Taken from the October Edition of The Trumpit.
It had been several weeks since I’d set foot in the dark corner of The Scruffy known as Nob ‘Ed Korna; the sun had still been teasing me outside but as the autumnal chill circled my bones it was time to risk the far greater chill of the inmates.
It was New Friday again and Happy Hour called although looking at the usual crew you could have barely guessed it. Raindrops were falling on my head as I walked through the door to find several Nob ‘Eds looking miserable after another day counting their gigantic pension funds.
They surrounded their spiritual leader – The Guvnor – a giant of a man with a gorilla-like belly and growl to suit. I imagined him ripping bamboo shoots to slithers as he downed his pint as if it were a shot of tequila, avoiding eye contact as previously advised.
As I opened my notepad it had the same effect as a Smith & Weston; the inmates fell silent as steely eyes fixed on me. I took my seat nervously and drew my loaded Bic biro from its holster.
Happy Days was guarding the bar as ever, his golfing tan rivalling that of Smouldering Sue, Queen of the UV tube and soon to be on duty once she’d fixed all her bling on. He’d had a good round and was about to have another.
As ever Fat Lad was sat in his favourite corner, a grin as wide as the Humber Bridge, his arse so used to the contours of his favoured spot it was now triangular.
Alongside The Guvnor sat the diminutive Kevin The Trowel, perhaps the smartest man in The Scruffy. He cuts a miniature Terry Thomas figure; perfect creases, sharp shirts, cashmere sweaters and a 1930’s moustache.
The Trowel was sporting a dapper pair of mustard coloured brogues complete with matching laces and socks. I complimented him on the look but declined the offer of seeing his matching Calvins in the gents.
“What a load of bollocks!” growled The Guvnor, gargling a bag of cheese and onion “It takes ‘im two hours to get ready for a ******* pint!”
The Guvnor is no slouch in the dress stakes either but prefers dark colours, a legacy of his Flying Squad days – “Harder to see the villain’s blood stains!”
Each time the door opened there was fresh expectation as the crowd began to swell. In came Bob The Voice, never short of a song, even if it is the same one every time.
In an instant he broke into song, as he cupped his pint in both hands, unable at this late age to hold steady. Ageing can be a brutal process, thank God for beer.
To welcome him The Guvnor threw two beer mats at a fearsome pace, narrowly missing The Voice, by now singing to an imaginary full house. Truly, I felt honoured to be sat amongst these fine men.
I’d sat with The Voice during a quiet Saturday afternoon when he’d told me of the sad loss of “the love of my life”. His wife had passed away a few years ago and life had never been the same.
As his eyes misted over one more time, old memories far stronger than the present, I forgave yet another rendition of Strangers In The Night and smiled as The Guvnor once again tried to slice his head off via a sharpened beermat.
As Happy Hour expired in strolled the Korna’s token yuppie, Red Bricks, pockets loaded after another day selling houses in Hapless Hinchcliffe’s Happy Valley.
The weather had clearly turned as the shiny M&S suit jacket had been swapped for a winter warmer, the shoes some way off standards set by The Trowel.
The rhythm of life was dancing its own inimitable tune as The Voice reluctantly acknowledged it was time to go home; how he would have given up anything for it not to be to an empty house. He wandered out, his pint finished, humming his favourite tune, awaiting a reunion of sorts.
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