THE OLD ONES
are the best...

In the days before the coming of the Norman devils, there roamed in these parts sundry bands of murdering Steelers players, although none stayed longer than it took to quaff the ale and bonk the maidens. One such band was camped near Salford and it being high summer, a group of particularly murderous Steelers had sharpened their axes (or Hockey sticks as they liked to call them) and was moving towards Manchester.

At this time the ale house known as the Long Pole, so called because of what the regulars would not touch the landlords wife with, was owned by one Sigeard 'the stingy' Stinger. The Churls of Salford were fleeing down the road towards Manchester, shouting as they went 'the Steelers are coming, the Steelers are coming' and most of the Mancunions upped stakes and went to hide on the moors. Sigeard, however, was wont to hang on till the last minute so as to squeeze the last penny from whoever was foolish enough to drink his much-watered ale(*).

Out of the forest came a Welsh packman, leading a donkey loaded with cheap trinkets and useless crap. Treffor the Simpleton, for such was his name, hitched his beast to a tree and entered the Long Pole. Licking his lips he ordered a measure of ale and, looking around him, he remarked to Sigeard that he thought the Long Pole to be a well appointed and comfortable hostelry and he wished he could own such a property. Sigeard, not one to miss a chance, soon swapped the ale house for Treffor the Simpleton's donkey and trade goods and, thinking himself lucky, hastened away towards Bolton.

Soon after there came a small group of Churls, wide eyed and shaking with fear as they fled. 'The Steelers are coming, the Steelers are coming' they called to Treffor as they hurried past the Long Pole.

Now Treffor the Simpleton had never heard of Steelers and consequently had no idea what to expect. Soon, however, he heard the sound of drunken singing as a group of large-proportioned, armed-to-the-teeth thugs emerged from the forest and made straight for his ale house.

'Ale, ale' they shouted and Treffor duly obliged. They swilled their drinks, hardly pausing for breath, and then called for more, and more, and more. A particularly huge fellow suddenly decided to hurl his razor sharp axe at the stuffed head of a stag, mounted on the wall. His friends thought this to be a marvelous game and proceeded to play 'hurl the axe' at just about everything that they could see (and many that they could not see, too). Soon the Long Pole resembled a junk yard with every piece of furniture falling foul to axes, swords and spears.

Treffor started to become very concerned and, in an effort to calm the situation, broached another keg of ale and offered foaming cups to the already well drunken gang. 'Have more of my finest bitter?' he said to the leader. 'What? More ale?' the huge fellow said. 'No thanks mate, we've got to get going. Haven't you heard? The bloody Steelers are coming.'

(*)= Yes the same stuff they now sell at the Arena

(err, thanks Noj!)