Taken from this month’s edition of The Trumpit out now.
Like the oncoming chill of winter, the regulars have suspected darker days ahead as this virus lingers longer than a bad pint and a dodgy takeaway. Oblivious to the crisis in the rainforests, down came several trees in the carpark at The Scruffy to make way for a windbreak, a holding pen of sorts, shivering locals queuing for a table inside like sheep off to market. Rumour has it Homeless dropped out of one tree and headed straight for the bar, shaken and stirred. As we all get ready to batten down again unless we behave, what of local endangered species such as Nob Eds?
The new Rule of Six presents challenges; as Landlord Michael said: “I’ve more Nob Eds than six! The pub’s full of them!” Whispers of back door entries and secret ballots abound to secure favoured spots. If Boris & Co were concerned about a surge in ale consumption, an unintended consequence seems to have been a shift back to midday drinking just to get a seat. “I wish it could be Christmas every day” sang Fat Lad near delirious well before when Crackerjack used to start. “I know” said Happy Days “why don’t we just say we are all one big family! Happy days are here again!” In a flash came a rendition of We Are Family.
The Guvnor Speaks
The Guvnor has declared a new Internal Markets Bill designed to preserve long-held boundaries. “Nobody under fifty can now cross the line” he declared referring to an invisible boundary long understood by locals defining Nob Ed Korna “and anybody using a walking stick gets an automatic seat” as he brandished his weapon of choice at those wishing to contest. Michael pointed out that this would rule him out but The Guvnor, with the comfort of a strong majority, refused to listen and consigned him to the small stools.
Florence and Four Quarters, our long-suffering carers, were mystified as to how supplies would be transported across this border without huge queues. “There’s always ways and means!” winked The Guvnor.
Meanwhile, the curfew is not something that is troubling the locals; many are usually tucked up in the nursing home well before ten. The Scruffy has long been a pioneer of café style culture with all-day drinking dating back to the days of Billy and Pat way back yonder. If we have to bring closing time forward then so be it; doors will now be open at breakfast time just as they were for the old Watmoughs night shift many years go. What could be better than Eggs and Black Sheep? Who needs the EU to be truly European?
Testing Times
For some it has caused a concern. Idle’s Best Dressed Pensioner, The Trowel, voiced his worries. ‘I can’t be expected to create this look in a hurry. It takes time to dress like me!’ Young Geoffrey, sporting his filthy gardening shorts-last washed who knows when– wafted a few flies from his crotch as he looked on bemused by the little man in red slippers. ‘Does the wife know you have her slippers on?’
Fresh, but not so fresh, from the allotment, Greenfingers flicked a mud ball rolled from his finger nails at the pristine pensioner who scurried off to the Gents.
Meanwhile, Sunday nights had already developed into a bubble of sorts although it would be stretching it to claim this as bio-secure. The regular ebb and flow of the quiz seems a distant memory, depriving us of Mick the Quiz’s dulcet tones. Slowly, the regulars have found their Sunday best again. Mick is still determined to eke out the last embers of summer, his trademark short, fat-hairy legs still on show. However, we will have to wait longer for his uplifting brand of questioning. ‘Name three serial killers who have all killed five people or more…welcome again to the quiz! Don’t forget there’s Sara’s super supper at half-time. And no, the killers don’t have to have eaten anybody!’
Care Home Rules
The ultra-competitive Fishermen have not been seen for weeks as a team. Even if the quiz were to return, wandering around the pub to intimidate the elderly and stealing quiz answers is now banned. Other routines have been shattered too. Whilst it’s been good to see the return of The Odd Couple, there is never a guarantee that their favourite table will be free to resume the Bradford Nokia Snakes & Ladders season; who needs conversation? On cue most weeks will be the leather clad Malcolm X, still clinging on to his Jeremy Clarkson memoirs like a parish priest to the bible, the fastest pensioner in town.
Whilst the elderly have been expected to isolate for so long, the weekly arrival of The Octogenarians is always greeted with great cheer. A determined couple, there’s plenty of spark left in Robert and Sheila. No matter if they have to wait in the cold for a table to come free—’When you’ve lived hidden from Hitler in a freezing outside toilet and put up with this one, you can suffer anything!’ said Sheila as she necked another lager down and nudged Robert to get his wallet out. ‘I’m bloody eighty and I’ve got a long time yet!’ she proclaimed the other week as I suggested it was getting late, curfew or no curfew. A very smart man, his shirt neatly pressed, trousers with a crease to open a bag of crisps with, Robert takes it all in his stride. As men do, he seems to have found comfort in simple pleasures. Long may they grace The Scruffy.
Cometh Friday
Soon it was Friday again, teatime not night, a sign of age undoubtedly. Early doors was getting closer to lunchtime every week. I made sure I had my mask and phone, arriving as the church bells struck five. The pub was bustling, few were braving the arctic winds in the garden. I was pointed to a seat in the welcoming company of The Guvnor and DI Birtsy, having a nostalgic ex-coppers reunion for two. “Do you mind if he sits here” asked Sara. “Must he?” replied The Guvnor, the sort of warm welcome I am well used to. “He can as long as he doesn’t write anything down!” Peace was agreed and I settled in to enjoy tales of past police brutality.
In an attempt to keep the air free of the deadly virus, the door was ajar and The Guvnor sat like a grumpy polar bear. “I’ve more chance of poking it with hypothermia than the bloody virus!” In walked Gentleman John, on auto-pilot just like the last sixty years, seeking out a seat, QR what QR?
Sara rounded him like an errant lamb and he joined our flock, huddled by the door. Soon he was shivering like never before, not having the same level of bodily mass a career sat in a squad car munching doughnuts afforded.
My night was complete with the arrival of Young Geoffrey and his faithful app-free Nokia. At this point Boris’s plan looked flawed and our valiant landlady was close to a nervous breakdown. Meanwhile, landlord Michael had drawn the short straw and was managing the outdoor table service. His blue face popped up at the window. It seemed table service in the arctic North might not be the best idea…an ulterior motive…perhaps?
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