I’d vowed not to write another word until the annual solemn vows of sobriety, pouring from Nob Ed Korna like smoke from the Vatican, were a thing of memory come the first week of January. By then, happy days would be back again.
I’d reckoned without the The Guvnor.
A perennial figure of gloom, he looked particularly troubled several nights before Christmas. Sat with his old law-enforcement partner – Sweeney Mick – The Scruffy’s version of DI Regan appeared in need of a villain or two to rough up.
His troubles related to his first ever visit to IKEA, aged 75.
“The ****ing wife suggested it!” he protested in bewilderment. “Try the meatballs! She didn’t say you had to walk through five miles of sh*te to get there!” There was hardly a dry eye in the house as he continued the tale.
Would he be going for a second look, enquired the festively coiffured Brideshead, bedecked in yet another silk waistcoat, rumoured to be Elton John cast-offs.
Brideshead also confessed to a “convivial retail experience with the little people” at Boundary Mill the same day. “I was servicing one of the BMWs old boy…but no need to print that, eh?”
The Trowel, eyes twinkling, tried to offer some perspective only to incur the wrath of his old mate.
“You’d better wrap up charging what you do for ‘leaky taps’ to old biddies. I’ll have you on Rogue Traders!” barked an inconsolable Guvnor.
With that the immaculate Trowel retired to the bar, far better to risk the ire of Our Jackie. By now The Guvnor had declared that ABBA, IKEA and Volvo were all “sh*te”.
Greenfingers and I looked on as Sweeney Mick gently persuaded his anti-Scandi old boss that it was time for bed, meatballs or no meatballs, leading him towards the door still mumbling atrocities.
The real Christmas festivities started a week later – Thirsty Thursday – with the first casualty of the season. Sawdust Dave looked as if he had been on some other dust as he clung to the bar like wreckage in a violent sea; he would not be seen again.
Gentleman John was off to gentile Norfolk and had popped in for one more dose of the Nob ‘Eds who had already packed out the infamous Korna.
Fat Lad stood bewildered, unable to sandwich his giant frame onto the hallowed benches. Did they know who he was?
No sooner had a spot appeared than he made a dive for it, like a Blue Whale on a feeding frenzy, causing shockwaves down the occupied seats.
In came Young Geoffrey having ditched the muck-stained gardening shorts. The secretive founder of The Idle & Thackley Communist Party was in sprightly mode, his eyes twinkling as the exotic, fur-clad Suntan Sally arrived with her entourage.
Mr Shifter was in fine form, telling numerous tales of the various footballers he had moved in his time as the area’s premier mover and shaker. There had to be a book and a film deal here; I resolved to make a bid, surely placing a free ad would win the day?
The pub was bursting to the seams, notwithstanding the solemn advice from Boris to exercise caution, as effective as telling a starving dog not to dig a bone up.
The Blusterer had long lost the moral high ground and the next few days had the feeling of the last days of summer.
Come Christmas Eve, despite the fear of not being able to sit on seats reserved until death duties, the hallowed benches were occupied by all the usual suspects as many had slept overnight on them.
Meanwhile, across in Posh Knob Corner, mischievously renamed by Fat Lad, our Gang of Five sat in relative social distance. The sight of Big Al in shorts was enough to cause the early termination of an unknown couple’s romantic start to the festivities.
However, it seemed early nights were the way to go as local social barometers, Tropical Tim and wife Julie, were soon off into the night. Perhaps he was excited at the prospect of new flip-flops and a winter thong?
The staff were working their socks off so I chanced a compliment to the volatile Young Bet: “I think the pale make-up suits you!” I narrowly avoided a pint in my lap having still to work out the female of the species.
Our landlady wandered amongst the throngs collecting glasses, holding them tight to her glitter covered heaving bosom like a shepherdess with young lambs.
In came Tipper the Stripper, hair flecked by even more Just For Men in his latest garish shopping channel presenter jacket. He leant towards me, sad eyes a familiar Guinness glaze.
“I’m ready! I’ll do another cover to help that struggling little rag of yours. Just give me the word?” And with that he vanished across the road to The New Inn.
A few days later came an announcement on Facebook I had to read several times to digest. The Bear would be closed for the foreseeable future due to the dreaded lurgy.
I don’t think I had cried so much since my Mum bought me an Airfix model for Christmas.
On almost the same page came news from Jim at The Idle Draper that he too would be closed. Time and good fortune had run out so far as this roll of the dice was concerned.
We can easily forget how hard our pubs and the people behind them work to keep us so entertained. It was not great news but there’s more to life than the bottom line.
A personal thanks to Dizzy, Four Quarters, Florence, Our Jackie and Young Bet for tolerating our antics once again. And to our inimitable hosts, Michael and Sara – get well soon.
A big thank you also to all our locals and best wishes to those who are able to stay open this New Year’s Eve.
Good health and see you in 2022.
Lord Frazer Irwin says
The Guvnor obviously has a thing about the Swedes. However how many realise Volvo is no longer owned by them. Get this for a bit of chop suey! The company was bought out last October by Zhejiang Geely Holdings.
All the best and see you sometime next year…………
Philip Marks says
Happy New Year Steve.
Looking forward to the February edition of The Trumpit.