As you have hopefully gathered by now, Cornwall is almost entirely made out of the buggers. Well-hard ones at that!
Thanks to exhaustive research by the Reporting Team, investigating previously unavailable archives, we can now reveal what really happened to cause this phenomenon.
The scene: the workshop of the heavens, it is Saturday evening, feverish activity as projects are finished off and work tools downed.
St. Michael: Come on, you lot, let's get this all wrapped up and then we can bugger off down the pub for a few scoops and a takeaway curry.
St. George: But don't forget we've got a footie game tomorrow. Seraphim v. Cherubim, winners get to be the singing heralds in the Crimbo nativity play.
St. Michael: We're all done here, boss, how are you doing?
God: Nearly finished. Just putting the finishing touches to the Doom Bar so we've got something to drink. It's been a long six days I can tell you and I'm looking forward to putting my feet up tomorrow and enjoying a nice Sunday roast. Mind you, I suppose I'll have to wash the car and mow the lawn first!
[Suddenly with a loud clanking and a screech of brakes a big dump truck pulls up. The door opens and the archangel Gabriel jumps out].
Gabriel: Got a teensy problemette, chief. We've still got these rocks left over but they're so damned hard we can't do anything with them.
St. Michael: Can't we just dump them in a parallel universe.
God: No. That's unethical. I don't want any fly-tipping. Besides I'd have to create a parallel universe first. I know what, I'll just smite them into nothingness.
Gabriel: No, wait, that's .....
[Total chaos ensues as the bolt of holy wrath ricochets around the heavens like a tracer bullet in a tank. Supply your own sound effects].
Gabriel: ..... blue elvan.
Jesus H. Christ: Me! You nearly turned me into a wholly ghost there, dad.
God: Sorry about that folks. Look, son, just get on with finishing off the trees will you. There's not going to be much point your being incarnated as a carpenter if there's no bloody wood on the planet.
Gabriel: I tried to warn you, boss. That stuff's damn hard.
God: OK, let's see if I can just use my might to grind it up into manageable chunks.
[Sounds of grunting and straining. Followed by a gasp of exhaustion and frustration].
God: Ye humans, this stuff is impossible.
St. Michael: What are we going to do then, gaffer? We only had six days to complete this contract and the lads aren't going to want to come in tomorrow and work unpaid on their day off.
God: We'll have to use it up somewhere. Gabe, have we got any suitable space on the planet where we can sling this stuff?
Gabriel: Hmm, not many possibilities. The trouble is the rocks are so heavy that they'll unbalance the planet in most areas.
St. George: How about here on the end of this island?
Gabriel: Yes, it would fit in there but the NIMBY's probably aren't going to be happy.
St. George: No worries, mate, I'm patron saint of the place so I'll be able to swing it with the planning committee.
God: OK, let's do it. We'll stick the rocks right on the bottom left corner of the island west of the Tamar. We'll call the place Kernow, from 'ker' meaning rocks and 'now' meaning more rocks.
St. Michael: I pity the poor devils who are going to have to try and live on that!
God: Don't worry, I'll give them their own language and make them believe that they are a breed apart. Now, all we need to do is find someone to be their patron saint.
[The office door opens].
St. Piran: We're off to the Sloop now, boss. You guys coming?
[God wanders over and puts his arm round St. Piran].
God: Look, son, I know you love that Doom Bar. How would you like to be permanently in charge of its production .....
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