(A true story told to me by Wilf, cut down a bit as she's got more rattle than a can of marbles).

The tribe had gone from Barnsley to America for a fortnight’s holiday – grown-ups, kids, grandparents aunties and uncles.  After arriving at JFK Airport they went off in search of the bus they’d hired.  It was big enough to take them all and was the sort that had a sliding side door as well as ones at the front and back.

Unfortunately (we’ll find out for who shortly) it didn’t work properly, which meant some of the tribe would have to clamber over the seats in the front or the back to get to their middle rows.

The Bandits went back into the office to complain.

‘It wain’t wesh’ Jud began.

‘Sorry, sir?’ said the young Customer Service Consultant.

‘Yon van aart theeya that thaz gennuz.  Doowa wain’t oppen an wiv owd fowacks’.

The youngster looked around to his colleagues for assistance but they had all simultaneously discovered huge enthusiasm in their paperwork.

‘It wain’t wesh’ repeated Jud.

The rest of his party divided equally among those who stared blankly like extras from Deliverance and those who had travelled beyond the environs of Barnsley to the wider cosmopolitan worlds of Donny and Huddersfield.  These were kinked double in tears of laughter.

Jud looked around at them to see what was the matter.

Meanwhile, the lad had managed to translate some of the complaint.

‘What won’t wash, sir?’ he asked.

He clearly hadn’t worked out yet what the ‘doowa’ was.