Taken from the new edition of The Trumpit out now and online too here.
The Scruffy was treated to a rare visit by one of its more illustrious old boys one recent Sunday afternoon. Now exiled up on the hill in Baildon, Dr David’s visits are as rare as a GP’s appointment but to be savoured nonetheless. A man of science, he would often find The Scruffy as the watering hole of choice for his beloved dogs – and himself – slipping out of the house at the end of a working day: “I’m off to walk the dogs love!”.
Of course, the love of his life – Old Feisty – knew where the old dog was going with his old dogs and she was always partial to a tipple too. Fortunately for Dr David, the dogs seemed to love The Scruffy every bit as he did, finding themselves curled up at his feet in a quiet corner with regular helpings of
Pepperoni sticks. The dogs were also very partial to beer; it was a perfect match.
He cut a rare figure often sat in Nob Ed Korna, observing the goings on with professorial detachment, as if studying wildlife on a scientific expedition. You knew that his presence did not mean he sought company and the copy of the T&A would be up like a roller shutter if you tried. It was always best to merely acknowledge his presence and find a seat somewhere else.
So it was great to see him wander in like a lost soul, back to his old stamping ground, if only to take a little look at the current comings and goings. Soon he would be away back up the hill; if only they had a Scruffy in Baildon!
In residence the same day was the Secret Millionaire, surrounded by several generations, sat there dapper as ever. As kids squealed around his feet, the local Arthur Daley surveyed the source of so many punters; life was good. Just as a calm was settling over the afternoon, in burst a very hungover Fag Ash Lil, dragged along by her mum’s excited hound.
In control of her new four-legged friend, she had been for a walk and, in keeping with many a tradition, somehow had ended up walking through the doors. It was a brief visit, the cold pint of Coors barely touching the glass as little as the bottom of the furry hybrid-on-a-lead on the carpet as she dragged it back home.
Finally, the sun came out; so too did Tropical Tim seeking a few pina coladas, his trusty walking flip-flops on and a garish Hawaiian shirt making most of us wish we had brought our sunglasses. However, it was Happy Days and Smiling Sue who were in holiday mode as the deepest tan in Bradford primed himself for an early morning flight to Portugal. Soon he was off through the revolving door, home to choose the pick of his luminous thongs.
This left Nob Ed Korna relatively deserted with only Lady Jayne and Tattoo Man left to hold the fort. Lady Jayne was sat there dreaming of the school holidays and an extended break as her man contemplated reaching the landmark of sixty.
Noting the absence of Nob Eds an instant meeting of the management was called as Fagin and Her Who Must Be Obeyed sat in deep discussion, flanked by loyal guard dogs Frank and Ralph.
Meanwhile, behind the bar, Eloquent Ella was in a bad mood, unhappy with a declined request for another photo inclusion in The Trumpit. Apparently, last month’s was “crap” and they always got another chance in Love Island. I waited till she finished pulling my pint before telling her that was her lot! It is always best to never offend the bar staff.
As the afternoon unravelled, in came 14 year-old Marley with his faithful owner to find a seat and curl up for an hour or so, the walk to The Scruffy a bit of an ask for the old boy. Bought on a whim, he’d been a loyal companion for a long time, possessing grey whiskers of rare wisdom. As the youthful HMRC approved guard dog Ralph looked up at the old boy excitedly, he simply rolled over, closed his eyes and snoozed away.
Later in the week I was charged with the care of Tilly the pampered pooch; what could possibly go wrong? As we sauntered towards the place of worship she paused for a “moment”. It was only at this stage that it dawned on me that I had ventured out without my pockets stuffed full of poo bags. This was a schoolboy error; I prayed it was a tiddle but nobody was listening upstairs.
Armed with only an Aldi tissue and a conscience, there was nothing I could do but gently enclose the steaming, offending item – it was a big one – with the frail tissue paper. A young couple walked past and looked as if they might need a wee too as I grimaced and commenced walking with my arm stretched out. This was not a good start to the night!
Eventually I found Big Al’s wheely bin and deposited the warm, soft pile with haste. I burst into the pub and handed Tilly to a sympathetic landlady as I rushed to the Gents hoping for the most fragrant of soaps. Soon I had my reward cooling my hand at last.
The sonic boom voice of the inimitable Fat Ping Pong filled the room. He was sat filling several seats in Nob Ed Korna, clearly having heard there was plenty of room of late.
Meanwhile, The Scruffy’s latest employee was enjoying his first shift. The youngest offspring of The Boilerman’s clan had been recruited as a glass collector and was clearly enjoying his new status. The Boilerman looked on with great pride as a cold Moretti hit the sweet spot. The lad would be paying his way at last!
It was another hot night and there was barely a table free outside so I was grateful for the offer of a seat with Mr and Mrs Intasun back from their latest holiday, tans immaculate. Tilly had already had enough of the drama and slid quietly under the table to escape the evening sun, the odd finger of beer accepted without question.
It was good to see Malcolm X sat in the corner as the President of the Idle Branch of The Jeremy Clarkson Fab Club. Bedecked in his summer denims, the old boy cut a cool figure, oblivious to the comings and goings, lost in his reading. Just as Dr David all those years before him, the comfort of a cold beer, a quiet corner and something to read were the simple pleasures of life to be treasured.
Leave a Reply