It was the first Sunday of a bleak start to the new year assembling in cyberspace for our weekly Zoom relief. We were back together again, with many tall tales to tell.
Oblivious to issues such as Boris Bubbles, Big Al had been relying on more than in an Aero bar to sustain his festivities. Remarkably, this serial avoider of healthy living had survived.
Our appointed Diversity Officer, he claimed he was simply honouring his extended family although none of them had thought to buy him any new curtains for Christmas. The lone retro pine pole hung in the background as he rocked in his chair, discarded beer bottles and crisp packets littering the room. His carer – the lovely Luckless Linda – had left in despair, fed up of picking bottle tops from her feet.
A “Chill” Wind Blows Across Bradford
Uncle Andy had feet issues too as wife Julie had taught him how to paint his toenails to alleviate the boredom. Clearly, another lockdown could be critical for our retired fire fighter. He’d been glued to his laptop all day for news of (another) mysterious fire in Bradford. It turned out that the old mill was a horticultural enterprise and most of the firemen had gone home high as kites.
Across at local entrepreneur Patch’s place, the festive bricks had come tumbling down. There he was sat morosely in the kitchen having bought a retarded new dog for the price of two weeks for us all in the Bahamas. The dog was being sent to special school the next day on the instructions of his lively young trophy wife Powla. Locked out of the marital bedroom as punishment for the dog’s failings, there he sat chewing on a sock for solace, much to our discomfort.
Our Technical Director (the only one who understands Zoom), Five Pints, was savouring his weekly escape from Girl Power. Sat with earpieces in, he was free from the incessant noise of Mission Control and the girls. Beers flowed and not even Sheffield United’s calamitous season could ruin Sunday nights.
As ever our conversation flowed like lost lovers reunited. Once we’d retraced Big Al’s steps across West Yorkshire to assist the NHS with the spread of the new variant of the virus, we discussed the topics of the day in earnest. Finally we got on to things we would change about life should we ever get back to normal. And that was it – we had been happy with normal, as unspectacular, unchanging, sometimes boring for it was normal and we liked it…and we really wanted it back.
Down At The Speakeasy
It had seemed an age since we had enjoyed the company of Nob Ed Korna and the inmates who populate a section of benches capable of far more intelligent debate than the famous green ones of SW1. What were they doing, bereft of the good company and the regular comings and goings of The Scruffy? I thought of the old spiritual home, it’s doors locked since November, the trusted old seats abandoned? Trade barriers may have gone up but goods continued to flow.
Contraband – eggs, honey and meat pies – are available weekly like a speakeasy back in the days of the Great Depression. A secret (text) message gets you access to Madam Ross and the time is arranged, access only, use the side door and make it quick. I swear the pies are the tastiest I have ever sampled, the eggs plump and the honey officially Made In Idle. Who could make a pie this good for less than the cost of a Cadbury’s Crème Egg?
At the door you are ushered in, papers checked, pausing to stop atop the steps if you dare, to draw deep intakes of breath, the aromas you yearn for. If only they made pillowcases scented from Black Sheep. A quick slap around the ears from the Madam and there she is hand out: “Gimme the dosh!”
Who Let The Dogs Out?
My eyes mist over imagining Nob Ed Korna bustling, full to the brim. Happy Days is holding court at the bar, a big wide grin, no matter how bad a round of golf he’s had. I can see Fat Lad – all of him – wedged into the corner surrounded by Mr Dead, Tattoo Man, Brideshead and so many more.
How would Brideshead be coping without his weekly rinse and set at Francinis? Other locals sit fascinated by this ritual gathering as beers flow, glasses clink and views are swapped liberally – all lives matter here.
“Oi!” shouts Madam Ross as I am suddenly brought back to the realities of lockdown and empty faucets. I shove the pies in my rucksack for the journey up to the wild lands of Wrose, a junior returning to suckle the old folks at the family nest. She grabs my few coins and pushes me, under protest, out through the side door into the afternoon light. I dare not look back for fear of blubbing uncontrollably. One fine day…
Led By The Science
I can bring news of other locals. It was good to hear that local lager lout, Budweiser Medley, struck down by the lurgy pre-Christmas, had defied medical science and made a full recovery. One up for the clinically obese I’d suggest! I’ve also spoke to my Friday night drinking pal, