http://www.authorsden.com/visit/view...y.asp?id=15184
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The Pud:
Stornoway Black Pudding :: The Original and Best
http://www.google.co.uk/url?q=http:/...rWJeLDEm-Se-0Q
The sauce:
http://www.reggae-reggae.co.uk/
To follow Country Black Pud...
Bloody hell Keith they have only been going for seventy years. It does say the original Stornaway black pudding , not the original black pudding! Bury have been producing black puddings since Adam was a lad .Soon as Adam came out of the garden he introduced Eve to the pudding club in Bury and the rest is history.:p:p:p
BUT YOU WOULD NOT PUT REGGAE REGGAE SAUCE ON A BURY PUD ?
Be a bit like a good malt with coke.......
Ill try anything once .. Bob Marley liked a bit of black pud!
Thought that was Mrs M.
Just thought I would add my little bit to the black pudding debate. On the Salvina (and I am sure all the other Sal boats) we used to get Norwegian black pudding made from whales blood. It had a slightly sweetish taste but wasn't too bad.
For the record I lived in Bury between coming back from South Africa and moving to Cyprus and I can honestly say that I could never develop a taste for Bury black pudding. I still prefer the Scottish style in the big roll which is sliced and fried.
I actually lived in Tottington which is the next village to Ramsbottom and the pub where the black pudding throwing championships were held was " The Corner Pin" which closed quite a few years ago and as far as I am aware there were none held after it closed. The last winner was an Australian.;)
Thanks Jim, Dont like tripe , but I heard that there was a telivision documentuary the other week that stated that the first mention on haggis was in Lancashire about 100 years before it was mentioned in Scotland.. Now theres a debate!:D:D:D
The History of "Black Pudding Waving" in Pubs in
Bury, Lancashire
The Black Pudding is the official Bury mascot. It is also the subject of an ancient and traditional ritual.
Black puddings had traditionally always been hunted in the fields and moorland around the town, and were sold on the famous Bury Market as a delicacy. Small and lithe little creatures, with their brownish-green furry coats, remarkable eyesight and razor sharp teeth, it was considered a great honour to be recognised as one of Bury's number of black pudding hunters.
However, local folklore has it that the best black pudding hunter in Bury, Arthur Bradshaw, took to trapping live black puddings and taking them home. As black puddings are prodigious breeders, a thriving black pudding farm soon sprang up in Arthur's back yard. This rapidly got out of control and many black puddings escaped to live a verminous life in the town.
Bury soon became infested with wild black puddings. They would scurry through the streets, in and out of houses, through the sewers and all around the famous Bury Market. There were so many of them, they were almost a plague. The town council would give a shilling (5p) a tail to people managed to catch one of the animals within the town. Obviously at that time, a shilling was a tidy sum - it would keep you in clogs and flat caps for a year. Anyone who caught one would wring it's neck and wave it in the air with undisguised glee.
However it soon got to the stage where this no longer had any effect of the swarming tide of vermin because the black puddings could breed faster than the people could kill them. The townsfolk just couldn't take anymore. An angry mob formed, and besieged the home of the town's official black pudding catcher, George Postlethwaite. They demanded action.
Now George was a mysterious chap, believed to have magical powers. He wasn't your usual vermin control operative. George would never use poisons or traps, but rumour had it he could charm the black puddings into a sort of trance. George was promised the freedom of the town, if he would only rescue the beleaguered population from the seething mass of furry critters. George stood in the middle of Kay Gardens and took out his penny whistle. He began to play a haunting, eerie melody and soon black puddings were appearing from everywhere. They came out of the houses, up the drains, from stables, outside toilets, pubs, shops, everywhere. Soon, George was stood in the middle of a writhing, seething, rippling blanket of greenish brown fur. He began to walk slowly out of town, with the seething mass following him. He walked all the way to Holcombe Hill, where he suddenly stopped playing. Immediately, a common fear befell the animals around him and they all disappeared down the burrows of their rural cousins, where they still live to this day.
Unfortunately, black puddings still breed relentlessly and numbers have to be kept down. Some are still killed by local hunters, skinned, boiled and sold on the market. but an official, cull is needed to ensure they never again reach plague proportions.
This has now become a tradition and every year, about this time, the menfolk of the town go out at dawn, just as the mist is clearing from the fields, for the Annual Wild Black Pudding Hunt on Holcombe Hill. The men trap and kill as many black puddings as possible and the one with the most is declared Champion Hunter for that year. In deference to the great plague, tradition decrees that all the men have to go into the pubs and wave their black puddings in the air, so that they can be officially counted. That is why people in pubs in Bury wave black puddings in the air.
As an interesting historical note, and to prove my story is true, if you go to Bury you will see that there is a pub called The George in Kay Gardens, the start of George Postlethwaite's great walk to Holcombe Hill. If you drive out of the town centre for about half a mile, towards Bolton, there is a pub on Bolton Road called The Arthur Inn. This pub is built on the site of Arthur Bradshaw's house and the yard where he had his infamous black pudding farm.
Author Credit to Mike Williams
http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Hollow/5605/