Familiarity breeds contentment.
George Ade
Taken from the Christmas edition of The Trumpit. Thanks to everybody who has supported our “little pamphlet” this year; see you all again in February as the Editor takes a month off in the Bahamas. Piers Morgan eat your heart out!
I was reading an up-market magazine the other day, each article waxing lyrically about some bar, restaurant or health spa. It struck me that nobody had ever reviewed my local, The Scruffy. So, I asked hosts Michael and Sara if they would like to be featured here.
“How does it work?” asked Michael. I told him that for a years’ supply of Black Sheep and Quavers I would write a load of gushing bollocks. He was naturally a bit suspicious based on the indisputable evidence of my frequent attendances without ever being induced. I tried to point out that there was the New Inn across the road.
He considered this for an all too brief moment, opened the door, drained my pint and pointed to the New Inn. I thought this was less than helpful. But it did get me thinking…just how would it go if The Scruffy was reviewed?
Tarquin Bluster-Com writes as follows:
I’d been told that many of the inns of England were no longer the vibrant places they once were but that there was a place where a man could still get a warm welcome in a little village in a little town; so I decided to head to The White Bear in Idle, Bradford. As I walked through the door I was expecting to be greeted by the host, perhaps he might relieve me of my coat, having been told that was most probable in these parts.
When I asked of the landlord, a local jabbed his finger at a portly little chap sat in a corner, surrounded by several delightfully cheerful gentlemen. They all looked so happy, ruddy cheeks and rounded frames, surely the food here must be a delight.
I decided to enquire of the waitress. Although she was not wearing identification, she withdrew her luminous e-cig and introduced herself.
“Mine’s ‘alf a Carling if you know what’s good for you. Our Jackie’s me name but don’t get yer hopes up!” I pondered this: “Can you advise what is on the menu tonight?” She looked me up and down, wiped her e-cig on her jeans and replied “Cheese & onion, salt & vinegar or plain!” What choice I thought, truly delightful.
I thought I would explore the pub’s culture a little more, having read that Bradford would soon become the UK Capital of Culture, so sought out a few locals. As I approached the regulars, several gasped in unison. A very large man in a very bright sweater held up his hand, his other guarding his pint, giant hands dwarfing the glass.
“You can’t cross that line without permission unless you’re a Nob ‘Ed?” I assumed this was some form of secret cult so asked if I may gain temporary membership. The waitress whispered from behind the bar. “That’s The Guvnor…ex-Flying Squad…careful what you say or you’ll be wearing concrete shoes and heading for the canal!”
This was truly exciting, what a warm and vibrant pub this was, how had The Sunday Times missed it? The Guvnor turned to consult with his fellow locals who I learned were called Fat Lad, Happy Days and Greenfingers. Meanwhile, the portly landlord continued to slurp his lager, resplendent in a Weight Watcher of the Year t-shirt; what a role model I thought. Was there anything not to like about this place?
In bounced a friendly little chap with a neatly trimmed moustache I learned was called The Trowel. He asked if I would be doing a fashion shoot. “I’ve got matching socks and thong…want to see…come this way?” Suddenly there was a minor tremor but I discovered this was only the chap called Fat Lad “relieving himself”. Instantly, I had a choice of seats.
As it was the festive season approaching, I wanted to know how the regulars were planning to celebrate. Happy Days tried to explain. “We’re coming in here…what else do you think?” Immediately Greenfingers countered: “I’m not!” (Cue raucous laughter) “I’m off to me allotment.” What grew at this time of year I wondered? “Nowt…I’m shutting me shed door and not coming out till January!”
Wild applause broke out, enough to wake the scruffy man by the bar they called Homeless. “What did I miss?” he asked and then nodded off again.
Of course, what makes a fine establishment is surely the staff and this fine night there were two other waitresses attending our every need.
“And who might you be my fine lady?” I asked noting her fine array of shimmering jewellery lit up like a Pharaoh, “What’s it got to do wi’ you? You drinking or what?” My I had heard these Northern folks were direct but how so!
I tried my luck with a younger model, albeit not keen to overstep the mark, noting her choice of Doc Marten footwear, perhaps a sign of the welcome here for the LBGQT community (have we included them all? Ed).
“No point in trying it on he’s my bloke!”
She pointed to a giant bald fellow with pictures of dead people on his tee-shirt. He looked at her with love in his eyes. ““Where’s me scran, I’m clamming?” She threw him a packet of crisps as they embraced oblivious to my presence. It seemed romance was alive and well in this wonderful pub.
I looked around, everybody was so happy, it was the season to be happy.
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