The August edition is out in print and online Monday – see The Trumpit.com.
Here’s a taster from The Scruffy.
Last month’s edition had been well received largely down to the exclusive cover picture of canine celebrity, Frank. Owned by local entrepreneur Young Bet, I noticed on arrival at The Scruffy for the first Friday in July, her dogging van was parked outside, notable for its distinctive blue boy-racer wheels. She’d been called out of retirement again on the promise of yet another free polo shirt.
The feisty old gal had not lost her touch with her inimitable customer service well to the fore. “Wot u want?” she snarled. She was in good form and Eloquent Ella was also positively bouncing having had a first mention in The Trumpit. Today a local propaganda pamphlet, next Love Island!
Frank was perched on the knee of Giant Geordie who was charging a pint per celebrity paw print. He gazed lovingly at Young Bet. “Eeee, hinny. Ye looking propa bonny the neet.” In a flash she cooed back. “Are ye gannin’ oot on the lash the neet?” But he was content to sit at the bar nibbling his pork scratchings, basking in Frank’s shadow. “Roll on dinnertime, I’m propa clamming for me bait.” Frank sucked happily on a scratching.
The pub was heaving albeit sadly for the funeral party of Tropical Tim’s brother, another gone too young. Tropical had been in charge of the dress code so, as send-offs go, this was something different. Even for Tropical his choice of garish red beach shirt ensured a fun final swansong for his brother.
Meanwhile, landlord Fagin was nowhere to be seen as he prepared for his worst nightmare – exercise. He was taking part in the dragon boat race in Saltaire the day after and rumoured to be sat on a rowing machine upstairs, grinding out some metres…or watching Love Island with a Carling.
In other news, the genial Fat Lad has been expanding his culinary empire, Nob Ed Curries plc. Having sampled some I have to say I have rarely tasted anything better. Sensing this could be the start of something big, Greenfingers and I made an approach to become organic suppliers of choice from our shared allotment over in Forever Blue Land.
Appealing to Fat Lad’s environmental credentials – “think of the food miles…plus we’re cheap” – a deal was struck for us to supply key ingredients. All The Scruffy needs now is a care home in the car park with a link corridor to the bar. A waiting list is available.
Sunday night we regulars, those left from the halcyon days of the weekly quiz, gathered and waited for the afternoon drunks to depart. Our usual crowd was depleted as the golf-crazed Patch had taken his expensive young wife – Pampered Pawla – on a surprise golfing holiday to Florida.
It could only mean – D-I-V-O-R-C-E for Idle’s Lee Trevino.
In came the happy duo Max and Paddy, the latter our quiz host before the pandemic changed things more than we could imagine. Paddy was wearing his trademark shorts that would endure past autumn; only when the shorts found the Hotpoint could we consider it winter time again. Max got the beers in and dreamed of Paddy ever buying one.
As we settled down for a blissfully free golf night, the big screen lit up and The Scruffy became a Mecca for tennis. None of us had a clue who was playing as even the surviving Brit had more colonial roots than a BBC Diversity Committee. Suddenly a news flash turned up about a drunken middle-aged whipper called Pincher; as we sat safe in our much loved haven, outside in the real world, things were changing fast.
Following a failed attempt at a pest control sideline – see last issue – Mr Shifter had vanished to find the sun at his Mediterranean villa. Brits abroad!
Meanwhile, after a gloomy start to July, the sun finally burst through here and the Daily Express could re-hash the same headline it had been running since WW2 – HEATWAVE COMING! Sadly, Nob Ed Korna had a funeral to attend of a well-liked local. Out came the multi-purpose, three-in-one suits – births, deaths and desperate second attempts – as the sun beat down on a passable attempt at a Blues Brothers convention.
Inside the pub was almost empty, save for local easy rider, Malcolm X, happy as a sand boy for a quiet place to read and slurp a quiet pint. He’d announced his arrival to a packed beer garden on his 850cc Moto Guzzi with a throaty roar of the engines that shook the building. Hooded local scrotes buzzing around on their stolen lawn-mower-powered irritants had no answer to this king of the road.
Outside, pink faces squinted in the bright sunlight as the evening traffic contested the mean streets. Up Suicide Hill, bold as brass, came two young lads barely out of primary school, defiant mucky faces, riding bareback on two little ponies. They stopped outside Towngate Fisheries to peak inside, followed by a harem of teenage girls. Without a care they halted the traffic and crossed as if royalty followed meekly by their flock.
Sharing the mantlepiece with The Trumpit was the excellent Tyke Taverner so I grabbled a copy as ever. Flicking through I came across an article by Paul Davis.
He had been wandering in search of a good pint several weeks previously. Following a visit to the New Inn and a “rather raucous Sunday evening quiz” he found The Scruffy where “a much quieter atmosphere greets me.”
Paul goes on to describe “a friendly barman” which must have been Fagin or he had had far too many and confused new girl Cher. There was “witty banter from the customers” which can only have meant our sorry bunch given the time of night. Not a bad job this, going from pub to pub testing beers. If there are any situations vacant at the Tyke Taverner I can supply several CVs.
Of the many sun-worshippers at The Scruffy the heatwave was welcomed more than most by Intasun and his wife who were able to go a whole month without a holiday for the first time since D-Day and still look glowing.
Meanwhile, Evergreen and his glamorous ex-Hollywood actress wife Goldie, basked in the sunshine, his skin like an Gucci alligator handbag, after years of outdoor work. Inside Brideshead sweltered, his chubby pink cheeks running with beads of sweat, bemoaning the long gone days of a lost empire. “It’s no bloody good you know. Used to have a chap waft away at my feet to keep me cool. Can’t be having that now…blasted human rights!”
As the heatwave ceased, we regrouped in Nob Ed Korna having been scattered in the beer garden like Oklahoma seeds on the winds. Anticipating a long summer, The Trowel – Idle’s Best Dressed Pensioner – had commissioned his new wardrobe from Harvey Nicks. Luxurious cashmere sweaters, crisp linen shirts, smart cotton shorts and several pairs of espadrilles would all be in storage soon. He was gutted.
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