The final edition of The Trumpit is out in print and online today.
Some very sad news to begin the last Tales of this year as one of The Scruffy’s inimitable characters passed away in early November. For those of you unfortunate not to have met Mick “The Quiz” Cockroft, he was a feature of the various quiz nights for many years.
The Sunday events were always packed – until Covid came along – with so many characters.
In control of them all with his dry humour and dulcet tones was Mick who would stand by the ladies door with the archaic WW2 microphone and run the night with the control of a respected headteacher.
He controlled the antics of the inmates with humour and fairness as they sought to beg, borrow and steal answers to win the coveted gallon of ale.
He had grace, wit and intelligence and always enjoyed a word or two about the game of cricket. Above all, Mick was a gent; even if Covid halted the quizzes, it would just not be the same without him. Here is a tale I wrote in December 2013 – The Scalping of Mick the Mullett – which shows the man he was.
It was a super sensational night at The Scruffy last Sunday as Mick the Quiz was scalped in aid of Cancer Research, raising over £600 in the process and ridding himself of his prized mullet, atop his head since the Sixties. At last the rumours that it was a “rug” could be scotched.
The locals gathered early, some in hope of a free haircut, the rest as usual because they had nowhere else to go. Mick was sat in his usual seat looking more gloomy than usual.
Soon he was perched on a stool like a condemned man, wrapped in a smock as a few bemused hounds – canine not the local talent – looked up from the floor as Mick absorbed his last few minutes looking like a Bay City Rollers roadie.
With a last few comforting words from the crowd of well wishers – “get your nuts done and I’ll buy you a pint” – the whirr of the razors overtook a hushed silence, as even I’m A Celebrity was ignored by the motley mob.
High rolling Gary Tipper had thrown his generous donation – 15p – into the pot and offered to double this if Mick went “all the way”; several of us looked at Gary unsure what he meant but, fortunately, Mick was not to be tempted and Gary put his other 15p towards some more fake tan.
Twenty minutes later, with Mick looking more like Bamber Gascoigne than Woody from the Rollers, it was all over. Congratulations to Mick for a great effort.
Rest in peace Mick, you made us all smile mate.
As dark nights closed in, thoughts turned to the festive season in Nob Ed Korna with the annual Christmas jumper night out. Landlord Fagin had set the bar years ago with his festive suit and since then the competition had been fierce.
The destination of choice over the years has been Bingley so the local bouncers know when to expect several old men dressed in garish sweaters and ready to boogie on down at the local retro bar Mavericks until a twanged hamstring curtails the fun.
Looking further ahead plans are at a tentative stage to create a 2024 Tails From The Scruffy charity calendar with tasteful pictures of the very best of Nob Ed Korna manhood. Several locals have been sounded out to sign up.
Happy Days was amongst the first, delighted to show his all-year-round tan. Although suspicious at first, Brideshead is also up for it; “My good man you will need a bit of class amongst the riff-raff!”
Of course the idea is not new but the intention is purely to raise some well-needed funds for local good causes via the Bill Craven Community Fund. Money is tight and if we can help then it will all be worth it.
Negotiations continue with other possible participants; rumours that Fat Ping Pong has demanded a two-page spread – one per buttock – are wide of the mark. Fat Lad declined to comment.
At last the winter weather arrived with Miserable Monday as fog and rain gripped the neighbourhood. Seeking solace after a token dog walk, Suntan and I arrived with a bemused and soaked pooch at The Scruffy to be greeted by a wall of affluence in Nob Ed Korna, as a selection of the wealthiest people in Bradford huddled together.
The Guvnor was wrapped in his old CID leather jacket, moaning that the heating was not on and that he might have to go home and switch his own on. How could a man make his winter fuel allowance last?
Gentleman John was debonair as ever although still to reach the heady standards of The Trowel sporting another natty V-neck from his cashmere wardrobe. Young Geoffrey had ditched the summer gardening gear at last and the flies would have to chase someone else for a few months.
In the corner sat Brideshead a picture or aristocratic health, the Bertie Wooster look alive and well.
The door to The Scruffy was like a revolving presentation of those determined not to get mugged by the television and seek some real company. Young Bet was wheezing behind the bar as Greenfingers wandered in, the allotment no sanctuary for a while. This really was care in the community at its best.
As if to defy belief in came Big Al still wearing shorts, his gnarled old veins like Spaghetti Junction on tree trunk legs.
It was soon time for The Guvnor to bid farewell with a quick call to his long-suffering Christine: “You can put the heating on now love!” Young Geoffrey hobbled out too, a wink in the direction of Suntan, a skip in his step, a song in the air.
We sat there grateful like many up and down the country for the great British pub. Where else can a miserable old day turn so quickly into a few hours of warmth, fun and simple good company?
Finally, Brideshead retired to his manor after instructing his butler to switch on the fires and run a bath, having been sat with the local misfits for several hours.
Enjoy and support your local this Christmas and thanks for reading Tales From The Scruffy.
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