The latest edition of The Trumpit is out Monday in print and online here.
It was the first day of a new month and Spring was yet to spring. Local artisans, Fat Ping Pong and Sawdust Dave, had called it a day early and were seen sloping through the doors of The Scruffy.
Covered in dust they found a corner as landlady Sara carefully placed sheets around them as they sat flicking through the pages of the new edition, legal teams at the ready. Chester, the gender-confused attack dog was also in attendance as Fat Ping Pong had heard
The Scruffy was recruiting miniature, tax-efficient guard dogs. For now, he/she/it/who-gives-one was content to mount one of the many vacant stools.
A few hours later, The Scruffy’s new dance team assembled for a few calming drinks; it was week two of the dance classes across the road at the Con Club.
Happy Days had been out since four for a few “calmers”. I had considered the teacher’s promptings to practice what I had learned the previous week but the truth was I could not remember a thing. Besides, practicing would have felt like a condemned man wearing a noose all week.
It is fair to say goodwill from our fellow regulars was in short supply as Suntan threw back another wine to stop her feet from shaking. As if things could not get any worse, in came Idle’s Champion Dance Pair 1971, The Trowel and Jiving June. They had been on the sunbeds to top up their Lanzarote tans.
The Trowel’s moustache was trimmed and waxed, a mini David Niven, his suede dance shoes sporting glow-in-the-dark laces. Jiving June looked immaculate; the pros were in town. Meanwhile, Fag Ash Lil was on her sixth pint and lacking compassion as Greenfingers danced out of the doors in mock delight. It was time to face the music…and dance…sort of.
Thirsty Thursday offered a chance to review the previous night’s efforts. Luckily for him, Happy Days could barely remember walking home let alone “rock-step-step-step-step!” whilst the urbane Trowel was happy to offer extra tutorials as Suntan and I sat agog at his deft footwork. Our lovely barmaid, Eloquent Ella, could hardly contain herself as she watched the old boy do a fair impression of Fred Astaire.
Soon she would be Tenerife bound and free from caring for Nob ‘Eds for a whole week. For now, she tried to contain herself from an early visit to the ladies’ as the old boy schmoozed across the floor. As we urged Fagin to break house rules and stick on some music, fate played its curious hand.
Frank, our dwarf guard dog, had wet himself after a bag of crisps went pop and there was a warm pool settling on the lush Axminster. Fagin leapt to the rescue with a tea towel. As he placed it over the damp area, suddenly he found the rhythm that had infected the whole pub and his feet started to move as if guided by numbers.
Immediately, Fag Ash Lil hit the Coors glass with her Bic lighter to add a rumba tune as Boy Band hummed backing vocals in the background – we were truly jamming’! Fagin was moving and grooving like never before as the punters looked on in awe. Surely he would be joining us next week? All he needed was incontinent Frank and a tea towel. I looked at Suntan’s slumbering pampered pooch snoring contentedly and saw salvation at last.
The following Thirsty Thursday was a test of commitment for the Great British Pub Regular but with the budget only a week away, best not to miss an opportunity for a pint before we might be shafted again to tackle the national debt. However, with the snow coming down steadily and a blizzard forecast, an early start was also forecast.
Sadly, Young Bet had decided the trip down the hill from Wrose would be too treacherous for her many bodily ailments so we were treated to the rare sight of Fagin behind the bar as he had finally stopped dancing.
Predictably The Scruffy was like the Marie Celeste but soon Dog Leg Dave came in with his celebrity wife, Ms. Sixth Form 1979. There would be no hacking down the fairways this weekend no matter what the colour of his balls and a pint of the black stuff was small consolation. Dog Leg sat there morose.
Happy Days was not to be beaten by the weather as he arrived in his Putin-style hat. As he had already had the benefit of a few dance lessons, was he up for a Cossack routine? The answer was short, succinct and unprintable as he settled for the only routine he would get a ten for – a pint of Tetley’s. Soon the old place was buzzing as the snow continued to fall down.
We were joined by local paparazzi and Trumpit cover girl, Catherine Bell, so it was opportune to discuss her terms for the planned Scruffy Calendar 2024. “Who am I photographing?” she asked, aware that some element of male nudity would be called for. I nodded solemnly in the direction of several Nob Eds who had all indicated a willingness to doff off for a good cause. She winced visibly and replied: “I’ll need sick buckets and danger money!”
And with that, she vanished in a flash shaking her head, wondering how she had ever agreed to this and vowed to stop drinking.
There is a great line in a Billy Joel song – Piano Man – “as the regular crowd shuffled in…” And so it was, after a weekend dominated by the Irish with St Patrick’s Day followed by the Six Nations Grand Slam, life returned to normal at The Scruffy. Greenfingers had missed it all as the first shafts of spring sunshine had sent him scurrying to the greenhouse, the beginnings of a summer tan spreading on his balding head.
In rolled local character The Boilerman who confessed that he had been “on a mission to support the Irish and mothers of the world”. He arrived in his timeless green Mods parka sleeping and drinking jacket, his number one weapon against energy prices.
Three days on the lash in pursuit of these noble aims had taken its toll but there is never a dull moment when The Boilerman is out. The conversation ranged from cucumber shortages to Scottish independence to Desmond Dekker’s greatest hits. Find the link if you can.
Big Al sat in awe, back in his trademark shorts with British Summertime only a week away; would they be getting a spring clean? We said a silent prayer in hope. The wine diet seemed to be going well as he cleaned up a bottle of Chateau Scruffy with a satisfied smack of his lips.
Over in Portugal, Patch was enjoying a golfing holiday as his wife Pampered Pawla took up residence by the pool for a week; it was the perfect trade. Numerous shots of the little fat lad in golfing shorts under a baking sun were doing nothing for our collective morale.
It had been a good day for Five Pints as his beloved Sheffield United had reached the FA Cup semi-finals. How he could convince Mission Control to release the family budget for a Wembley trip was foremost. After all, it was only Man City!
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