With the dark nights now upon us I was musing the other night, from the vantage point of my stool at The Scruffy, as to how people negotiate these long winter months. (You could get a job? Ed)
When you’ve already seen every episode of Ice Truckers and Deadliest Catch you know you have a problem.
Of course, I have my duties as unpaid carer for the local infirm. And so the regular texts for assistance from Big Al – “Early doors?” – must never go unanswered as we should all keep an eye on the frail and elderly over the winter.
There we were again, happy hour and glum as we could be, despite the allure of 15p off a pint. He’d brought his special needs nephew – special need one pint of Carling every fifteen minutes – who dresses even worse than the big man.
You could take them both on a tour of the charity shops in the village and the transformation would be instant.
In Nob ‘Ed Korna the issues of the day were being fiercely debated; Cameron and Putin would get roasted should they turn up here tonight. At least they could get a tray of free range eggs for only three quid.
“Early Doors” offers a wonderful variety of characters, a veritable jigsaw of life rolling through the doors seeking the bosom of The Scruffy. Even the landlady was down weaning her three-week old baby on a damp finger of bitter and a bag of cashews.
I’d planned an early night with a juicy steak from my new best mate, Barry the Butcher. One call from Help The Aged and it was an inevitable and pitiful slide towards five pints, a cheese buttie and sleep destroyed by numerous trips across the landing.
I would be so rough for my Pi-Yo class with the pensioners in the morning.
Many blokes seem to take to the dark streets to walk their dogs – seeking exercise and fresh air – yet strangely they always seem to land at The Scruffy. Either the dogs love the place or are just a convenient excuse.
Just like the punters, the dogs are getting older too and, just like the punters, bodily functions are starting to fail.
At first we thought the noxious smell was Big Al; most of us had not smelt anything as bad since Our Jackie bought some knock-off Rive Gauche from a car boot sale last summer and wandered around the pub like the Diva she is offering a sniff of her scented chest.
As if we did not have enough to contend with, later in the week we were to find out that our new Sunday hostess – Norah – had started life as Malcolm.
He/she confided this whilst deriding mine and Big Al’s efforts at Movember: “I could grow more than that in a week!” he/she said whilst scratching his/her chin, biceps bulging with a colourful new tattoo.
Noses twitched in violent objection to the rising gas as we held on tightly to the bar, fearing a loss of consciousness. Nerve gas in The Scruffy? Who would want to kidnap this lot?
The culprit was lying on the floor, oblivious to our pain, begging it’s owner for some more pork scratchings.
At the ripe old age of 15 this gentle golden labrador is on it’s final straight. At regular intervals it will silently squeeze out gas that really would have been something for Tony Blair to worry about.
It’s a beautiful old dog though and perhaps that’s how we all end up? Losing our hair, gasping for breath, begging for pork scratchings and smelling like a drain?
I think I will miss him – the dog of course.
Duvet Day
I woke last Tuesday, the weekend a distant memory and it’s replacement not even visible, to cheery news from BBC R4’s Today programme delivered in his inimitable upbeat style by John Humphrys.
Apparently, the cream of European security services still could not find a swarthy looking man who’d lost his belt somewhere in Paris.
The NHS need another fix like a bloated and incurable junkie, this time promising all will be much better. The money will be spent on boob jobs, miracle cures for the obese and millions of debt interest to pay for privately financed new buildings they can’t afford to staff.
We’re going to have to spend an extra £10bn on our nuclear deterrent – Trident – but even for £40bn it may not work as it appears spotty thirteen year-olds have got bored with Game Of Thrones and RedTube.com (don’t look this one up Dad!) and now want to control a real red button.
Our prisons are being run amok by prisoners high on legal highs – surely no crime then – and maybe they won’t notice having to sleep three to a bed?
The rain pattered at the windows, my ageing boiler creaking and groaning downstairs, wind picking up in the distance. It was a good day for a duvet day.
We Are The Builders!
T’Council is going out to consultation with us all over it’s deranged plans to build over 42,000 new houses across the district by 2030.
“The Local Plan will eventually guide where houses, businesses and leisure and retail developments are built for the next ten to 20 (sic) years and be used by the local authority when deciding on planning applications.”
It looks like they are going to flatten a few more green fields in the posher bits – wails from the outskirts – probably because most of the inner bits have no fields left.
Or would it be that the Government’s recent decision to allow councils to retain business rates now shifts the need to build on brownfield to green? You read it here first.
In a week where yet more cuts have been announced consider this. The UK (population 65m+) has 650 MPs whilst Bradford (0.5m+) has 90 councillors?
All aboard the Gravy Train!
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