The last edition of the year is out today in print and online – see www.thetrumpit.com
Thank you to everybody who has supported The Trumpit during the year.
Like all small businesses, The Scruffy stands or falls through the efforts of its staff. We are blessed with fabulous characters, like many other locals, full of Bradford warmth and wit to fill a glass. Had a bad day? Pull up a stool.
The Matriarch, Our Jackie, had a rough time during the pandemic, disrupted by a chocolate and gin diet – “They sed it would shed pounds!” she cried. Once she’d skip up the High Street like Idle’s Jane Fonda, now she crawls up the steep hill to work, puffing on a vape, like an old steam train hauling itself out of the Worth Valley.
Youth Policy
Sensibly, Michael and Sara have introduced youth into the staff squad this year although Four Quarters is rumoured to be a plant to spy on her dad, Fat Lad. The origin of the nickname is worth repeating. “I’ve run out of petrol!” she wailed one night. “What does it say on the dial?” asked a concerned Fat Lad, unusually sober. “It’s got four quarters on it!”
A recent addition has been Dizzy; when I asked what had attracted her to pub work she replied: “I wanted to study the kind of man that I need to avoid for the rest of my life!” A furtive glance towards Nob Ed Korna explained all. Sadly, we lost Florence only recently, off to teach primary school kids instead of caring for special needs adults.
Thirsty Thursdays – The Weekend Starts Here
At this busy time of the year it’s a good time to reflect that some of the best nights are when the pub is near deserted. The wit is of the last hours on The Titanic mode. My personal favourite is Thirsty Thursday as a collection of elder statesmen and community leaders gather in Nob Ed Korna.
My old pal Molly will often text me in residence, not for long; I think his wife has a tracker fixed to him. One particular night, I was making a trip across town for my flu jab, albeit soon into my trip, the flu looked a safer gamble. By the time I arrived Molly was gone, back to Guantanamo Bay. However, Young Geoffrey, with more stories than Mills & Boon, was in attendance and all was well.
Downtown
So too was Sweeney Mick, a close confidante of The Guvnor from the good old villain-bashing days, now drinking with the villains. One of them, Wisey, looking like Compo from Last of the Summer Wine, sat on the coveted benches, having been on the town with The Guvnor and the immaculate Trowel.
They’d been to Bradford for the afternoon. I asked The Guvnor how it had been: “Full of ****ing lepers!” he said, a comment unlikely to make it to Trip Advisor.
He was sporting a pair of natty Rupert Bear trousers and The Trowel matching orange laces and socks. I was amazed they had not been lynched. Meanwhile Wisey sat with his flies halfway, happy as could be. As the two tried to figure out a way to sneak home quietly, Wisey was plotting an all-night tour of the village.
Roll Call
In came Greenfingers, Happy Days and Mr Dead; all would find the place blindfolded in a sandstorm. Even JCB, with beany hat fixed to his shiny head, made a guest appearance, absent for so long but very welcome back.
Eventually, the two old pals left, The Guvnor bemoaning the steep hill home despite Gleeson Degeneration’s – seeking to build 45 houses – claiming this as prime cycling and walking territory. In the far corner, regular soak Suntan Sally was sporting a black bear fur as ageing Hells Angel, Malcolm X departed with his still unfinished Jeremy Clarkson book. It was time to go before Wisey lured me onto the darkside.
Sunday Prayers
Despite not being mentioned in the CAMRA Good Beer Guide 2022, our loyalties were not in question as we met for our usual Sunday night self-help session. Big Al was still wearing the same stained shorts that had seen him through the summer but landlord Michael was grateful to see the predictable arrival of his lumbering giant cash machine.
Patch was in holiday mode. Even though he hates the sun, Pampered Pawla had convinced (ordered) him to take a week in Fuerteventura. Desperate to look good for the beach, he had a plan.
“I’ve bought a Manscape package!” he announced to our shared bewilderment; apparently this is an array of hair removal tools. I could not escape the thought of Patch oiled and de-haired like a Christmas turkey. He leant forwards and whispered; “It makes me look bigger!” I nearly dropped my pint as Five Pints went pale. As did Patch’s daughter, slowly shaking her head in disbelief.
Poetry Corner
It was left to Uncle Andy, himself in the presence of his daughter and her new bloke, a Welshman at that. We focused on avoiding casual references to sheep to add to lazy BBC stereotypes of Yorkshiremen. Uncle Andy had found poetry to express the ebb and flow of a Sunday at The Scruffy.
Golf, golf, golf,! Driver, putter and wedge!
Golf, golf, golf! Sometimes we talk about veg!
He looked at us all expectantly for a round of applause, got none and so skulked off to the bar for another type of round.
In With The In Crowd
After a long week of people ripping themselves apart over ancient texts and fancy dress parties, it was a pleasure to seek wise and ancient company as Friday called. The debonair Gentleman John soon rolled though the doors, a last bastion of common sense, not purchased by the lawyers. Not so wise was a dust covered Fat Ping Pong the Plasterer with his sidekick, Sawdust Dave.
Over in Grafter’s Corner sat the yellow jacketed brigade, tucking into numerous pints of Moretti before the bell tolled and wives called. In Nob Ed’s Korna sat Fat Lad, arms crossed like Marlon Brando in Apocalypse Now, surrounded by his acolytes. Back with Fat Ping Pong, his faithful farting Jack Russell, Chester, was starting to have an impression. With impeccable timing, the diminutive Lord and Lady Gadd arrived to complement the miniature fart machine.
Young Geoffrey was soon relating many a tale, a veteran of many communal baths and lost bars of soap. By this time the Putin-like presence of Four Quarters had arrived, her umpteenth change of hair colour for the month, to see if Fat Lad was on his way home. Fat chance of that!
Goodnight, Goodnight!
It was time to go, despite a late debating subject of what was the best sauce for fish fingers. Narrowly, and not of editorial choice, tomato ketchup won the day. Bravely, Greenfingers hopped across to Towngate Fisheries to research the theory, scuttling off home with the catch of the day.
My personal thanks here to the extensive cast of Tales From The Scruffy for allowing me to gently rib most of you from time to time. We are so lucky to have such a fantastic local
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