It’s been a long time coming…look after your pub…and your hosts too! This is taken from the current edition of The Trumpit.
With rumours of a possible re-opening of pubs from July, I suddenly sensed hope was on its way, in the form of a curvy pint glass. I’d not been as excited since the discovery of an old Playboy magazine in the cricket club changing rooms back when I was twelve.
Social distancing would still be the new order of the day and maybe waitresses too? I shuddered at the thought of Our Jackie and Smouldering Sue in full garb and could not wait to imagine Smouldering’s table manner.
“Oi wot you ‘avin then” she’d ask, wagging a bling laden finger or two . “Come on I can’t stand ‘ere all night me varicose veins won’t ‘ave it!”
I had not seen either of them for weeks and was worried as to their state of mental health, so I sought out exclusive interviews for The Trumpit. How had Idle’s finest barmaids been coping with lockdown?
“Me diets fooked—again!” wailed Our Jackie “I’ll never get up t’High Street Tell Michael I want a chair lift…else I’m off to work for t’Swan!”
She confessed that she had “let herself go” so had asked Gentleman John to quote for shaving her legs. He had set aside an hour , several heavy-duty bin bags and a skip; fellow stylist Marcus suggested a soft perm and maybe a bit of tinting.
Perhaps the new age of waitress service could be a financial windfall as customers would surely be expected to tip? “You what? That miserable bunch of sods in Nob Ed Korna couldn’t tip off a ladder!” I assured her that she would be able to name her price should we ever find our much-missed seats again.
“Why don’t you get one of those bags around your neck like a donkey”, I asked? “Are you calling me a donkey?” I assured her not and modified the suggestion to a German Sheepdog. The interview was terminated as she strode off in the direction of the White Swan.
Meanwhile, Smouldering was missing being able to hurl abuse at the usual bunch of well-worn suspects.
“I do miss them I must confess. You get fond knowing that there’s loads a lot worse off than you in life.” She confessed she had been topping up her tan to such an extent the Police called one night mistaking the electricity surge for a local pharmaceutical den.
We pondered as to what had become of the locals, cast out as if a mental institution had closed its doors. I knew Greenfingers had been busy at work on his allotment adjacent to one being worked by Billy the Fish, whose whiskers had grown far bushier than anything on his plot.
The allotments, behind the back of the Conservative Club, were reclaimed from waste ground, and are a credit to those who work them. They are now a haven for a bunch of misfits and Trumpit readers, distrusting of the Governments future policy of importing vegetables from Bolivia.
Knowledge and local characters are there in abundance, even The Trumpit’s very own Joe is rumoured to do his jottings here under an alias. “He’s not a bloody gardener!” sniffed The Fish, simultaneously picking a giant whisker from an earlobe and displaying the competitive street that runs from greenhouse to greenhouse. It seems we men never lose that competitive streak even in our dotage when all we have to worry about are carrot flies.
Serene as ever, Greenfingers smiled as his award-winning Arts Council funded use of empty John Smith’s Smooth cans as a bird deterrent, jingled in the soft breeze.
The BBC’s Northern Backwaters correspondent was coming to interview him on Nob ‘Ed Lives Matter—key slogan “Get Pubs Open Now!” – as rumours circulated that Londoners are queuing up for the John Smith Smooth jingle, the new must have in NW1.
Allotments are very much in demand too, the benefits of not only growing your own food but the wonderfully calming effects a day wallowing in shit brings; finally you understand the true meaning of life as “happy as a pig in shit”.
The waiting list is controlled by local Don Corleone figure, The Guvnor, who confesses to not knowing one end of a cucumber from the other. Allegiance must be sworn to Boris the Blusterer by taking the knee at the feet of The Guvnor, paying him off with a fresh pint of Carling and a bag of Chilli Twists in Nob ‘Ed Korna.
I had missed a variety of characters that not even J K Rowling could have dreamt up. What had they all been doing?
Surely Happy Days would be delirious again, able to start swishing his golf clubs with abandon but what of Fat Lad, who’s never spent so long displaced from his favourite corner since he was old enough to drink.
If social distancing was now to be a metre, Fat Lad would be safe enough, a man made physical barrier. Landlord Michael had been letting him in the back door just so he could sit dreaming of a glistening full glass in front of him in the company of Mr Dead, Tattoo Man and many other regulars.
With all this time away from the pub could Homeless have finally gotten a new wardrobe? Perhaps he’d been shopping with the sartorial Brideshead, soon to shamble in inimitably in a new bright pink waistcoat? And what of the fashion icon Kevin The Trowel? Surely he would be resplendent once again with matching thong and socks.
Finally, things will be far from perfect whatever your local, so spare a thought for those who are working to get us all smiling again.
Lynne Armitage says
Brilliant Steve! P****d myself laughing!