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I’ve lived in Yorkshire for more than a decade. I been with my very own Yorkshireman for, ooh, much longer than that. And my children are fast picking up the dialect. They’ll deflect a reprimand with: ‘But mum, I didn’t do owt!’. Or, in response to the ridiculous question ‘What did you do at school?’, I can, of course, expect: ‘Nowt’.

But I still had to ask for help translating the a poster I saw on the wall at a local pub. Original plus translation below.

How to treat our husbands

Allus give your husband a hug when he goes aht and when he comes in. Tak ‘is snap to t’mill of a dinner time, warm his slippers and allus have his teea ready when ‘e comes whom. Allus have his bath ready in front o’t fire and mak sure t’watters nawther ter hot nor ter cowd, afore thar scrubs his back. Cut his toa nails, warm his bed for’im, and allus wakken’im at morn wi a pot o teea.

Na sympathise wi’im if’es backed a looiser at t’dogs, or lost a tooith, and if’e says ‘e feels so ill’e thinks’es ba’an t’dee, agree wi’im an e’l sooin come ra’and. Allus turn a deaf ear to’is cursin when he drops owt on fooit or hits’is thumb wit’ammer. An doant ask were’es bin when’e comes whom lat.

Doant complain, ot’ale on his breath that’e spends every Saturday laikin football, an Sunday wi’is pidgeons an at pub. Nor when’e treyds muck all oer t’scoured flags.

Never read t’paper afore’im never sit in his favourite cheer, an when’e can’t find his specs, knaaf, or t’ammer, thee mun allus know were to find’em.

Buy’im his twist when thar’t doint’shoppin, an doant complain about t’reek of t’bacca or t’bacca ash all over t’house.

Allus cook t’roast of a Sunday dinner but nivver t’praaz leeks or t’marras.

Allus darn his socks, change his galasses to his Sunday britches, and sew t’buttons on his gansey. Cleean his booits and feed his ferrets. An if that wint do ass’im whar’e does want and shoos whar it is give ‘im it, an if that wint do, shooit him.

My version
Always give your husband a hug when he goes out and when he comes in. Take his lunch to the mill at lunchtime, warm his slippers and always have his dinner ready when he comes home. Always have his bath ready in front of the fire and make sure the water is neither too hot nor too cold before you scrub his back. Cut his toe nails, warm his bed for him and always wake him up in the morning with a pot of tea.

Sympathise with him if he’s backed a looser at the dogs, or lost a tooth, and if he says he feels so ill he thinks his bound to die, agree with him and he’ll soon come round. Always turn a deaf ear to his cursing when he drops anything on his foot or hits his thumb with a hammer. And don’t ask where he’s been when he comes home late.

Don’t complain, with regards to the ale on his breath, that he spends every Saturday playing football, and Sunday with his pigeons and in the pub. Nor when he treads muck all over the scoured flags.

Never read the paper before him, never sit in his favourite chair and when he can’t find his glasses, knife or the hammer, you must always know where to find them.

Buy him his twist when you’re doing the shopping and don’t complain about the reek of tobacco or tobacco ash all over the house.

Always cook the roast at Sunday lunch but never the prize leeks or tomatoes.

Always darn his socks, change his galoshes to his Sunday britches, and sew the buttons on his waistcoat. Clean his boots and feed his ferrets. And if that won’t do ask him what he does want show him where it is give it to him and if that won’t do, shoot him.

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