Twas the night before Christmas and the stable doors of The Scruffy greeted all. The fire crackled with unread copies of The Trumpit as beer pumps creaked offering goodwill to all men, women and those still making their minds up.
It was the festive time of the year but there was little goodwill behind the bar. Head Bar Person, for The Scruffy is gender friendly, Our Jackie was despondent as she delved into her jumbo bag of Quavers.
“Who’s going to take me to the ball?” she wailed “What do I ‘ave to do to get t’Working Mens Club? There’s a turn an’ free pie an’ peas! Get me out of ‘ere!!”
Rumour had it that Idle’s ex-male model, Tipper the Stripper, was doing a “turn”. Down on his luck since the Pile Bar shut, the diminutive Z-list celebrity had been shunned by the “in-crowd”, often seen in exile at The Great Northern. The chance of a night’s work at the Working Mens was too good to pass even if he would be bombarded by flying knickers as big as giant chapatis.
The collected souls sheltering in ‘Nob Ed Korna had heads firmly down fearing an invite. The Guvnor, not a man to fear much, whispered to Fat Lad.
“She thinks she’s bloody Cinderella! ‘As Greenfingers been flogging her some weed again?”
He was referring to ‘Nob Ed Korna’s herbal remedies expert who had not been seen post the Budget announcement to free up what was freed up already in certain parts of Bradford. Fat Lad chuckled away humming Mud’s “It’ll Be Lonely This Christmas” from the safety of his corner seat, his chubby cheeks aglow.
“Oy you fat bastard!” shouted Our Jackie with still a bit more polishing to do on her customer relations. “Not you Mr Guvnor, ‘im!” as she realised that, although retired, The Guvnor could still end her days via a concrete bath.
“I feel like bloody Snow White it’s been that long!” she groaned “Still at least I’ve got me seven Nob ‘Eds!” as she cheered instantly taunting the assembled rabble who looked at each other for mutual support, supposedly safe in their protected space, care in the community at it’s best.
This was a stressful time for the loyal inhabitants as strange people were known to visit places like The Scruffy on annual excursions of sorts; traditions and time honoured practices were ignored as the intruders occupied sacred social spots. The Nob ‘Eds looked at each other for support as Our Jackie abandoned the bar for her fourteenth chocolate Hob Nob.
“It’s not as if I need to worry about getting into a bleeding ball gown anyway!” she muttered as she slumped onto Fat Lad’s lap smashing every last breath from him.
The Guvnor, shuffled in his seat uneasily as son and heir, Red Bricks, came in after another day fleecing the well heeled punters of Bradford with dreams of roads paved with gold, five bedrooms, en-suite bathrooms and a mortgage bigger than Venezuela’s debt mountain. He looked around surveying the desperate company his father was keeping these days as Homeless wandered in. Maybe Homeless could be Our Jackie’s Prince Charming?
“No bloody way!” said Our Jackie sensing the offer. “I might be desperate but he’s not had a wash for a year!”
Homeless took this in his stride as he patiently awaited the demolition of the doomed Hob Nob so he could chance a pint. Suddenly, out of the cold winter night came Greenfingers straight from the allotment, botanical production complete for the evening, the waiting queues of German cars dispersed for the evening with remedies for dependent uncles. Silently he said a prayer of thanks for Cllr Hapless and her vibrant young, downwardly mobile population.
Two Jags had wandered in, another week flogging three-wheeled Mondeos to the less well-heeled punters of the city, The Scruffy’s very own Arthur Daley. Fifty pound notes were bulging from every pocket as he took his place.
Over in the far corner the Three Wise Fishermen, frozen after a fruitless – or fishless – day on the banks of the Leeds-Liverpool were gloomy though it was hard to remember them ever looking happy. The festive period meant nobody was giving up a seat for old men, no matter how old. Arthur decided to try his negotiating technique out on a couple clearly out for their annual treat.
“Isn’t it time you were going?” he said as he sidled up to them as close as he could without being punched or arrested for sexual harassment. The couple looked at this greying old man, decked out in red and wondered why they had not opted for Strictly and the usual from the Chinese.
Back behind the bar Our Jackie was awaiting help. In came the Ugly Sisters – Smouldering Sue and Young Bet – to lift the mood of the pub. Smouldering was wearing more bling than the Christmas tree aided by the glow of her eleventh week in Benidorm of the year.
“She could get a job as a glitter ball” said Fat Lad unfortunately not out of earshot.
“Aye and you’ll end up with that tree up your arse!”
Fat Lad knew where he stood or might depending on his next utterance. Young Bet cooed into the ear of her man, Giant Geordie, as she eased off her fashionable Lesbo Look combat jacket to begin a night of toil.
“Howay Man I’ve got work to do!” as she flicked her newly bleached hair over her broad shoulders “And don’t think you’s be gannin the toon the neet ta git mortal. Sit down…dee as yer telt!”
She walked away leaving him gushing with pride having passed her GCSE Geordie only the other week. He rubbed the shaft of his snooker cue with deep pride as he wandered off down the hill to the Working Men’s to push a few balls down the pockets. As he walked out he passed the dapper Kevin the Trowel, the only man salivating about getting new socks down his chimney. The Trowel was immaculate as ever with waxed moustache, slicked back hair plus matching socks and laces. Red Bricks noted the look so favoured by his peers down the village and vowed to up his game.
The pub was bursting at the seams by now as goodwill to all flowed, the spirit of the community for all to see, if no invites yet for Cinderella. The Students wandered in as they had heard there was free food and lots of rich old drunks to mug via the quiz. Five long-life diet cokes were ordered with a bag of crisps to share as they found seats with ease.
I sat quietly surveying this festive scene and offered a silent prayer of thanks to whatever God still had patience in me.
Happy Christmas.
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