It’s almost a year since we relaunched the old Thackley Trumpit as The Trumpit. Since then we’ve gone from around 300 copies available in less than ten outlets to 800 across over forty. Thank you all for your support and kind comments. This is taken from the current edition.
At the first sight of the Spring sunshine, the beer gardens of our fabulous locals came alive and there were more than Easter bunnies hopping around deliriously. The Scruffy’s old scrub land has been tarted up and extended over the winter with trees chopped and enough seating for the population of Nob Ed Korna, should they ever venture into the light. However, the exodus from the bar is sweeter than the Echo Falls Vintage Red 2019 and just as effective in terms of a clear out. As the locals fought for the best views of Suicide Hill, the Nob Eds relaxed inside hoping the summer would become one endless feast of sunny Fridays, sod the ice flows and keep the beer coming.
Outside, the end of the working week saw locals seeking comfort via the rustic benches and rustic barmaids, dispensing pleasure under the high sun. Our Jackie, not one for the sun should it take her away from the usual array of free bar top snacks, was dispensing from the hatch, poking her head out like a giant cuckoo. “Whooooooo’s next?” she boomed as the regulars looked up as if she were addressing them from The Vatican. Whole families arrived – bring the kids, bring Gran, any excuse for a beer – with an animal kingdom in tow too. Frantic chatter signifying another week gone by filled the garden.
Across the road the New Inn, it’s splendid hanging baskets already in bloom, was bursting at the seams as the punters made their way past the snaking queue out of the door of Towngate Fisheries. The catch of the day was sizzling in the fryers, locals having ditched the Christmas cooker books and New Year resolutions long ago. Out they came heaving huge bags of treats, to return to a hero’s welcome, Mothers to the nest, the Friday night feast secured. Soon the odd table was festooned with the seductive smells of the nation’s favourite meal and temptation rode high to chance a trip across Suicide Hill.
The Hill was as entertaining as ever, the nightly near misses of raging traffic enough to keep anyone on the edge of their seats. All manner of vehicles flew down two hills and raced up two others, a near blind bend thrown in for fun. In a city where driving skills have barely risen above the Tuk Tuk, indicators are usually manual and single digit. Tyres screeched like fire alarms as wide-eyed madmen gesticulated out of open windows…there, surely that felt better? The local pharmaceutical trade was in full swing too, Germany’s finest engineering ensuring a reliable flow of narcotics to dependent aunties and uncles. “Pillars of the community” striving to make sure everybody got their kicks, free trade at its finest, no tariffs here, no hard border to worry about.
We sat with cold beers in hand, marvelling at the sights of the local economy defying the doomsters many miles away in a different land called Westminster. Amazingly, all flowed free of incident – may the good Lord shine a light on you – and every table was full of everyday people, enjoying the end of another week. The joy of your local there for all the family, the real pillars of our community. Peace and goodwill to all men was in the air at least until a familiar voice boomed out above the crowd: “Michael we’ve no ice again! Get yer arse down that cellar!”
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