“Evidently, it’s not fair to leave Carol at home all day with the dog?”
John Martin Molynuex – February 2016.
With this pensive and sombre email came staggering news that our founder and spiritual seeker of ale would not be joining us on our latest walk. It was like contemplating going to the moon minus a space suit.
Arranged at short notice – any excuse for a beer – we had a reduced crowd as the young had also abandoned us though for the pleasures of the flesh and so it was that I met with Never Miss A Beer Winky and Fair Weather Marsden Snr at our starting point, the closed doors of The Scruffy.
Landlord Michael was just evicting the remnants of Nob ‘Ed Korna, comforting them that the doors would be open again in two hours, though pleading with them to get a wash. We set off in search of more cultured surroundings and headed bound for Ilkley.
Down on the canal we met the inseparable Berghaus Man and Counsellor Chris, who does know how to escape the wife, kid and dog combined. Perhaps Molly should seek counsel here as his powers appear on the wane.
Denied of his company only a few weeks ago, we were excited at the prospect of the Doctor joining us, having been granted a day’s leave from the fearsome Lady Stephanie in exchange for the platinum card and no questions.
Not only did we have the pleasure of being entertained by the master raconteur but he also showed us a new route across Shipley Glen, a romantic little trek following a hidden beck and one, we suspected, the old fox had led unsuspecting prey down several times before.
In keeping with our Sport England values – should they ever offer grants for a bunch of old piss ‘eds roaming the countryside – we had arranged a meeting point for the disabled.
Big Al would be joining us at Dick Hudsons, which, by some strange coincidence, is also a pub. Our future grant prospects remain unlikely as white middle class is not a good start and nobody has shown any signs of “coming out” just yet.
The big man greeted us dressed like a giant boy scout, white porky legs in a pair of his dad’s shorts. As the first beers of the day were seduced, we decided it was time to offer solace to the forgotten man – Molly – via text.
“Woof woof :)!” to which the reply was solemnity itself.
“My sun will shine brightly again but today only cloud – JMM – 2016.”
Like a wild horse one sensed he had been finally broken; Carol had triumphed finally as we all knew she would. We wiped tears from our eyes – of joy or sorrow it was hard to determine – and downed the remnants of pint number two. It was only 1pm and this was not good.
Big Al had brought a rucksack for his one hour stroll but it was a step up from the usual Morrisons’ carrier bag. There ensued a lively debate as to the merits of the 5p a bag charge; environmental, economic or who gives shit were all reasoned arguments.
The Counsellor, a man of God, then shocked us by claiming that if you used self-service and opted for the less than truthful route – presumably God was on a fag-break – you could still get them for free. We left him behind on the moors reciting fifty Hail Marys.
As ever there was an array of new gear on show. Berghaus Man was showing signs of disloyalty sporting a new Bear Grylls top although someone remarked he looked more like Yogi Bear.
The Doctor was wearing a Snood, which are apparently fashionable in the leafy outskirts of Bradford as opposed to the inner suburbs where anyone wearing one is assumed likely to mug you. Lady Stephanie has one too; could this be the Bingley burqa?
The bleak and vast tundra that is Ilkley Moor was in spectacular form as we skipped across it ever giddier at the prospect of meeting Captain Chaos in Ilkley and more refreshments.
By now most of us were in need of a secluded area and a quiet moment or two.
Chaos had taken responsibility to organise our venue and the food so there was still the strong prospect of dining at MacDonald’s yet.
Big Al was discussing retirement planning having reduced his hours at HMRC. Most of us wondered how he could still get to William Hill’s in such a shortened day. The Doctor, using his industry knowledge, suggested it might be a good idea if The Scruffy offered ISAs.
Big Al conceded that there would be no Golden Goodbye for him and that it would be another ten years and more before the M&S gift token and the statutory “piss off!”
The discussion arrived at health, not unreasonably given the average age and the common theme of our outings.
The Doctor confessed he was on a diet and had been ordered to cut down on the good life. Lady Stephanie, a strong advocate of the same good life, was having none of it and the nice new kitchen was still to be used a decade on.
“I need to avoid things that are bad for me” said the Doctor having been forced to hit the gym in his sixtieth year.
“What about sex to lose a few pounds?” I suggested.
