I do like to de-stress after a hectic Tuesday morning spinning class with the Desperate Housewives; a cup of coffee and a good old chin wag with Marvin the bearded, buxom, cross-dressing trainer are the perfect wind-down.
Archives for January 2014
Grumpy Gladys The Gatekeeper
Out in the big, bad real world not many people really like the idea of selling for a living; few of us that actually do sell relish the cold call.
I remember a piece of advice years ago from a trainer as he schooled us in the said art and urged us to practice that very day; if you don’t feel like making the call then don’t. On that particular day I didn’t, although the irony seemed lost on him.
He Ain’t Heavy…He’s Obese
The National Obesity Forum produced figures this week that suggested the previously forecasted 50% of adults that would be obese by 2050 had become – pardon the pun – somewhat bloated.
Around half this number already qualify as obese as of today, which will not surprise many; the only way is up here.
Regrets…I’ve Had a Few.
It’s the time for new year’s resolutions again and never more is this in evidence than at gyms up and down the country with new recruits wobbling through the doors.
In they flood, like suspicious kids through the school gates at the start of term, dressed in their shiny new uniforms straight from cashing in the dreaded and unwanted Sports Direct gift voucher.
Local Hero – Our Jackie
Ring Out The Old, Ring In The New…Thank God for The Scruffy
New Year’s Day has to be the most sobering day in the calendar; having spent weeks in an blissfully alcoholic haze, many of us now face a forced extradition from Never Never Land and the cold turkey of real life again.
Its the equivalent of flying home from a fortnight in Benidorm to North Korea.
Overfed, overdrawn and one more year over the hill, like a junkie seeking one last fix, there was only one thing left to do to defer reality; and so it was that I succumbed yet again seeking a comforting beer at The Scruffy.
I sent a few texts out to some fellow reliable drunks – Big Al and Molly – and awaited The Great Escape although rumour had it that Molly had been grounded for a month and placed in solitary in the garden shed. Wife Carol could take no more it seemed.
So it was out to brave the elements and seek the embrace of a creamy beer and the soothing banter of the bards of Nob ‘Ed Corner, who would be reliably ensconced in their rightful seats in “the house”.
Come the day Nob ‘Ed Corner is ever empty the world really will have stopped turning.
Alas, young Michael had not reserved my usual stool and I arrived to see no seats at the bar. A quick stare down of the imposters – bugger off to the Swan – and soon I was in-situ gazing at Our Jackie, the Bet Lynch of The Scruffy.
Local Hero
Amongst the many joys of The Scruffy is that it has never quite encompassed political correctness and so the conversation flows along many paths of varying degrees of sensitivity.
Sexist, fattist, racist indeed, any “ist” you might seek are all on offer at The Scruffy; choose your specialist subject and let the conversation flow.
Maintaining order, as Speaker of this house, is Our Jackie, the possessor of a voice honed on forty Rothmans a day for the last thirty years and able to keep glasses full and still have six fag-breaks an hour.
Cheers!
Like Cheers – where everybody also knows your name – The Scruffy draws us in – night after night – and Our Jackie is almost always there, glass in hand, fag behind ear, ready to pleasure us…so to speak.
A hearty laugh and the forearms of a rugby player, Our Jackie is rumoured to have last shaved her legs in 1983 and – as one of Nob ‘Ed Corner remarked – “she can’t get a pair of tights past her ankles without shredding them to bits!”
Jackie takes all this banter with unrivalled unflappability – occasionally gobbing in someone’s pint if the abuse oversteps the mark – or cuffing the odd head on the way out for another fag break.
Eventually, Big Al trudged in with the lovely Luckless Linda right behind her man, a cosy night on the sofa disrupted by my SOS text. On the eve of beginning his 42nd year in the employ of HMRC, the big fellow was lacking his usual bonhomie.
Fortunately we were saved by the arrival of Macca, perhaps a contender for the world’s worst cricketer and one so far down England coach Andy Flower’s reserve list, it would need to be longer than the New York phone book to include him.
Macca has a new bat this year though – aged 49 – having blagged one in his role as salesman at a local label printers.
Securing the contract to print labels for the bats, Macca insisted on a sample; if only the manufacturer knew who would be wielding their willow this summer they would have stuck the labels on themselves.
The Scruffy’s Twin Sister
Macca had been to the nearby Royal Oak where crowds had flocked to see his mate who was singing, although Macca’s critical appraisal was succinct – “****ing shit!” – so we sort of felt we had not missed much. He would do well on X-Factor would Macca.
Lady Caroline, landlady of the marvellous Oak, would have to do better to uproot us from our stools.
Anyway, mine host Michael had generously put on hot beef sarnies which may have explained the raft of missing cat posters popping up over the neighbourhood and Our Jackie was providing waitress service as well; who needed a shit singer.
Besides, there were plenty in Nob ‘Ed Corner.
Although Our Jackie could not get into the fishnets, she wandered from table to table, coughing seductively into the ears of the pundits, dropping trays of steaming meat into grateful arms, offering a glimpse down the low-cut Dunnes 100% Chiffon to those that dared.
Soon it was time to go and bid a fond farewell to Our Jackie who by now was fending off requests for a quickie in the cellar from the corner; she was off and would not be reserving a spare hot water bottle for any of the inhabitants.
Big Al slid reluctantly off his stool sensing the Government needed him in top form for the morning to keep chasing that deficit down and avoid adding to his own; the night was fading fast.
Time too to slide off back to reality as well; it was Pensioners’ Pilates in the morning and the Iron Lady would be waiting to punish us for our recent sins.
The door slid slowly shut, drowning the laughter from Nob ‘Ed Corner, as the cold night air bit and the long march home began.
Happy new year indeed.
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