As sure as the seasons change, there will hopefully always be our festive winter walk to look forward to. A record fourteen brave souls had signed up for the annual ale expedition…but things would not go to plan.
Tour Spokesman Molly had been doing his usual detailed planning on instructions from High Command – Kim Jong-un Big Al – and had scoured his trusty manual It’ll Be Allreet On T’Night written by Wingon A Prayer.
Unfortunately, it does not have section on canoeing.
The big man had also invested in some new boots, rumoured to be custom built with hidden compartments in the soles for extra hip flasks and able to turn white and have spikes inserted come April.
Flippers and a snorkel would have been a better buy.
Conscious that the new boots would need breaking in – “just like Our Carol did” he winked – he’d engaged in a trial march to The Scruffy and, after a few comforting ales, had decided that was that and promptly called a cab.
Big Al had his own gathering gloom to contend with, viewing the annual challenge akin to the prospect of The Scruffy running out of beer. Once again he had adopted his familiar training and preparation regime of complete denial.
Sadly our planned departure fuelled by Sally’s bacon rolls at her delightful B&B would not take place as the floods took hold.
Whispers had also abounded concerning an element of match-fixing in respect of the huge bets being placed on this year’s First Faller. In previous years, several had come to grief amidst wild cheers with side bets exchanged.
Two years ago Molly gracefully went sideways imitating a slide tackle from the 1960s in the shadow of Bolton Abbey.
Last year, as if picked off by a sniper in the nearby woods, senior sage Leapy simply dropped to the ground, eventually rising completely bewildered and covered in mud.
The best by a country mile though was Patch who ended up ditched in the river and claiming hypothermia; there are no limits to what the man will do for a free drink.
This year, with new recruit Abdul under suspicion with his links to the Far East – Scarborough – heavy money was being placed on Big Al and several of us had brought along shovels and a neat white cross just in case.
Sadly all bets were cancelled as the revised plan to walk along the safety of the canal offered little danger. Abdul’s wife sensed a shorter walk and an extended drink with Molly and promptly withdrew her man.
And Then There Were Ten
Our revised plan saw us set off from Apperley Bridge alongside a River Aire bulging more than an Essex girl. Eight of us had arrived including Big Al with his new rucksack, costing 5p and with a Morrisons logo neatly emblazoned.
Psychotic arse biter Duck was in hot pursuit with his carer – fourteen year-old daughter Annie – a few miles back in the blind hope of some parental bonding and a few beers.
We passed Bradford City’s training ground, posts barely visible above the water. Molly and Nigel took generous slurps from their secreted hip-flasks and I sensed my decision to bring coffee could be a waste.
Leapy had been released once again for another year of good behaviour, leaving a miserable son Jack in the clutches of Princess Stephanie and the dreaded supermarket shop.
In his sixtieth year he still has the spring of a cheetah and we were delighted to see our favourite sage back in our company once again. Glory days indeed.
Gorillas In The Mist
The pace was fast even though it was a good few hours till opening time; at this rate we would be queuing at the doors like a Boxing Day sale.
Big Al’s black fleece was glistening with sweat and from a distance he looked like a giant Congo Silverback. Molly offered him a banana but nearly ended up swimming with it. He would have sunk like a stone with the number of flasks attached to him.
We approached our first target, The Bridge at Kirkstall, and the realisation that the pub was flooded was a like a hammer blow. Beneath us the River Aire raged like a torrent towards our destination of Leeds.
We too set off again at pace, not to be denied.
Bright Lights And Ale
Our tour guide Nigel had a list long enough to suggest that he has a better social life than most. So it was that nine smelly lads and a bewildered fourteen year-old landed at The Cross Keys, clearly not the usual clientele.
Beers caressed our lips with the tingle of a first kiss and Big Al almost made love to his pint.
It was then that young Annie hatched her plot and Duck’s dreams of beers with the boys ended with him being dragged off to the retail Nirvana with the prospect of his credit card melting. Clever girl that Annie.
We hauled our bodies off again to The Midnight Bell; another twee pretend pub serving craft beers in tiny goblets.
The conversation became intense and wide-ranging. Who could name the C&A clothing brand that we all so clearly suffered in our childhoods?
Rich Man, Poor Man
We then headed to The Grove, a pub that Molly staggered us by claiming he had never been in; so there was one at last!
The Grove sits in the shadow of Leeds’ most obvious demonstration of it’s new wealth, the stunningly ugly Broadwater Place.
This citadel to the new power towers above the old pub, untouched for longer than Molly’s wardrobe. Fittingly, the story goes that the developers offered several millions to flatten it but the even greedier Pubco held out and so the pub still stands defiantly.
We honoured this old venue with a second pint before venturing on to The Pour House, another soulless poser’s palace with crap beer.
Talk turned to Molly’s latest wheeze to get him to the pub, a new dog allegedly to be trained by him with regular mile hikes to…The Scruffy.
Eventually we found our final calling point under the arches with the waters raging around us at The Hop. Pie, mash and peas plus a pint for a fiver we soon forgot about The Poncey House.
To All The Girls We’ve “Loved” Before.
Father and son, Lynton and Adam, were bantering good naturedly as to Adam’s new girlfriend.
“What’s her name” asked dad.
“Piss off!” replied son.
“Have you snogged her?”
“Dad!”
It prompted us towards a reflective session as we remembered girls of yesteryear and such beauties as Gillian Two Jumpers, Blancmange, The Golden Girls, Ten To Two, Fort Knox and Five To One.
Eyes grew misty, Adam shook his head and Leapy decided Stephanie was calling.
And Then There Were Four.
Conscious of over exposure to Big Al, Pete’s wife Jackie had made the trek from Addingham to Leeds to rescue her man. Lynton also knew that Gail would be waiting with the spare bedroom door open.
Adam made a rash confession that he was going home for a G&T and a bath with his new bath bombs; it took a few of us a while to compute this…perhaps it was the beer?
And so four of us made it back to Base Camp and the warming welcome of The Scruffy. Another wonderful day out and no signs yet of any of us ever growing up.
Happy new year to you all.
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