I was somewhat taken aback by by the heated reaction to my post about Maurice Wilson yesterday. There was me thinking I was celebrating the life of a forgotten Yorkshireman and all I get are insults and denials.
I told the tale straight (no pun intended), or at least with no more tongue-in-cheek than I would have used had Maurice been a Lancastrian.
And you have to wonder why some would object to Maurice’s story being told. He was a decorated war hero for starters, so his bravery and sacrifice was not in doubt.
His experiences at Ypres contributed greatly to his later eccentricity, but since when has that been a character failing in Yorkshire? You only have to watch an episode of Last of the Summer Wine.
He pursued a dream that was beyond the endurance of lesser men and set about it with wit, grit and determination, qualities generally admired east of the Pennines.
And he might well have succeeded in being the first to reach the summit of Everest which you would think was a cause for pride and celebration in the white rose county, but not so.
Sadly, it appears that his foible of wearing women’s clothing trumps his other deeds and disbars him from membership of the Yorkshire race. Elizabeth went so far as to call him a closet Lancastrian, an accusation that would have a lynch mob on the streets in some parts of Dewsbury.
An interesting response from otherwise broad-minded commentators which is odd when you consider the other revered cross-dressing Yorkshiremen. Michael Parkinson and Geoffrey Boycott spring to mind.
I have clearly intruded on private grief and will now be changing my identity and joining the police protection programme. And that is more than a little inconvenient just before Christmas.