“At my age getting lucky means finding my car in the parking lot!”
Anon
Tales From The Scruffy.
The rest home has gone up-market and we’ve finally got new stools consigning the old ones and some very dodgy stains to the tip. In keeping with the average age of the inmates, the new stools also have “special” features.
We now have high backs and wraparound arms making it even harder to fall off when Our Jackie slugs you for suggesting she has pulled another crap pint or for leering down her top for any signs of life.
In addition, they have a wipe-down faux-leather (plastic) covering which makes slipping a quiet fart out awkward given the greater acoustic propensities with air quality expected to improve to EU levels.
At worst now we get an early warning.
To comply with EU health directives – although if we vote to leave we will all die as the beer will turn to poison – STDs (stool transmitted diseases) should also now be a thing of the past.
All we need now are electronically adjustable foot rests, a glass holder and wheels with a guided track to send Big Al off home at a flick of a button from the lovely Luckless Linda.
Last Sunday’s quiz night was packed as we continued the cultural induction for Aussie Luke.
“How come all these oldies are out so late?” he asked unaware that Mick the Quiz was offering a £300 jackpot on the night. The oldies were in competitive mode as the winner would be guaranteed to be able to go wild at Poundland for a month.
Tension mounted as the draw approached, slivers of sweat dropped from Patch’s brow and Big Al nervously slipped down a few chasers – two pints of Blonde – whilst I contemplated if £300 would change anybody’s life.
In walked down and out, redundant male model Gary Tipper wearing his old George Michael jacket and in an instant I saw someone it might.
The pub hushed in anticipation as Mick announced in his bluff Northern tones – a sort of mix of muted Yorkshire with acidic humour thrown in – that the draw would be made.
Tipper clicked his Cuban heels in excitement and flexed one of his numerous tattoos; tonight’s the night!
“Time to find a lovely lady to make the draw now” said Mick.
“You’ll be here all night!” shouted one wag as Norah our transgender bar-person quietly noted his face ensuring he would be getting more than a creamy head on his next pint.
As if it were written in the stars, Tipper pulled the lucky number and – even luckier – came up with the right answer to the big question. Clutching his £300 he was off to spend a day at the Bhs closing down sale.
The Fishermen looked crestfallen and swore they would mug him on the way home with an assault by Benidorm Buses and fishing rods, dumping the body in the Leeds-Liverpool canal.
Good Morning Everybody – Four Seasons In One Night.
At last the season got going last Saturday albeit we now have a week off for the Tour De Yorkshire; may as well let a bunch of lycra clad cyclists freeze their balls off than us.
Stiff’s Skipper Marsy was the first injury of the season though nothing to do with cricket. Opting out of Friday beers he’d gone for a cycle ride and come a cropper; far better to stick with the beers from now on as drunks always fall softer.
I picked up Harry our scorer – one of the guys that enable us to actually play each week – licking his lips at another summer of Saturdays with the lads even if he admitted “my bins are going Willy, I can’t tell one fat lad from another!”
Maybe Molly would at last get that fifty to christen his new bat which still had it’s Made in Pakistan for Woolworths sticker on the back.
Little had changed over the winter for Harry, his trademark grin still as wide as ever. His beloved Bradford Bulls were still “shite” but his devotion as undimmed as that towards “the wife”. The tales spun along again like an ancient stream as we meandered our way to the game.
We Stiffs enjoyed a comfortable win thankfully before the ice age came, making it back across to the Badlands to see our new boy Luke in action.
Scanning the field it seemed there was no sign until we saw what appeared to be a snowman somewhere in the deep. There he was – six sweaters to the good – looking like the Molly of old.
When he came back on to bowl the slips were positioned almost in the nearby gardens and keeper Rob had ordered some Kevlar and a Roman shield; the boy can bowl quickly.
I made a note to stick to sitting on the roller on practice nights.
Win or lose, life goes on although Saturday took a surreal twist as I found myself out with Young Joe. It only seems a breath since he was knee high and now this; time marches on…it really is later than you think.
I left the youngsters to it and made a graceful retreat whilst I could remember where to retreat to.
Monday came and another junior practice night with a field full of kids, bathed in sunlight and…snow. Our Aussie looked like he had seen a spaceship as flakes of snow drifted from cloudless skies.
Having taught him which button to press on the washing machine he looked disbelieving as I insisted it was a “good drying day.”
Acclimatised as he is now to my tendency to talk bollocks, Luke soon discovered that snow really does exist and can fall two days running.
All of a sudden he was wild with excitement and I watched incredulously as he stood in the garden looking at the skies as if £10 notes were falling.
Soon be heatwave time!
Bhs
Just over a year ago I commented on this old high street favourite; the omens were not good. Once again, Private Eye were bang on the money.
With an uncanny symmetry – or depressing similarity depending on your take – last year’s blog also contained a piece on youngsters failing to stick at sport. Maybe I should get out more?
Much more illuminating was a conversation with one of our senior players at the weekend who reaffirmed the point that, in business life, having a wide variety of interests outside of work had been invaluable to him.
It is a point worth dwelling on.
Advice Corner
Enjoy your Bank Holiday on the piste.
Leave a Reply