“Pride should have a prize.”
Anon
As we start another junior cricket season perhaps not a bad mantra?
Tales From The Scruffy
It was another Bank Holiday for the Sunday night collection of the work-shy, retired and downright unemployable at The Scruffy although the old place was unusually quiet, save for a christening party.
Big Al seemed more irritable than usual and all this over a pram. The offending obstacle was parked near the bar causing Big Al to bemoan it’s presence on health and safety grounds, these being largely based on the likelihood of him tripping over it.
It seemed a touch trite to suggest that the H&S Dept may have more to say about the effects of fifty pints of beer a week and an exercise routine consisting of a one hundred yard walk to the pub than the presence of a pram.
After his jackpot busting win the previous week, new quiz champion Gary Tipper was nowhere to be seen.
The Fishermen claimed innocence as to skulduggery and rumours spread that he had landed his dream summer gig as the George Michael tribute at Butlins, Skegness.
Norah our transgender barperson had taken a night off but had chosen to spend it with us bringing along her partner Big who was wearing a lovely replica Hitler Youth t-shirt; a few old dears made nervous sideways glances.
Scrawled out below the various artistry was a Germanic sounding slogan that Patch translated as “You looking at me son?” We certainly were not and kept our heads firmly on our cheese Quavers to avoid our knees quavering.
Finally the christening party made their unsteady ways home, thankfully remembering the pram as Big Al relaxed. Mick the Quiz was on hand to distract us with more of his usual brand of uplifting trivia questions.
“Question number one; how many people died at Hillsborough?” he announced to quizzical looks as the Fishermen scribbled down the answer, hiding their sheet like naughty schoolboys.
Head choir boy Geoffrey tightened his buttocks in his trademark Wranglers as he surveyed the regulars with distrust. This would be their week now that Tipper had been taken care of.
With another sizeable jackpot on offer gradually the pub had filled with the usual down and outs seeking a mouldy sausage roll and a cheese-free cheese pasty if glory passed them by.
We dug deep for our weekly flutter of a quid all to no avail as the winning ticket was picked out by one of the Young Kray Twins.
We could sense Mick was not keen to lose another regular on a winner’s binge and so the question revolved around Russian literature. This was harsh as most of the inmates struggle with The Sun.
Young Kray sat down dismayed, stroking his grey whiskers, knowing he would have to get at least another week out of the stained old Farahs.
As ever Mick offered the question to the floor to the usual responses of “are you having a laugh?” and “bloody fix” the latter heard from the corner hosting the Fishermen who had now resolved to bump off Mick.
Unbelievably, the correct answer was provided from the bar by a young whipper-snapper and quickly followed by a contract – on minimum wage – to join the Fishermen’s team next week.
As we skulked off into the night despondent I was grateful there were no prams around on the way home.
Good Morning Everybody!
With cricket postponed for another week due to the Tour de Yorkshire, I was grateful that the British climate had been able to entertain Luke.
Our Antipodean explorer made his first ever snowman, proudly displayed on my garden table, finally clutching something cold other than a beer.
I could tell he would be in need of cricket soon when I came home to find him cleaning my hob – Mrs Pickford please take note – and he claims to be very competent with a duster. The ladies at Pensioners Pilates were salivating at the prospect of a young buck.
Of course, with the promised heatwave still showing few signs of appearing, even the most hardy of hill-bred folk have been stocking up on warm weather gear.
Molly the Villas very own Michelin Man puts his new physique down to avoiding Big Al for three months and strenuously denies that the image is in any way photo-shopped. Sadly, having witnessed his unveiling I can testify so.
Spivs And Speculators
More on the attempts by big business and passive Governments to continue to damage an industry that is showing exceptional signs of growth and resilience – the brewing industry – plus delivering untold pleasures.
To recap – unless you want a fuller albeit dated explanation – here’s what’s been happening up and down the country to your local.
Years ago the Government decided it did not like the breweries owning the majority of pubs so ordered a break-up of this perceived monopoly and so dismantled them and created…the same!
Pub operating companies – Pubcos – were established on billions of borrowed money to acquire the breweries estates based on a property-based punt.
Roll-on years later and a combination of greed, incompetence and abject apathy from successive Governments has resulted in the pips being squeezed out of thousands of tenants by the desperate Pubcos, eager to save their own over-borrowed skins.
Pubs have closed in their thousands.
Finally, the industry won some recognition with the appointment of a regulator to stop tenants being shafted; surely a good result?
Not so as Private Eye (1417) disclose with the appointment of a man so close to the Pubcos he may as well work for them.
One more example of how corporate incompetence – for it was the Pubcos that created their own miseries – is allowed to wriggle off the hook at the expense of the little man.
Shameful by any standards.
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