Taken from June’s edition of The Trumpit out next week in memory of it’s heartbeat, our Editor Bill Craven.
Rest in peace old boy.
There was a time when pubs were full to the brim; if the taps were flowing then punters would be assured. Decades of rip-off practices by big business and successive governments have fleeced the industry to its core and bearing the brunt has been the ordinary man and woman, many priced out of enjoying a regular tipple. Unable to simply open the doors, pubs have to be ingenious these days and quiz nights are a standard tactic, hoping to populate an otherwise dead midweek night with a few borderline dead bodies.
The Scruffy, not exactly an intellectual stronghold, has its own team, although at an average age pushing eighty, the junior section looks a bit thin. They play home and away with the lure of a fabulous supper on Tuesday nights if on home turf. The other night the opposition had turned up en masse, all four of them, huddled in the far corner as if pouring over the Official Secrets Act whilst appearing constipated. Faces were set stern, silence reigned as the question of the moment was considered, a stroke of greying whiskers, another modest slurp of the pint of orange cordial, God forbid it did not see out the night.
As usual, lured up the hill from her bijou in the village, Our Jackie could already smell the free food. Having missed Weight Watchers for the umpteenth week on the trot, she was in the mood for a slice of authentic Italian pizza from Raja’s – just a da way Mama used to make it…innit! She stood making small talk with the few punters lining the bar, perhaps a little excitedly as the anticipation of pepperoni began to penetrate her senses faster than a Fifty Shades novel. Tickled by a comment, she let out her trademark booming laugh, honed by decades of non-tipped full-strength. Over in the corner, several greying heads lifted simultaneously. “Shut up Jackie!” said a brave, perhaps foolish soul, doubtless with his funeral paid for.
In an instant Our Jackie’s mood became blacker than her dyed roots as a hush descended over the rest of the pub. It was so quiet you could hear the pencil nibs snapping in unison as the contestants realised the gravity of their error. A funeral wake, sensing yet more death, quickly disbanded to the New Inn. “Don’t tell me to bloody shut up!” she boomed as loud as she possibly could, seeking out the perpetrator who by now was also considering political asylum at the New Inn. “Whooooo said that?” she demanded as heads fell towards the tables in unison as if they’d all dozed off as one, no country for old men, as the saying goes. Nobody was asking for the pencil sharpener.
By now she was fizzing like a frothy lager just as Abdul from the authentic pizza parlour came in. Wrapping her arms around Abdul as if he were under arrest, she grabbed the pizzas and stood defiant behind the bar. “These are mine you old twats!” she proudly announced as they looked on powerless. Clearly, even legendary UN diplomats like Henry Kissinger would have struggled to break this impasse and the quiz teams, most likely fearing physical damage, resigned to fasting with Ramadan at last introduced to the multi-cultural Scruffy.
She took a seat in the far corner, abandoning the bar with a bark to landlord Michael – “Get off yer arse and serve those old gits…I’m bloody not!” – and began to feast like a lion on a giant wildebeest, cheese dripping like blood from her open mouth. The locals circled her suspiciously like hyenas looking for scraps but each time they approached, out flung a giant angry paw to bat them away. Several looked on aware this was to have been their first meal of the day. It would be a while before the nurse fed them in the morning; if they survived the night.
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