Musings From The Padded Cell

Home Sweet Home

“The world is a dangerous place to live; not because of the people who are evil, but because of the people who don’t do anything about it.”
Albert Einstein

Tales From The Scruffy

A trip down South to the land of plenty this week necessitated an injection of normality at The Scruffy the night before.

White Bear

The Scruffy

We convene each Sunday evening unsure of who might grace us with their company as favoured spots are selected and tongues wetted by the first cool ales of the night. Sure enough, last weekend, we were in for a treat; the asylum had left the gates unlocked again.

Idle exiles Dr David and his excitable lover Jill were in residence, she sporting yet another shade of purple to nullify the grey, voice booming across the floor.

“‘Ey up look what the fooking wind’s blown in!” I missed being greeted with such warmth, I have to confess.

With them were the Baxendales and, as the menfolk looked on, the ladies slurped their halves of Echo Falls 2017 Chardonnay with gusto, a snip at £8 a bottle and a free box of paracetamol into the bargain.

Prince Harry, heir to the Baxendale fortune and a bit of mine too providing he does as he’s told, was sat in the corner of the suitably named Coffin.

This is a row of seats so named as we confidently expect to see our days out here. Rumour has it there is a trap-door underneath; when one expires going down should not necessarily mean the fires of hell – nor anything else – simply the cool of The Scruffy’s cellar.

With youthful contempt for the aged, the young prince sat oblivious to the reality that us oldies need a back rest, head firmly stuck into his mobile gadget.

Mrs Baxendale, fresh from a New York City weekend, had clearly decided to view all forms of human life in as short a time frame as possible. What better spectrum than The Scruffy, aided and abetted by Echo Falls, a borderline deranged drinking companion and the usual misfits. It was just like old times.

Dr David as ever maintained a safe distance from his love, knowing that he would at some point have to bundle her into a taxi still clutching the bottle, most likely empty but what would that matter?

Soon the taxi arrived to cart them back off to exile, plastic sheeting on the back seats, Idleway’s finest driver on hand. A demoralised Dr David waved us a fond farewell, wondering what had possessed him to leave Idle and the secure sanctuary of The Scruffy.

Mrs Baxendale necked back the last of her poison, slipped out a silent burp, wiped her moustache and dragged the by now comatose prince into the awaiting taxi; best to get him to bed as GCSE’s were in three years time.

Uncle Andy had bounced in giddily, having had nobody to play out with the previous week as we strode the Dalesway; I must confess I was looking forward to some more fireman stories and settled back in the now vacated Coffin.

Sheffield Steve was also in, having adopted us in favour of his previous company, The Sunday Times. Ditching Mr Murdoch’s propaganda – saving £2.50 into the equation – he now offers a modicum of sanity to the weekly antics, albeit for a restrained hour.

Unfortunately, Patch was in a sombre mood.

Local celebrity, Gentleman John the village barber, had bumped into Patch’s dad earlier in the week who had been keen to display his pride at his son’s completion of the previous week’s walking ordeal.

“Did he really?” said Gentleman John “Then how come he looks like he’s pregnant?”

Mr Patchett Snr had conveyed the news back to his son and this had not gone down well. Patch was left to contemplate the much advocated Big Al fitness programme – Gunna, Wudda & Shudda. There was nothing left to do but order another bag of cheesy Wotsits.

Sheffield, having a real job, made his farewells for another week. Simultaneously, the lights seemed to dim for a moment but it was only L-Plate Simmy, the local driving instructor, built to drive a tank not a VW Polo with dual controls, in for his weekly nerve control injection.

The night was hotting up as Young Bet was set free from the bar to tease the locals with her mature figure bulging from a Primark vest under the impassive eyes of fiance Giant Geordie.

Work the floor she did with a book of raffle tickets offering untold riches; who needed Vegas?

Several of the locals risked a cuffing from Giant as they broke the bank to order more tickets, hoping she might lean further forward, happy to chance rheumy old eyes and a clip around the ear all for another all too rare sensation.

Young Geoffrey swaggered in sporting a new pair of boot-cut Wranglers. He’d been on a fashion shoot for the Swaggering Seventies catalogue and was back, slicked steely grey hair, pert bottom and brown suede boots. The Sunday heart throb for the quiz ladies, they suck on their pencils as they look him up and down.

Off he went to locate the gloom of The Fishermen, heads down, competition time about to begin, no chance to offer the odd compliment re the new denim. Arthur greeted him with the usual warm tones.

“Sit down you silly old nonce!” It was lucky that Arthur had left teaching well before PC was ever heard off.

By now the excitement was building, as was the realisation that Slimmer’s World was not going to help Patch unless they held meetings at The Scruffy and levied Brexit like tariffs on cheesey Wotsits.

It was time to go, the massive £50 jackpot having been claimed by one of the more needy locals to howls of protest at a question even Young Bet would have guessed correctly.

The South beckoned and I trudged off wishing it was not so as another Sunday vanished in the blink of an eye.

One Hundred Years Ago

As World War One continued, this fascinating document contains a story concerning opposing views on children’s working hours – see here.

Brexit Bollocks

The BBC was quick to include a report by the Paris based OECD predicting the usual fires of hell for the UK post-Brexit. Equally, they suggested all would be lovely if we simply decided not to go ahead and trusted the likes of Tony Blair and Peter Mandelson for instance.

So here’s an interesting alternative view for balance taken from the Guido Fawkes website.

“Interesting research just out from Change Britain this evening. The OECD has received a grand total of £85,173,454.91 from the EU since 2007.

Nice money if you can get it and more great value from the EU. So who do you believe then?

Spotted On Facebook – Truth Hurts?

The Ginger Goose’s Annual Classiest Bradford Woman contest got off to a rip roaring start after Bianca and Sigourney, both mothers of seven, got into a fight. This was over Wayne, a 22 year-old Nike tracksuit wearing, Vauxhall Astra driving, absolute tosspot, cocaine dealer.

According to Wayne, who wears a fake Rolex, can barely put a sentence together and is one faulty brake light away from doing a 4 year stretch.

“Tell you Bruv, dem bitches went strong, I been on dese roads since I was a younger and it was jokes how dey went at it.”

A translator from Bradford Council was not available to explain what the jumped up little gutter rat was saying.

Both women were treated at the scene for loss of hair extensions, false eyelashes and Bianca was treated for shock after losing the badge off her Michael Kors bag.

The Telegraph has learnt that the two women have been charged with possession of offensive make-up and wearing ludicrous platforms with intent to endanger life. The competition continues this Friday night.

Home sweet home.

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