look like they were planning on going and never coming back. Have you looked upstairs?” Kat felt a touch foolish confessing. “I didn’t like to, beyond calling for Mr Hawkesmoor. Mrs Hawkesmoor is an odd sort of woman. Takes offence very easily and where none was intended, if you get my drift. Mr Hawkesmoor told me they lost their two sons in an accident last year, so I guess she’s every right to be a bit of a mess, but I was very glad I wasn’t going to be working for her, if that doesn’t sound callous. And her mother, Mrs Underhill! Lord, there was a woman who must make enemies wherever she goes! Very abrasive, very aggressive, and used to ruling the roost unless I’m much mistaken.” Sergeant Miles gave her an odd look but vanished upstairs, coming back down looking even more perplexed. “Well there’s no women’s clothing up there, but there are men’s clothes. Did you say that Mr Hawkesmoor had every intention of coming back here?” “Oh yes. This weekend if at all possible. But that’s why I’m concerned that his mobile seems to be off. I heard from him on Tuesday by text, but then didn’t think anything of him not being in touch until now, if only because I thought he’d probably got his hands full with his family. Not now, though. I would’ve expected something from him by now, even if not a long chatty conversation.” The odd looks Sergeant Miles kept giving her were now starting to seriously spook her. “Look, what’s going on? Why are you here? Has something awful happened?” He gave a grunt. “We were contacted by our colleagues up in Yorkshire. They’re looking for Mr Hawkesmoor.” “Scott Hawkesmoor? Why? Whatever for? He didn’t strike me as some master criminal.” “Well whether he’s responsible or not, we need to speak to him because both his wife and his mother-in-law are dead.” Kat felt herself sway and heard Sergeant Miles say, “Are you alright?” as he caught hold of her arm. Why did that feel as though she had known it was going to happen? Why had that feeling of someone having a violent death been all over her ever since she’d come back? The news felt almost physical in its
L.J. Hutton (A Gate to Somewhen Else)
He’s my friend, he is,’ said the old man. ‘There aren’t any other robins in the garden, so he’s a bit lonely.’ He spoke in strong Yorkshire dialect, so Mary had to listen carefully to understand him. She looked very hard at the robin. ‘I’m lonely too,’ she said. She had not realized this before.
Clare West (The Secret Garden (Oxford Bookworms Library: 1000 Headwords))
scruff of the sheep’s neck, the dog by his heels. “Need a hand?” He stretched a hand out which Claire grabbed gratefully. She clambered up the ditch alongside him, until they were all standing, man, woman, dog, and sheep, at the edge of a snowy field without a house or building in sight. “Thank you,” he said, his voice gruff. “I couldn’t have got her out on my own.” He nodded towards her boots. “You’re soaked.
Kate Hewitt (A Yorkshire Christmas (Christmas Around the World Series, #2))
So when can I meet your young man?” “He isn’t my young man.” Anna shook her head, rose, and found something fascinating to stare at out the window. “He was my employer, and he is a gentleman, so he and his brothers came to my aid.” “Fine-looking fellow,” Grandmama remarked innocently. “You’ve met him?” “Morgan and I ran into him and his younger brother when she took me to the park yesterday. Couple of handsome devils. In my day, bucks like that would have been brought to heel.” “This isn’t your day”—Anna smiled—“but as you are widowed, you shouldn’t feel compelled to exercise restraint on my behalf.” “Your dear grandfather gave me permission to remarry, you know.” Grandmother peered at a tray of sweets as she spoke. “At the time, I told him I could never love another, and I won’t—not in the way I loved him.” “But?” Anna turned curious eyes on her grandmother and waited. “But he knew me better than I know myself. Life is short, Anna James, but it can be long and short at the same time if you’re lonely. I think that was part of your brother’s problem.” “What do you mean?” Anna asked, not wanting to point out the premature use of the past tense. “He was too alone up there in Yorkshire.” Grandmother bit into a chocolate. “The only boy, then being raised by an old man, too isolated. There’s a reason boys are sent off to school at a young age. Put all those barbarians together, and they somehow civilize each other.” “Westhaven wasn’t sent to school until he was fourteen,” Anna said. “He is quite civilized, as are his brothers.” “Civilized, handsome, well heeled, titled.” Grandmother looked up from the tray of sweets. “What on earth is not to like?” Anna
Grace Burrowes (The Heir (Duke's Obsession, #1; Windham, #1))
On June 12, 1775 the Rhode Island Assembly commissioned armed ships to fight the British Navy. That Fall on October 13, 1775 the Second Continual Congress established the United States Navy marking this date as the Navy’s official birthday. The first United States naval vessel was the USS Ganges, built in Philadelphia as a merchant vessel. She was bought by the US Navy, fitted out with 24 guns for a crew of 220 men, and commissioned on 24 May 1798. Following this, John Paul Jones was appointed Commander of the French ship Duc de Duras, which had been in service as a merchant ship between France and the Orient. Her design was such that she could easily be converted to a man of war, which she was, when fitted out with 50 guns and an extra six 6-pounder and renamed the Bonhomme Richard. On September 23, 1779 the Bonhomme Richard fought in the Battle of Flamborough Head, off the coast of Yorkshire,England where, although winning the battle, caught fire from the bombardment and sank 36 hours later. John Paul Jones commandeered a British ship named the HMS Serapis and sailed the captured ship to Holland for repairs. The Serapis was transferred her to the French as a prize of war, who then converted her into a privateer. In 1781, she sank off Madagascar to an accidental fire that reached the powder locker, blowing her stern off. Following the Revolutionary War the Continental Navy was disbanded, however George Washington responded to threats to American shipping by Barbary pirates in the Mediterranean with the Naval Act of 1794, which created a permanent U.S. Navy. As a part of this Act, the first ships that were commissioned were six frigates, which included the USS Constitution and the USS Constellation.
