Jannies in the Jailhouse

The legend of the jailhouse Jannie’s has taken on a life of its own in Trinity, passed down so many times that no one knows when—or if—it even happened. But the truth hardly matters. Fact or fiction, the tale of the time a local constable jailed a rowdy mummer is a Christmas classic.

Looking back, it’s hard to say who fared worse—the constable, whose authority was thoroughly undermined, or the mummers, whose dignity didn’t stand a chance.

The trouble began, as these things often do, with rum. One particularly boisterous mummer, clearly celebrating a little too enthusiastically, found himself on the wrong side of the law. The local constable, determined to restore order to the community, hauled him off to Trinity’s tiny jailhouse.

But this wasn’t just any mummer. He had a posse—a fiercely loyal band of Jannie’s who weren’t about to let their comrade suffer alone. When they demanded to be locked up alongside him, the constable took one look at the burly, half-soused crew in their mismatched costumes and decided it was easier to just let them in than argue. With a resigned sigh, he opened the cell door and herded them all inside.

That’s when things truly went off the rails.

Far from remorseful, the mummers turned the jailhouse into an impromptu party. Someone smuggled in an accordion, and before long, the cell was echoing with stomping jigs, raucous songs, and uncontrollable laughter. Outside, the constable sat with his head in his hands, cursing every decision that had led to this moment. His stern warnings were drowned out by the off-key chorus of “Lukey’s Boat,” punctuated by whoops and the occasional crash.

By morning, the constable had had enough. Bleary-eyed and desperate for peace, he threw open the door and waved the mummers out into the frosty dawn. Their revelry had long since given way to splitting headaches and profound regret. Dishevelled and still dressed in their bedraggled costumes, they shuffled off, hoping to make it home unnoticed.

But Trinity’s streets had one last humiliation in store.

On Doctor’s Hill, a group of kids armed with sleds—and excellent aim—spotted the stumbling mummers. With whoops of delight, the kids launched a relentless snowball assault. The hungover janneys, still unsteady from the night’s festivities, could do little but flail as snowballs rained down. Even the accordion took a direct hit, letting out a single, wheezy whomp before falling silent forever.

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By the time the mummers finally reached their homes, they were soaked, battered, and humbled. If there was any lesson to be learned from the ordeal, it was this: not even the rowdiest mummers stand a chance against a pack of snowball-wielding kids.

As for the constable? It’s doubtful he ever arrested another mummer. If I were him, I’d have cut eye holes in a pillowcase the following year and embraced the old saying: “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.”

• Sources & Further Reading

  1. Look ‘Ere Me Son, The Evening Telegram, December 20, 1968

  2. Trinity Notes, The Daily News, January 3, 1955