Mollusc

Mythical creatures abound in literature and folklore – Kraken, Yeti, Cyclops, the Loch Ness Monster, Intelligent Portsmouth Male etc – and yet there remains one whose legend has not spread outside of its supposed habitat. A creature that, despite its enormous size and the frequency of reported sightings, remains almost unknown outside of East Anglia.

I refer, of course, to Xybythgnys - the Giant Fenland Whelk.

I first became aware of this beast while attending an all-night cheese and mescaline shindig, which had been organised by the friend of a friend of an ex-friend of an avowed enemy. I was discussing the best way to cook lobster with a vegan, a Rabbi, and a vegan Rabbi, when our culinary discourse was interrupted by a man who very closely resembled a raving lunatic, possibly because this is exactly what he was.

It is an ancient Mariner, And he stoppeth one of three. 'By thy long grey beard and glittering eye, Now wherefore stopp'st thou me? is what I very nearly said.

And so it came to pass that, over the next seven or eight hours, this briney old sea-hound twisted my brain into plaits with tales of a creature so terrifying, so utterly vicious and repugnant, that the very mention of it had been known to cause outbreaks of alopecia and rickets in even the most bohemian and cynical circles. An omnivorous demon, slithering across the dark flatlands of eastern England, striking terror into the hearts of man, beast and assorted hybrids of same.

While it is easy for modern types, with their iPhones and bootcut trousers, to scoff at the superstitions of web-toed cretins, I was intrigued by the tale this man told and I found myself wanting to discover more. After the party I also discovered I had married a trio of welders from Birkenhead, but that’s not important right now, and anyway it was never consummated.

I began my research by watching a long-forgotten documentary from 1968, “Xybythgnys – Mollusc of Malice”, hosted by Professor Humphrey Pumphrey, which I was able to stream from an Estonian website. After that I streamed some other material from the same website, not directly related to my research, as a relaxation aid.

The story of Xybythgnys has its roots deep in the mysticism of the Far East (Lowestoft) and traces of the myth can be found in most towns and villages (apart from Wells-next-the-Sea, where they shun the whelk in favour of a cult dedicated to the Winkle of Destiny). Statues, battered and eroded by salt spray, still stand as testament to the power of the whelk along the east coast of England.

Xybythgnys (reproduced by kind permission of the Pumphrey Archive)

I visited Professor Pumphrey at his research centre in Hunstanton, from where he curates the Xybythgnys Archive, a treasure trove of information for the committed Xybythgnysphile. Here are stored newspaper articles, books, eyewitness accounts and photos of alleged sightings of this legendary mollusc. From these we can gather that the flesh of the Xybythgnys was much sought after in Tudor England, due to its supposed aphrodisiac qualities, with rich individuals paying huge amounts of money for what they believed to be the creature’s oozing flesh (although which was usually human tissue, illegally harvested from a leper colony).

Here is an extract from an instruction pamphlet, published in 1542, on the correct usage of mollusc tissue in an erotic context (courtesy of the Pumphrey Archive):

“First take ye the muscle, and having examind such as to be not worthy of entrance to thine lady’s chamber, rub the ooze of the welk along its length. Then shalt thou be of such inflamed proportions, and of such rigidity, that yea verily a cat could not scratch it.”

Unfortunately there is little direct evidence of the existence of the Xybythgnys, other than in the folklore collected in Professor Pumphrey’s cupboard. What photographs there are appear to be, at best, blurred black and white Polaroid snapshots of common sea whelks with no surrounding landmarks to help establish the size of the creature, and the “historical documents” are nothing more than yellowed pieces of paper covered in badly typed nonsense, with obscene doodles in the margins. When I questioned Professor Pumphrey as to the providence of his evidence, he said “Where’s Marjorie? She’s normally here by now. She brings me the paper. You don’t look like Marjorie.”

It was at this point that the good Professor soiled himself and I was politely asked to leave the nursing home, as it was getting near nap-time.