Taken from the September edition of The Trumpit available now on prescription.
The pandemic has had a devastating impact on the performing arts and it was sad to see the downcast figure of ex-male model and local celebrity, Tipper the Stripper, sat disconsolately in The Scruffy. His normally muscular frame had gone to seed—Guinness seed to be precise—more Michelin than Macho Man.
Four months of inactivity, he’d been fully-clothed for the first time in years. Devoid of the usual lashings of baby oil his skin was like a rhinoceros. But, suddenly there was hope again as our pubs were given the all-clear, it was time to get in shape, time to get ready to be peppered by a storm of flying knickers again from the local estates; it was time to get the show on the road.
His favourite venue, the Idle Working Mens’ Club was due to open August 1st. The stewardess, his number one fan, had asked Tipper to come down for a fitness check and a private dance or two.
“It were a disaster” he confided to me over another pint of the black stuff “I could barely get me silk trunks up over me arse, I’m finished, it’s all over!”
His number one fan had been similarly unimpressed as she got out her secret folder with decades of pictures detailing Tipper’s stellar career. “We need to get you on a fitness regime, sort out that gut, get you a few new tattoos, some sunbeds and you’ll be ready for when bingo night starts again! You can do it champ!”
Off Tipper went full of new resolve, Rocky soundtrack blasting his headphones. Maybe he could still wiggle with the best, as she shoved him out of the darkness of the auditioning (snooker) room, smoothing down the ruffled green baize as he exited into the midday sun.
The next day he went to the gym, determined to fight the flab. It was all going so well, he’d even learnt a few new moves which local supporters Edna and Elsie would be wild about, when disaster struck again. The gym doors had closed once more leaving him sobbing on the steps. Was this the end? Would he ever return to the stage again…watch this space.
News of another local celebrity gone to seed in lockdown. The normally debonair Brideshead – voted The Scruffy’s Best Dressed Man – and famed for his array of dazzling waistcoats, was seen stood outside dressed in a Chelsea football kit.
Even his normally coiffured locks were looking as if he had just played ninety minutes. A few days later I saw him looking dishevelled again, nose peering in at the window of the butcher’s. “He’s always begging for a few spare cuts” said Barry as he offered him a farewell finger.
One day after Boris had put Bradford on notice of another lockdown, I wandered into the packed beer garden. His timing was as good as his pal Cummins’ knowledge of the rules; it was the hottest day of the year and the message seemed lost. I joined the socially distanced queue for the serving hatch which, as well observed as it was, seemed to count for little as people herded on to tables like Titanic lifeboats.
Women and children first did not apply here as several local brats, high as kites on Fruit Shoots, rampaged around the beer garden. Occasionally, one of the mums would put down her chip butty to wail “Oi, get over ‘ere you little fooker!”
Winner of the Best Dressed Pensioner, Kevin the Trowel, had opted for the beach look with a pair of natty shorts and white espadrilles; he will surely grace the cover of Saga Magazine one day but for now The Trumpit will have to do.
It was also so good to see Young Bet, absent from behind the bar for longer than I could remember; I had to admit I had missed her caustic tongue and weird fashion sense.
Her dodgy back was still causing her stress – “I can’t even pull me Doc Martens on, let alone a pint!” she moaned – as she necked a pint of cider and let out a quiet burp. “It’s a struggle to get to bed nowadays, Nev’s fitting me a stairlift.” I had to admit I’d missed Giant Geordie and his wonderful range of Dead Frog Eaters t-shirts.
However, life must go on and, out with the old (sorry Bet!) and in with the new. Our latest addition to the “staff” is Four Quarters, daughter of Fat Lad and rumoured to have been conceived in the cellar and born in a manger in Nob ‘Ed Korna. Her name comes from a desperate call to dad one day. “I need some petrol” she said. “What does it say on the dial?” asked Fat Lad. “It’s got four quarters!” This is how legends are born.
In tandem these days with Four Quarters is the experienced Florence, her ready smile and friendly disposition a beacon of light in these dark days. Always ready with a pint and the card machine, Florence is an ocean of calm in these troubled times.
And, just when we thought we’d never see Our Jackie again-”I’m shielding! From bloody nob ‘eds!!” – she’s back., bigger and louder than ever.
“I’ve been eatin’ an’ drinkin’ since bloody March!” she said, displaying several new chins as she heaved away at the pumps. “I think I’m a bloody ginaholic!” I was so happy at this return to “normal” I almost burst into tears.
She’d had to sign a new contract which included a clause barring her from eating behind the bar. “That’s in case we have to crane her out” confided Michael. She was also not allowed her customary twenty minute glass collecting—fag—breaks any more for fear of contamination. Michael has threatened her with track and trace.
And finally, sad news of the demise of a regular feature at The Scruffy. Tropical Tim’s favourite pair of shorts have been made redundant. Failing this, he will be a divorced man shortly as wife Julie has insisted the frayed and ragged shorts are well past their best.
Tropical made a spirited late defence—”rips are all the rage love” to which Julie said “pity you’re not! By the time this goes to print we may know more as to the Headmaster’s plans to lock up our playgrounds again so the little ones can play out. For now we savour every minute.
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