“Well that’s never been good for me but I could manage it at least five times a week as long as I got weekends off!” he replied “If only I could find a willing partner!”
“Luckless and me do it five times a night” offered Big Al and, with groans in unison, the debate moved on to seek more palatable topics so close to food.
After 27,500 steps, according to Berghaus Man’s gadget, we strode into Ilkley and arrived at the magnificent Flying Duck. It was 2.30pm and impossibly early.
Berghaus Man looked ashen faced and prayed the spare room was made up whilst the Counsellor sensibly ordered a coffee and shoved a few more free carrier bags into his pockets.
Winky texted the missus to reassure her he would be in need of the spare room to which she replied.
“You’re lying…LMFAO…no way could have made it so quick…you must be in the Scruffy! LOL!!!”
With England kicking off at just before five and a rendezvous with Chaos, we hobbled the final few hundred yards to our destination, the Ilkley Vaults.
Fair Weather was feeling a few twinges but lamented that wife Gail’s horse had far more chance of a rub down later than he did. Despite Chaos’s insistence the place would be packed, it was deserted and we secured our table of choice as beers began to rain down again.
“Prime spot” commented Berghaus Man as his gadget mapped the steps to the toilets on GPS and we settled down to watch the end of the Italy versus Scotland game.
“What a good picture” said Big Al “and all the way from Italy too!”
Fair Weather was confused that all the Italian players seemed to be called Edison. When it was pointed out this was the team sponsor he took a worried look at his watch – 15.37pm – there was a long afternoon ahead.
Then suddenly Big Al looked whiter than his hair. The big man was feeling ill and placed his head down on the table, a sight we’s seen many times before, only this time though a migraine was cursing the old boy.
Fortunately medication was on the way and a round of chip butties saved the paramedics from heaving him away to the local ER.
Bergahus was in need of attention too, his sore feet boiling. Maybe Paula would be waiting with candles and oil when he got back?
“Aye she will” he said “but it’ll be Esso and a match!”
Chaos arrived in his usual frantic style having been contending with the closure of his property “empire” and cussing as to certain sections of society. His first beer barely touched the sides.
As the main attraction arrived, Winky introduced a sweepstake to liven up proceedings although by this time most of us were far too brain-dead to understand any of the proposed bet.
By now Big Al was chewing on a pint of coke and the old world order seemed under threat. What would Molly make of it all, sat at home with a deranged pooch, a smug wife and The Voice?
A party of local ladies arrived, dismayed to find their hoped for Saturday soiree violated by a bunch of lads from Bradford watching the rugby as if – as JB described – it was an X-rated panto.
As the game carried on in the background, with Berghaus Man dancing a jig at winning the £8 jackpot, the day’s exertions began to take their inevitable toll.
Lady Stephanie arrived with young Jack for her annual reunion with her husband’s dark and sordid past. Young Jack had a quiet conspiratorial word in my ear.
“You know I read this so make sure you let me know everything Dad said” he winked “that’ll get me a real bat next time not some cheap crap with copy stickers that cost more than the bat! Ta Willy, your the tops, never mind what Mum says!”
Big Al had made a miraculous recovery which was just as well as he had another five hours scheduled down in the village and then would end the night “wrapped around Luckless.” We silently said a prayer for Luckless and hoped one day he would switch the heating on for her to end her torment.
Fair Weather was looking sedated knowing mucking out the wife’s horse the following morning may prove testing. Chaos had finally been becalmed by the arrival of Sally whilst Berghaus was still counting his £8 out again, ready to hide it under the bed away from spendaholic Paula’s prying eyes.
The Counsellor had been found at last by his wife and child, they having been at the tip all day disposing of a garage full of stolen carrier bags.
It was a long taxi home and I knew, left alone with Winky, there would be one more beer if only to let all at The Scruffy know that we were home at last.
Another wonderful day but please let Molly play out next time Carol?
Graham Morgan says
“Last of the summer whine” Meets “Cricketing Blokes”- a new, gentle comedy about cricketing folk up t’North. Needs a bit of character development and good casting essential. Maybe your readers with greater inside knowledge could suggest suitable actors this Oscar weekend? Harrison Ford as Willy Wilson?
Steve says
Flattered!