“Its inhabitants are, as the man once said, ‘whores, pimps, gamblers, and sons of bitches,’ by which he meant everybody. Had the man looked through another peephole he might have said, ‘saints and angels and martyrs and holy men,’ and he would have meant the same thing.” John Steinbeck, Cannery Row.
The August edition is online now and out in print tomorrow.
Last month began with football still trying to find its way home. With the streets full of fat lads never having kicked a ball in their lives dressed in £115 replica shirts, all was well. I needed a trade and this necessitated a trip to The Scruffy as I had form here.
Many years ago, having left home some seven years, the time had come to invest in a washing machine, rendering my Mum redundant after three decades of loyal toil. Ignoring Comet (remember them?) and Currys, I chose The Scruffy via my Dad’s mate Bruno. A price comparison check wouldn’t have put Bruno in a good light but a gallon of Tetleys and the fact that AO.com did not exist won the day.
I bought a five-year-old Hotpoint that, whilst it had numerous settings, operated on ‘G’ quite happily for the next five years. My cat Gladstone and I sat on the kitchen floor intrigued as it churned its first offering a few nights later; entertainment was in short supply back then. Naturally enough, whilst conceding that The Scruffy had yet to register on Trust Pilot, when in need of a tree surgeon where else to look?
The Idle Chainsaw Massacre
In possession of a badly neglected Cherry Blossom I needed help, albeit not the kind the dimwits from Bradford Council’s Chainsaw Massacre Dept had inflicted several years ago to a similar tree on our street. The Scruffy has more resident gardeners than The Chelsea Flower Show; surely it would be easy to find my man (or woman or not sure still). The Idle Conservation Area Plan 2007 (must get out more) noted that my tree was of historical interest; why,
I had no idea but if this prevented the yellow-jacketed buffoons returning then good news.
So I began to ask around for expertise and it appeared that only one man was suitable – Young Geoffrey, aged 73. Happy Days and Mr Dead were insistent he would be up my tree faster than Tarzan. Having played in the same football team several decades back when Young Geoffrey had cut an athletic figure, I had cause to rethink. However, I decided to pursue this; he was cheap and death in service benefits would be modest.
After asking “who are you?” he appeared up for the task and promptly clubbed my number into his faithful Nokia under “Young Boy”. I smiled wistfully and remembered the simpler, more gentle days of Nokia World when life was kinder, nicer and most definitely smarter for it.
Splendid Isolation
The following day after hard slog on my vegetable plot, a roaring thirst sought reward. With seats in Nob Ed Korna reserved for the football and trading at a fortune on the Black Market – via local ticket tout Our Jackie – I was cast out to the far corner to sit in self-isolation. Smouldering Sue was behind the bar strangely bling free as Four Quarters took my order, smiling again after having been mentioned in last month’s edition. As the Korna filled up, I drew my notebook from behind the bar, instantly inducing the giant figure of The Guvnor to my side.
Thinking he was seeking his monthly protection fee I offered him a pint of Carling but he had simply come to chat. I sat and listened to this wise old man, whose eyes had seen far more than I could imagine. As kick-off neared we were joined by Fat Lad offering homemade scotch eggs; with Red Bricks also in attendance. I felt like I was in the company of The Three Wise Men. Never had I tasted a scotch egg like it; you could keep the gold and frankincense.
Thanking the three for their company as the pub filed with yet more bulging replica shirts, it was time to make my way and find my manger.
Sunday night came and, having spent the whole weekend at The Scruffy it seemed fitting to end it there too. At least there would be no football. Patch turned up late desperately trying to maintain the impression of being a busy man after mucking about on a golf course for hours just to get away from the wife and kid, aged 22.
Food, Glorious Food
It was a quiet night but, as ever, a contentious subject arose; what was good food? Our landlord Michael suggested that gammon and parsley sauce was a perfect combination. Patch was quick to offer pie and peas with tomato ketchup as our lone barmaid Florence, looked on aghast. It was no wonder Britain is in the grip of an obesity crisis. Five Pints offered poached egg on toast with Branston pickle – could a night get any more diverse? Forget GB News, this is where real issues get sorted.
As I offered scrambled eggs and salad cream, finally Florence entered the game with cheese and jam sandwiches; the young have so many issues these days. Big Al, our healthy living guru, suggested that mackerel, a super food, had given him gout, notwithstanding decades of alcohol and takeaway food abuse. At this point several of us departed to the toilets to check the claims of Tena For Men.
It was left to landlady Sara to claim the dual benefits of a cheese and onion pasty in a teacake because “crumbs don’t fall down your cleavage!”
And then the darkness descended again. Having abstained for a whole five days, it was Scruffy time. Giddily I bounced up the road only to find a notice on the door – Outdoor Service Only.
The realities of this awful disease had left staff in short supply dragging veteran Young Bet out of retirement. Every table was packed, would the weather Gods pity us? Young Bet looked about to collapse.
Dark Clouds
The executive boxes were fully occupied by the Nob Eds as they looked down on the rest of us, shaded from the sun, fanned by a barmaid, their every whim catered for. It was surreal; all they were short of were togas and golden coronas adorning their heads. There must have been a night of the long knives as The Guvnor sat cast out like an ageing lion from the pack with his sidekick The Trowel looking miserable. Fatimus Ladimus was feeding the poor with scraps of his black pudding scotch eggs as they hailed the new Caesar.
The Scruffy then had to close for a week despite Boris proclaiming all was well again, save for England and penalty shoot-outs. On the hottest weekend of the year, the Nob Eds sought asylum at the New Inn after a dangerous crossing of the main road, the only sinking being numerous pints. As we reconvened, Uncle Andy was absent once more, his mental health unable to bear yet more golf talk; I put my earplugs in, desperate for a creamy pint of Black Sheep.
It turned out that little had changed during our week of absence which had been rehab of sorts for Five Pints, no longer Five Nights. Big Al confessed the wrapping had yet to be taken of his new oven as neither him nor Luckless had a clue how to work it. The local takeaways praised their respective Gods for the bounty that would keep giving.
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