Just as I was beginning to miss him, dear old Dave – the recently deposed leader of t’Council sponsored by Ratners – just cannot keep out of the news.
Despite trousering close to £50k a year from the public purse for several years for who knows what, it seems Dave has had a problem paying his Council Tax.
The Yorkshire Post broke the story last weekend. By midweek the local rag had finally caught up too.
The usual lame excuses were offered up but if this was the guy tasked with leading the Council to collect it’s dues, what a sorry state of affairs.
Red or Blue, rest assured we really are all in it together.
Dancing In The Dark, Singing In The Rain.
There is a chance if you are reading this with a Friday night glass of wine then at the same time I am in the company of the finest living rock and roll performer, Bruce Springsteen. Albeit the length of a few cricket pitches away.
Just over a week ago we were lucky enough to see The Boss through the incessant Manchester rain as he blasted through a three-hour plus set. Drenched we were but nobody left this show till they finally turned down the lights.
Although I’m not a regular “gigger” – in fact only when The Boss is in town – staging these events is a military operation. As should be personal planning.
As I remarked to Patch when The Boss strode past within touching distance “F*ck me, the nearest I’ll ever get to Bruce and I’m wearing a bin liner!”
From the hundreds of yellow jacketed stewards, all ear-pieces pretending to be FBI, with power in their hands for this day only, to the numerous stalls waiting to exploit your raging thirst and empty bellies, pillaging your wallet in the process, this is big business.
A fiver for a bottle of beer most would drain in a breath, eight quid for fish and chips and three quid for a small bottle of water!
You would think that they would let you keep all of your purchases but, bizarrely, you have to give up your bottle cap. The logic here is to prevent people launching full bottles as missiles. Who in their right mind would throw a fiver into the air?
Still, soaked to the skin, fleeced in part by modern day Dick Turpins and penned in like sheep, it was a magic evening and the best live show on the planet…until tonight.
Tales From The Scruffy – Our Jackie Does Stand-Up
“Three bloody months now” said Our Jackie in her inimitable husky tones as she heaved away at the bar pumps, beer foam running freely over her tattooed knuckles, bingo wings rippling, top lip perspiring.
Those of us sat at the bar looked perplexed, this was too much to compute at the end of the working week, however long, short or generally non-existent this had been.
“Are you pregnant” I asked, preparing to duck just in case.
“No you stupid twat” replied Our Jackie, safe in the knowledge that The Scruffy does not have focus groups to adjudge matters so inconsequential as customer service. “I’ve not ‘ad a cig for that long!”
Not knowing when to quit I could not help myself as those of longer years tried to look busy in the corner.
“I thought you had one of those battery powered things?” I asked.
“I do but I can’t suck on me rabbit in ‘ere you dirty pervert!”
I sensed I was losing this one and picked up a copy of the Thackley Trumpit, feigning interest in matters local.
Luckily Our Jackie turned her ire on another poor soul, innocently sat at the bar.
“I can smell your nuts from ‘ere!” she said.
Rather foolishly – not sensing her homicidal tendencies – the customer chanced a rapid retort, clutching his chilli nuts to his chest.
“I can smell your Wotsits too!”
“Get out you dirty old sod” she bellowed as the once brave soul took flight to the sanctity of the New Inn across the road.
I sat there mesmerised by her command of her audience.
“Me boilers fooked” she confided, licking the last of her Wotsits from her fingers wiping them with her sleeve “I’ve heard you’re good with old boilers?”
I tried to avoid her gaze as she confessed all she wanted was a “warm-through” as men scattered from the bar like a stampede of wild bison. Across the road the New Inn was by now heaving with frightened middle-aged men happy to be cold.
The mood was darkening behind the pumps and, on discovering Landlord Michael’s dirty secret, Our Jackie was on the war-path again.
“He’s got a stash of special nuts ‘an he won’t let me ‘ave any! He says they make your lips tingle!”
Wisely I chose no reply as, hidden away in Nob ‘Ed Korna protected by the local hoodlums, King Michael knew his nuts were safe from Our Jackie’s salivating tongue.
Fortunately it was time for her shift to come to an end as she was due on stage at the Idle Working Men’s Club for her weekly open-mic session.
As she walked towards the door, punters made way as a ripple of applause slowly drowned out the idle chatter. With a regal wave and not a backward glance she was gone.
And Finally!
In recent weeks I have published saucy pictures of dear old Molly in his body tube and a topless Andy Moulds. Continuing the theme I will take one on the chin. Any more for this year’s Villas’ calendar?
Have a great weekend and baby we really were born to run.
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