The 500th edition of The Trumpit is out now in print and here online.
The unofficial Style Council were spotted in The Scruffy as the sun started to warm us all up and dreams of summer finally looked closer to reality. Proving that age is no barrier to haute couture, the ever dapper Trowel and local aristocrat, Brideshead, were showing off some of their 2023 geriatrics range.
The Trowel had gone for the Miami Vice look and neatly pulled off a sort of resemblance to an ageing Don Johnson from the iconic television series. In contrast, Brideshead oozed To The Manor Born in his check jacket, causal jeans and hair by Gentleman John, where all the local celebrities go and Brylcreem still rules. It was a pleasure to see the two old boys at the end of a cultural afternoon, still looking the part, walking the walk and – just about – talking the talk.
After a week’s sabbatical in the Tenerife sunshine it was good to see little had changed in Nob Ed Korna on our return. However, we had bad news for Fagin as we had spotted Young Bet moonlighting in The Attic Bar in Los Cristianos.
Did Giant Geordie know she had a second job in a faraway land? What could The Scruffy do to entice her back?
It was Thirsty Thursday and the eve of another White Bear Golf Society day out hacking across a local course before returning for the main business of the day. Hon Secretary Happy Days had a new leather bound folder and was doing some last minute rearranging of tee-off times. Talk flowed of balls – how they flew; how they felt; how much they cost. Several of us nodded off gently.
It was all too much for Fag Ash Lil who looked like she might fall of her stool in boredom and meet her mortal end. If this was to be it then no better than with a pint of Coors in hand. Fortunately, her man – Boy Band – was wearing a luminous orange tee-shirt so the air ambulance would easily find us.
Happy Days announced an early night and the various tournament hopefuls all vanished into the night air home to polish their Pings and dream of glory. Fagin sat there as if on board the Marie Celeste taking solace in the fact that they would all be back with numerous tales to wash down thirsty throats.
The smile was back on Fagin’s face come the weekend with the hottest day of the year and the beer garden full. Fag Ash Lil had had a testing morning as Boy Band was off golfing again and supplies of sun cream were low. They had two half-empty tubes between them but one was a kiddies factor 30 and the other a 15. Ever practical, Fag Ash suggested blending them. Boy Band scratched his head and protested: “But that will be factor 45!”
A tanned Running Man turned up to tell us all of his pending two-week cruise of the Med courtesy of P&O. Much as the warm weather looked here to stay, we asked him to go sit somewhere else. It was so hot even The Boilerman had been drawn to the bosom of the beer garden – “I’m only out for eight!” – his man of leisure tan as golden as the pint of Moretti he was clutching.
Fagin patrolled his empire in his stretch Bradford City shirt dancing to the melodic ping of the till like church bells on a wedding day. Across the road the New Inn had a giant parasol that look as if, come a high wind, it might fly to Baildon Moor unassisted. Next door the loyal customers of Towngate poured out of the door clutching the catch of the day.
As ever, come fair or foul weather, Suicide Hill was full value for entertainment as, somehow, motoring carnage was avoided despite several near misses again and liberal uses of single finger greetings. And still they came sporting hastily dug out shorts and tee shirts, red arms and necks already on show under the brutal sun.
Inside the bar staff worked tirelessly to keep us all refreshed with Carly and Eloquent Ella toiling away.
The sun had dragged Tipper the Stripper across the border from his exile in LS28 back to find his roots. Desperate to top up his tan he’d ditched the Top Man jacket for a low cut tee shirt. If anybody needing reminding of how we dressed back in the 1990s here it was; Cloud Nine revisited.
Suddenly, Fat Lad arrived and plonked himself on the bench, almost capsizing the rest of us. He soon declared it far too warm and vanished to the comfort of a deserted Nob Ed Korna like a polar bear seeking an iceberg. Soon, even the perma-tanned Happy Days had had enough of the heat too.
The day after the golf tournament, local professional Dog Leg Dave dropped by with Miss Sixth Form 1979. As he automatically switched to golf talk mode, Miss Sixth Form consoled herself with the warm rays and a giant gin and tonic. There were worse days to be a golf widow and, as long as the glass was half-full, she could cope.
A sunny afternoon would not have been complete without the immaculate Trowel modelling the 2023 M&S pensioner’s range. A crisp linen shirt with shorts ironed to military standards, he set the pace again as Tipper the Stripper looked on enviously.
Leave a Reply