Few months beck, folks round mah way started complainin’ abaht a strange hum thet could be heard in the middle of the nart, as if the parish washing machine hed somehow come on and started turning on its own.

The source of these vahbrations remains as yet unknown, unlike the source of similar rumblings recently felt beneath the streets of St Helier. We know what causes those.

Who’d a thought all them yers ago when a monk named Helier swam over from France thet he’d end up givin’ ’is name to thet ugly mess of buildings tacked on to the Waterfront?

One minute yer being sent overseas to preach the gospel on a tarny little island, the next yer name is synonymous with Jagerbombing, mini-skirts and fistfarts. (So mah nephew little Ed tells me; no idea who thet Jager fella is, nor whar you’d want to bomb ’im.)

It’s no wonder Helier buggered off to Hermitage rock to live on ’is own! History tells us thet he used to signal to shore whenever he saw the sails of approachin’ attackers, though the fact that he chose to use ’is middle finger (and frequently gave the signal whether he spotted sails or not) will tell you somethin’ abaht his attitude towards the locals.

Legend also has it thet Helier was eventually beheaded, but, bein’ a saint, was able to pick up his own head and carry it back to shore. We’re still waitin’ on the Veritas report fer thet one.

Anyhow, Helier’s legacy remains in the shape of thet Lego-lark mish-mash of shops and banks thet we beans are sometarms forced to refer to as our capital. And yes, abaht those vahbrations recently felt beneath its streets; thet’s Helier ’imself, so ah’m told, spinning in ’is grave. Wouldn’t you?