“If you want a rainbow you’ve got to put up with a bit of rain.”
Anon.
Tales From The Scruffy.
I’ve often thought they should ban Bank Holidays; why complicate life by adding more days with absolutely nothing to do? Surely that’s the point of a Sunday?
On the eve of Easter Bank Holiday Monday, The Scruffy was busier than usual as I contemplated my options for the following day.
Even our much prized routine was in tatters with Mick the Quiz banished to a night inside with the missus – detention – his high brow questions deemed too threatening to the bank holiday rabble back from exotic places like Bridlington and Morecambe.
A Sunday without Mick’s short fat hairy legs was too much to bear.
We could not even take the rise out of Norah aka Malcolm, our transgender “barperson” as partner Big sat ominously at the bar daring us to even think a sardonic thought; flirting was definitely postponed too.
As the place filled with those taking advantage of a work-free day to follow, Gamblers Anonymous – Patch – wondered how to squander our weekly quid with no raffle to chance our arms. A jumbo bag of onion rings would have to do and if the wife wanted tongues later so be it.
Resolving to starting my day-off up with the larks, I left early to looks of utter disbelief. Big Al offered 2/1 on a secret rendezvous, Patch put it down to the male menopause and Molly had already left so the world really was changing far too quickly for comfort.
Middle age was not looking fun anymore.
I woke the next morning to birds singing and the blinding clarity that there was still nothing to do. And so it was that I arrived at the gym shortly after ten causing an ashen faced manager John to ask: “Is your water off or did you piss the bed?”
Come midday I’d done the gym, supermarket and by now icy rains drained from grey skies; surely it was not the time of the month for the hoovering?
At the supermarket I’d met local character and rotund pub-cricketer Meds, similarly lost for something to do and looking clearly disorientated. Able to speak free from suckling on his staple diet of Budweiser bottles he bared his soul.
“Our Claire’s sent me to do the shopping” he wailed “is this the entrance? I’ve not been here since my Mum brought us for a treat!”
I feared I may never see him again as he vanished into the retail jungle cursing his lovely wife, clutching the shopping list as if it was the Enigma Code.
An afternoon of cooking as Idle’s very own Metrosexual Man followed but by late afternoon I finally admitted defeat and made the short walk of shame to the forgiving and welcoming heaving bosom of The Scruffy.
I selected the stool of my choice with Big safely back in captivity now scaring other people witless and only old Smouldering Sue to gaze at; it looked like a long afternoon.
‘Nob ‘Ed Korna bristled with Euro-scepticism – “worst thing we ever did was let Jamaica into the EU” proclaimed one wag – as heads nodded either in agreement or to the soothing beers.
Doctor David thought about intervening but feared getting his head stuffed down the toilet again for being too clever by half.
Families came in from far and wide, parents desperate for a drink as kids were duly “plugged in” and forced to sit like little North Koreans, heads bowed, faces glowing, minds far, far away.
“Behave our we’ll feed your uncle to the dogs!” growled some tattooed horror still wearing a Kiss Me Quick hat as she necked a bottle of The Scruffy’s vintage Echo Falls wine, competitively priced at £2 a litre.
Meds had survived the Morrisons’ Maze and was sat with a surprised looking wife Claire who had clearly expected to be negotiating life insurance cheques by now on account of a lost husband. He clutched his trademark Budweiser like a new-born lamb.
Former male model Gary Tipper was also in, having popped out “for a quick one” three hours ago. Wearing his trademark plunging neck t-shirt and snappy Cuban heels he looked like a down and out pizza waiter. Someone would have to tell him hair gel had gone out with Wham.
I decided it was time to pop for a tinkle and reserved my stool like a German.
“Look after my phone Sue?” I asked “make sure it comes to no harm please.”
“No problem” she smiled “the bins are too full anyway!”
Farter the sixteen year-old labrador had dragged his owner in and plonked both him and owner at the bar. I asked Sue to keep her perfume close by just in case anybody could tell the difference.
Outside, the sun popped out periodically suggesting possibilities of an early evening stroll to finish off the holiday weekend. The lure of the great outdoors was resisted, the inmates by now preferring the great incarceration.
Having solved Europe, the Middle East, Bradford’s housing crisis and who should play centre-forward for England, the pub began to empty as we sought our homeward journeys.
There was no fighting in the streets, the only noise from Gary’s Cuban heels click-clacking up the road as he did a merry Latin dance, shaking the hips that used to grace Cloud Nine back in the day, wooing women down from the hills around Bradford.
It was time for bed at an hour, roll back a few decades, when we would just be going out.
These changing days indeed.
The Age Of Sleaze.
The Government is actively considering abolishing the Freedom of Information Act on the grounds of cost despite the fact that it spends fifty times as much on spin.
Now it tells us that it will spend £9m on household leaflets trying to convince us to stay in the EU in the interests of a level playing field.
Cheers Honest Dave!
The Weekend Sermon
Have good one!
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