Out now and online too – see here.
Although the festive period is now a dim and distant memory, some images remain with you for a very long time.
Oblivious to the energy bills crisis and keen to show off his new Christmas apron plus make an early bid for inclusion in The Scruffy’s Christmas 2023 calendar, one local rear of the year contender was pictured preparing Christmas dinner in the buff. Known for his preference to dress down I am unable to reveal the identity at this stage. However, no pigs’ blankets were burnt.
Suntan and I used the excuse of walking the pampered pooch to drop in for a quiet tipple as the winter ice gathered. The Guvnor had at last had a shave finally ditching the Steptoe look. The Secret Millionaire had also called in suitably dressed in his best car trader boots and puffer jacket, ready to pounce on anyone needing a “new” motor for the new year.
In the far corner sat The Running Man still adjusting to the joys of early retirement as his wife sat contemplating the start of a new year of work whilst he lived the dream. Evergreen and wife Goldie had been down to The Commercial failing to avoid the temptations of The Scruffy en route home, sat there with the psychopathic Baxter, a dog with the little dog’s syndrome in spades.
Having ditched his Greggs sweater if not the pasties, Happy Days was having a late-life crisis and confided in me he was considering a Ferrari. The Secret Millionaire sidled up to him, sniffing blood. “Come and see me some time” he whispered into Happy Day’s ears.
There was a lovely gesture from the management at Bradford City to mark the sad passing of local lad Dave Sharpe who lost his brave fight against Motor Neurone Disease recently. The scoreboard at Valley Parade posted the above at a recent City game to mark Dave’s passing – nice one! Our condolences to Dave’s family and friends.
And so life must go on and it was at a pace come the following Sunday at The Scruffy. Fagin was back behind the bar having suffered cracked ribs despite them being amongst the best protected in the pub. Rumours of Ralph the miniature guard dog being too aggressive were wide of the mark. The Scruffy’s new guard dog had grown to nine inches. HMRC are believed to be launching an investigation as to the merits of the tax-efficient classification as a guard dog although Evergreen offered Baxter as back-up.
Nob Ed Korna was quieter than usual. Fag Ash Lil had taken her young lover Boy Band on a trip to Thailand. As we sat and shivered with the rain pounding down outside, moves were made to exile them both permanently if one more Facebook post of an idyllic Thai beach was sent with a “wish you were here!”
Greenfingers was in home improvement mode on the eve of the installation of a new kitchen. The joy on his face was plain for all to see as he anticipated a fortnight of dining out courtesy of The Khyber and Towngate Fisheries. It looked like the new year diet had already been consigned to the compost heap.
In came Malcolm X, delighted to see the place half-empty again and a choice of seats for him to sit and read his latest Jeremy Clarkson book, the Christmas sweaters now long gone, peace, love and harmony restored. The old boy salivated at the choice of seats.
Suntan and I had tried in vain to entice our fellow Nob Eds to a new dance class starting at the Con Club February 22nd. In truth I was desperate for anyone to boost the numbers just to give a bit more anonymity. Fat lads I could hide behind were a must. Until this point I had never heard of “Lindy Hop” and my dancing “skills” could best be described as a blind, one-legged hop.
Budweiser came in dressed in his best line dancing shirt; surely he and his wife would be up for a bit of Scruffy Strictly and shaking a few moves? The reply was succinct and completely unprintable as he necked his first Bud of the night as if it had a hole in the bottom of the bottle. There would be no slapping his thighs to a loud “yee-ha!”
Keen to display his twinkling feet was Happy Days who treated us to a deft display of footwork aided by a dozen pints at the end of a long Sunday. The bookies favourites though are The Trowel and wife June, regulars on the club scene since the 1960s; they will be hard to beat come February.
In other news, Big Al commenced his latest New Year’s Resolution which was bad news for beer manufacturers worldwide.
He had decided that January would be the month of the grape and was pictured with a bottle of Chateau Scruffy 2023. The Pravha pump looked lonely and unloved as his giant hands clutched the finest Scruffy crystal.
He had come in dressed like he was off to PE the morning after and could not be bothered changing, wearing shorts and white ankle socks in defiance of the predicted cold snap. The rear of the year contender sat contentedly in his flip-flops by the fire opposite; Big Al would not be threatening his title challenge. What would any stranger would make of it?
The big man had a problem having lost all of his contacts in his phone. “It can’t be hard to get back six numbers!” said Uncle Andy, simultaneously ducking an attempted head-severing clip. The resident tech team duly got to grips with Saga’s finest technology in an attempt to keep Big Al current.
Uncle Andy tried not to wet himself in the corner as Five Pints, the only one of us with any sense of the dotcom age, asked “are you in the cloud Al”? All the big man could do was look sorrowfully into the cloudy glass of Chateau Scruffy 2023 Vintage as Uncle disappeared to the loo to change his bag in floods of tears.
Patch was in a delirious mood as, finally, daughter Ciara was moving out into her and young Sam’s new affordable £500k starter home. No more would they be a drain on his enormous offshore pension, at last he could turn the heating down. Nor would he have to house a Leeds United fan any longer. We suggested he open a bar tab in celebration but this was hopeful at best. It was home time and time for a few twinkle toes into the night.
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