Ahead of the September edition of The Trumpit, out next week, here is a little taster.
With the weather forecasters predicting Armageddon for the coming weekend and this summer’s resident convict – my Australian cricket lodger – still looking far too smug about all things Ashes after the crushing First Test defeat, so it was that I chanced a few beers under my favourite tree at The Scruffy in the evening sunshine.
Global warming or not, summer looked to be in the last throes; I made my way on the well-worn path to seek a cold one or two. In temporary charge was Sean surveying all from the beer garden, as far away as possible from the bar. Inside, the ever-reliable Smouldering Sue worked the baying crowds like Springsteen in full flow.
Local celebrity gardener Gaddy was covered as ever in all manner of flies and bush debris, his days as an international currency trader a distant memory. Every table was taken and the queues were forming not only in the bar but also at the hatch, heads bobbing up at regular intervals, empty glasses in need of filling. Sean looked on, happy with Smouldering’s work ethic.
Inside she was at tipping point, her normally coiffured hair looking as if she had just fallen out of bed, the high-pitched voice reaching ever higher points as punters laid claims on her services like a bookmaker a minute from “they’re off!”
Gaddy’s bronzed pate popped up at the window like a Punch & Judy character as Smouldering swung from pump to pump like a bell-ringer. Meanwhile Sean took in the early evening sunshine…life was good.
By now Big Al had found his way, somewhat inevitably, to the beer garden and my peaceful status was broken. We moved to one of the “executive boxes” overlooking Suicide Hill where we watched approaches to parking outside the chippy that would not be out of place in several other postcodes. Maybe they think they will run out of chips, blame Brexit!
All of a sudden, down the hill we could hear the tell-tale whine of an engine, akin to a model boat as it began take-off. Soon there was an almighty smash as the bike, minus rider, slewed across the road, fortunately missing several parked cars. The whole beer garden erupted in cheers, almost waking Sean from his slumber, as a sheepish owner recovered his mean machine and gingerly mounted it again.
Upon reaching the top of Suicide Hill we stood in unison to offer congratulatory hand gestures and more hearty applause. As he road past he attempted a friendly return of single-digit gesture and nearly fell off again to more wild cheers. It was better than a fly-past at Buckingham Palace; had the Royals ever had such fun? Meanwhile, Sean slept on.
Soon it was time to go inside, the last of the sun fading behind building clouds and no more stuntmen to entertain us. We left Sean with a blanket over him and went to check on Smouldering’s mood, finding her chirping away like a deranged parrot.
A customer, rather unwisely, had complained at being overlooked in the queue. Demonstrating some customer training requirement, Smouldering had told him to “do one!” and sent him packing across the road to the New Inn. The rest of us kept our heads down; she was not one to be messed with tonight.
As we engaged in a hearty discussion on the subject of retirement planning, a few of us having specialist knowledge, she could not contain herself any longer. A luminous shellacked finger pointed at me accusingly. “’ow can you talk you bloody dole dosser!” she said oblivious to my twenty-five years honourable service at the pleasure of Barclays Bank plc.
Having come in for a quiet glass of the house special, Cabernet Scruffy, another local caught her eye. “And you…you’re just a pissed-up pensioner!”
I sensed Heineken’s customer care model was falling short here just as two pissed up pensioners actually did come into the bar. Like true gentlemen, Big Al and I offered up our seats to Patrick and Rose.
By now Fat Lad had come in on a date night with the wife and, failing anywhere better, had somehow found The Scruffy. He led her gently to his romantic corner, selected her favourite cheese & onion crisps and gazed madly into his Carling as she gazed back wondering what she had done in a past life to deserve this place.
Meanwhile, outside Sean slept on peacefully as Smouldering finally departed into the night, offering a finger or two towards the New Inn crowd, picking her way down the hill past the odd bit of bike debris.
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