Not long left now till the country collapses one way or another, the saving grace being that the barrage of self-interest driven drivel coming from politicians of all parties may finally abate.
If any period in recent history demonstrated the elite’s contempt for the majority, this has been it. Whichever way you vote the sun will still be fighting through the clouds come the day after.
And no way is it worth someone’s life.
Tales From The Scruffy.
The Scruffy is in mourning with the flags flying lower than Our Jackie’s best glitter top and inconsolable regulars crying into their beers in ‘Nob ‘Ed Korna, blowing noses on The Sun and prodding their Wotsits with disinterest.
Chief ‘Nob ‘Ed – Dr David – is leaving town with his partner, Old Feisty.
The only “professional ” couple The Scruffy could lay claim to are emigrating to a moorland settlement for the incontinent and senile called Baildon. This truly is an exit to shake the foundations of local life.
Some say Dr David has been a feature of The Scruffy since before many of us were born.
Although not actually a real Doctor – he was a porter at the local morgue – his presence has been a calming influence for decades on the rouges that populate The Scruffy daily.
It was whilst wheeling a body to it’s final destination that it was rumoured he met Old Feisty, reviving her on the trolley and taking her home to Idle like a wounded bird; Dr Frankenstein indeed.
In truth they met as childhood sweethearts in an air-raid shelter and even Hitler could not part them. Although they did go separate ways, eventually they found each other again concluding that a shared misery was not necessarily a bad thing.
In his trademark stained chinos and holed sweaters, surrounded by his various dogs, our ruddy-faced friend has occupied every spot in The Scruffy, giving off the aura of a Harley Street surgeon, welcoming most who came to sit with him with his familiar greeting.
“What are you doing? Can’t you see there’s plenty more seats in the place? Now go piss off and find one!” Never did “splendid isolation” describe a human being so accurately.
And rarely has a man looked so content, safe in the confines of his very own asylum, waiting only for the inevitable “come home you drunken old fool or it’s a night in the shed and Winalot for breakfast!” from Old Feisty.
There have been those who have suggested Dr David’s affection for The Scruffy was really a means to escape Old Feisty; most of us knew that he was simply a piss-artist.
Often he would offer to check Our Jackie’s pulse for a free beer causing her to palpitate furiously.
“Will you bugga off I’m not putting me nurse’s outfit on again!” she would yell, palming him off with another foaming brew and a bag of out of date cashews.
Since hearing of the mad doctor’s emigration, Landlord Michael has shed several stone stressing over how to plug the hole in The Scruffy’s trade deficit, warning that he may have to put up beer taxes and that lightning rods may strike the old place on final exit.
There will also be a plague of Turkish immigrants all seeking to sit where the Doctor once sat.
When Old Feisty came along the place bristled as she often claimed centre stage with her radical views – left, right or who knew where from – daring anybody to challenge her, pint of cider in hand, mad eyes suggesting it was hopeless to even consider.
We’ll miss the regular changes in hair colour from grey to red…to grey to purple…to grey to…you get the drift.
“I wouldn’t be bloody grey at all if it weren’t for that daft old sod” she would claim, as Dr David sloped off once more to the bar, a temporary peace won, surrendered again far too soon.
And if you did edge a particular argument you could always be sure of a conciliatory “oh piss off you clever arse!”
The Scruffy simply will not be the same without the expectation of Dr David and his hang-dog look of gloom to brighten up our days and Old Feisty pushing him along.
Perhaps, like a many a lost old dog he may still find himself straying back to his roots? Good luck and we’ll keep that seat in the corner free just in case.
Something For The Weekend?
One of the main reasons I came back into the working world, albeit I concede in a limited fashion, was because I missed the cut and thrust of business life and the wonderful array of characters that make our real economy tick.
I’m privileged to meet some cracking characters who run businesses across the spectrum.
Today I discovered that one customer’s cosmetics range was somewhat wider than I ever suspected; all made in Yorkshire where we like it straight up and perhaps just as well.
Who would suspect that a beard softener product may spawn a clitoral stimulant? Is that a natural progression…{no!!! Ed}
Or that I would start the day sucking some flavoured lube modelled on a well-known fast-food outlet’s strawberry milk shake but with varying consequences. Be careful what you suck on?
They also make a shaping paste called “Beever” – is there a hidden meaning there? Or consider a lip-tingling product that, after a few shots, pumps one’s lips up as if post an implant.
Armed with a box of free supplies the next few weeks could be a dangerous time in the dressing rooms. Guard your gear with your lives boys.
Have a great weekend.
jude says
didn’t understand a word of that