Hank Bracker (Suppressed I Rise)
Lord Damerel said that he knew well that it would be *infamous* to take advantage of you, when you knew nothing about the world and had never been beyond Yorkshire, or met any other men - well, only Mr Yardley! - so that you were almost *bound* to have fallen in love with him, and how *could* you understand what it would mean to be married to a man of his reputation?
Georgette Heyer (Venetia)
…American men actually engage most in hunting and fishing. The desire of men in wealthy societies to re-create the food-gathering conditions of very primitive people appears to be an appropriate comment on the power of the hunting drives discussed earlier. Not only is hunting expensive in many places – think of the European on safari in Africa – but it is also time-consuming, potentially dangerous, and frequently involves considerable personal discomfort. Men do it because it is ‘fun’. So they say, and so one must conclude from their persistent rendition of the old pattern. What is relevant from our point of view is that hunting, and frequently fishing, are group activities. A man will choose his co-hunters very carefully. Not only does the relative intimacy of the hunt demand some congeniality, but there is also danger in hunting with inept or irresponsible persons. It is a serious matter, and even class barriers which normally operate quite rigidly may be happily breached for the period of the hunt. Some research on hunters in British Columbia suggests the near-piety which accompanies the hunt; hunting is a singular and important activity. One particular group of males takes along bottles of costly Crown Royal whisky for the hunt; they drink only superior whisky on this poignant re-creation of an ancient manly skill. But when their wives join them for New Year's celebrations, they drink an ordinary whisky: the purely formal and social occasion does not, it seems, merit the symbolic tribute of outstanding whisky. Gambling is another behaviour which, like hunting and sport, provides an opportunity in countless cultures for the weaving of and participation in the web of male affiliation. Not the gambling of the London casino, where glamorous women serve drinks, or the complex hope, greed, fate-tempting ritual, and action of the shiny American palaces in Nevada, and not the hidden gambling run by racketeers. Rather, the card games in homes or small clubs, where men gather to play for manageable stakes on a friendly basis; perhaps – like Jiggs and his Maggie – to avoid their women, perhaps to seek some money, perhaps to buy the pleasant passage of time. But also to be with their friends and talk, and define, by the game, the confines of their intimate male society. Obviously females play too, both on their own and in mixed company. But there are differences which warrant investigation, in the same way that the drinking of men in groups appears to differ from heterosexual or all-female drinking; the separation of all-male bars and mixed ones is still maintained in many places despite the powerful cultural pressures against such flagrant sexual apartheid. Even in the Bowery, where disaffiliated outcast males live in ways only now becoming understood, it has been noted that, ‘There are strong indications that the heavy drinkers are more integrated and more sociable than the light. The analytical problem lies in determining whether socialization causes drinking or drinking results in sociability when there is no disapproval.’ In the gentleman's club in London, the informally segregated working man's pub in Yorkshire, the all-male taverns of Montreal, the palm-wine huts of west Africa, perhaps can be observed the enactment of a way of establishing maleness and maintaining bonds which is given an excuse and possibly facilitated by alcohol. Certainly, for what they are worth in revealing the nature of popular conception of the social role of drinking, advertisements stress the manly appeal of alcohol – particularly whisky – though it is also clear that there are ongoing changes in the socio-sexual implications of drinking. But perhaps it is hasty to regard the process of change as a process of female emancipation which will culminate in similarity of behaviour, status, and ideals of males and females. The changes are still too recent to warrant this. Also, they have been achieved under sufficiently self-conscious pressure...
Lionel Tiger (Men in Groups)
That was Wield, a mind for all seasons. In Pascoe’s opinion he was one of the best cops in Mid-Yorkshire, if not in the whole country. Sticking at sergeant had been his own choice, at first because he didn’t want his gayness to become a promotion issue, and latterly, since setting up home with Edwin Digweed, because he had no desire to take any step which might disturb his domestic happiness. In an unprejudiced society, he’d have been Commissioner by now, thought Pascoe.
Reginald Hill (Death Comes For The Fat Man (Dalziel & Pascoe, #22))
Morecambe and Wise, the famous team of Northern comedians, used to complain about the propensity of Yorkshire audiences to “zip their teeth up,” as they put it. Eric Morecambe claimed one man in Leeds said to him, “Ee, lad, thou wert so funny tonight I almost had to laff.
Paul Johnson (Humorists: From Hogarth to Noel Coward)
The vulgar Turk is very different from what is spoken at court, 'tis as ridiculous to make use of the expressions commonly used in speaking to a great man or lady, as it would be to talk broad Yorkshire or Somershetshire in the drawing room.
Mary Wortley Montagu