They say we men get more predictable the older we get so in that case I claim to have bucked the trend for once, because for more years than I can care to remember, Sunday nights have meant beers at The Scruffy and largely in the company of the wit and wisdom of Big Al; we have been totally predictable for generations.
A few years ago one of our old friends, having escaped from Wife Number Two presumably having shinned down the drainpipe to avoid detection, waltzed in to find us sat in our familiar places and proclaimed “if I ever walk in on a Sunday and you boys are not here then the Earth really will have stopped turning”. And with a quick few pints it was back to captivity for him leaving us in the row of seats so aptly named as “The Coffin”.
If this appears all a bit too regular Big Al and I know that we are the lucky ones choosing to avoid Antiques Road Show and the rest of crap Sunday television knowing that young Rob will have our pint ready on the recently refurbished bar with the reliability of an executive German car. More often than not we are joined by Patch, not a dog but just as faithful and slightly better dressed, plus several others that drift in for a dose of certainty in these troubled times.
Sometimes we go in and the place is empty, sometimes it appears as if they have installed a chair lift up the High Street and the place is heaving to the gunnels. Always, its a place you go to be sure of a beer and a welcome.
Many of the hardcore regulars assemble in the wonderfully named Nob Ed Corner sharing life’s varied experiences, comforted by Mother Beer. Often the inmates are observed safely from a distance by Dr David, once again “lost” out on a walk with the dogs, but able to find the comfort of The Scruffy with the accuracy of a cruise missile and ready to dodge a few when home time calls. The company is witty, varied and the ale is great; who cares if its not quite so scruffy these days as well?
A night with Big Al, employed by HMRC for the last several decades at great cost to the national deficit, is full of wit and wonder as long as there is no football on the television. One of the best things about The Scruffy is the absence of Sky Sports, which reminds people of the joy of the art of conversation…even with Big Al. Although he is never likely to gain acceptance from any human rights organisation – standard answer to any problem “shoot the f*ckers” – he does have his finger on the pulse of life from time to time.
Recently, aged 56, he entered the world of the internet which was not good news for his daily exercise routine of a walk down to the local Ladbrookes and back. The other night he disclosed he had also discovered internet banking and was of the opinion that this was even more remunerative than Ladbrookes, having discovered a credit for £43 which he knew nothing about.
It turned out that this had been intended for his ex-wife who, displaying reckless and naïve largesse, immediately waived her rights to the money so that Big Al could treat himself to a “nice meal out”. Clearly, even after numerous years of marriage to the big man, she knows him not so well! Working with the speed of an airport foreign exchange bureau, Big Al swiftly worked out that he now had 13.87 pints of Becks at his disposal as he simultaneously dispensed financial prudence and marital guidance advice to his bewildered and open-mouthed nephew, 28 year old Matthew.
Sundays at the Scruffy is also quiz night run by Mick, the only sixty year old still hoping that the mullet hair style will come back in style. You can even gauge the weather by Mick – more reasons to shop at The Scruffy – as when he finally gives in and ditches the shorts you know its time to switch to the winter duvet and flick the heating on.
Magically, around about ten o’clock the place starts to fill up with punters desperate to fight tooth and nail for a free gallon of ale, challenged by Mick’s diverse questions on life as we think we know it. It’s at this point you also get the chance to engage in ever more rounded debates on the topics of the day; this is good as after 2 hours of Big Al you begin to think that President Assad is maybe not all that bad.
Then the Fishermen will all start to roll in, several examples of filthy rich, bronzed pensioners, all bemoaning their lot and focused on the free gallon as if it was the Euro Lottery. Politics is often a hot topic as it was the other night.
“Tony Blair then, what do you really think of him” I asked one greying, bearded old sage.
“C*nt!”
“Not sure that will get you on Question Time mate…any more thoughts?”
“F*cking c*nt!”
And so it is that The Fishermen are unlikely targets of any focus groups that might be coming to town soon.
At about this time we are also treated to a marvellous game of Old Age Musical Chairs as two couples enter the fray and anxiously peer around the corner to see if THEIR seats are free. Unlike “Friends” where the sofa is always free, sometimes our confused old couples find they have to sit elsewhere. Fidgeting ensues, the men are dispatched to the bar as the two old girls fix eyes on the trespassers, waiting for them to move across the road to the New Inn, unable to cope with the glares anymore.
As soon as the seats become vacant the old girls are moving faster than as if at the Debenhams’ sale, leaving their hapless men to gather up drinks, coats and walking sticks as they secure their “turf” again. All is well for another week as the hapless men tuck into their pints of liberty. As they say, its the price you pay.
Places like The Scruffy are priceless offering diverse and entertaining company to men and women alike plus relief from the pressures of the working day (bit rich that one…Ed). You can seek a solitary pint on your favourite stool, flirt outrageously with Our Jackie knowing you are one quip away from a cauliflower ear and just occasionally you can get deliriously pissed and know that the welcome will be just as good next time you dare show your rosey face. Come find us one Sunday.
Patch says
What a great piece. I’m surprised that I’m not in the regular category that al is in. As far back as I can remember I’m in the bear on a Sunday. Paula is going to want to know where I’m supposedly spending my Sundays now you muppet.
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