Here in Manxland we very much believe in 'Themselves', we believe it is very bad luck to call them Faeries or Fairys. We call them Mooinjer Veggey in Manx or 'Themselves' in English (also there are other numerous names but these are the most common).
I was, like many other people with Manx Heritage, brought up with the local folklore. I will share one of my favourite stories with you (Which I have written in my own way):-
Once in the not so distance past, ‘themselves’, the faerie folk, use to be a common sight in many areas of the Island. They use to frolic, caused mayhem and play tricks on the local population. This was before they were forced underground by those that refused to believe, who torn down their playgrounds and built roads for cars to travel along. But they are still remembered by the stories told by the Manx people who tell their children so that their children’s children will also be told them.
Well I shall tell you of one story about a band of ‘Themselves’ that use to play havoc with horses. They use to creep into the stables and borrowed the sleeping horses; they use to race them all across the Island to see who could win. They used a magical saddle, this ensured them faster speeds than a horse could normally gallop.
This particular band of ‘Themselves’ decided to pick a horse from the stables of the Vicar of Kirk Braddan Church. They creeped up to the horse and put the saddle on its back; then tightened the girth and got on. The horse woke with a start and before it had time to recover started to gallop like a whirlwind in the direction of the Nunnery.
The horse rode faster than it ever had, ‘Themselves’ goading it to go faster, the fields darted past, the horse cleared hedges with ease, ‘Themselves’ holding on and laughing with such joy. They turned at the Nunnery and flew up Kewaigue Hill on towards the Cooil with reckless abandon.
From the church at the Cooil they turned down towards Old Kirk Braddan, from there to the Quarterbridge. ‘Themselves’ were so excited, they were whipping the horse to push it faster and faster. They did the course several times, through the darkness of the night, twisting down the tracks, unconcerned for anything but the thrill of the speed.
But then the sky started to lighten and ‘Themselves’ knew they had become over excited and forgotten the most important rule for all ‘Themselves’, that they had to be back in the kingdom of ‘Themselves’ by Sunrise.
They raced the beast back to the stable yard, the abused animal foaming ay the mouth but glad to have finally stopped. ‘Themselves’ rushed off into the trees, but in their haste had forgotten the Magical Saddle, but it was too late, the Sun had finally crested over Mona’s Isle.
The Vicar came to find his best horse collapsed in the yard. The steam was rising from the sweaty beast, perspiration matting the hair on it’s neck. He put his ear to it’s chest only to hear (and feel) the pounding of it’s heart, so much so that it seemed that it would jump of the horse’s body. He looked back at his near death horse and knew who to blame.
He could feel the tears well up in his eyes as the horse looked up at him, it’s breath stammered and foggy. He was about to go and find some locals with which to try and find where ‘Themselves’ lived, when he noticed the magical saddle. A smirk crossed his face and knew he had to do something to put the Saddle out of use.
That evening, as the sunset and the moon shone over the fields, ‘Themselves’ returned to the stable yard where they had left the pervious evenings entertainment. They looked around everywhere for the saddle, they broke into the out houses, rummaged through the tack room but they could not find their saddle anywhere.
It should be somewhere they all muttered to each other. They rifled through all the hay bails, looked through the feed buckets and still no sign. By this time it was nearly sunrise and so they knew they had to abandon their search. They filed out of the stable yard and onto the track only to see their Saddle.
But to their surprise it was built into the wall. The Magical Saddle, with it’s power lost, had turned into stone. ‘Themselves’ tried to free it but as they saw the first throngs of light lick the clouds they gave up, they knew they had lost it and that they could no longer race around the Island.
The Vicar had won, the raids on the local stables had ceased and everyone knew their horses would be safe at night. Sometimes, it is said that ‘Themselves’ return to try an free the Saddle from it’s perch but to no anvil.
So if you take a walk down Saddle Road, just keep an eye out and you will see that Saddle sticking out of the wall, in the exact same position as it was set in by the Vicar all those decades ago.
we used to sniff tippex
Pimp his leg that's well funny! 
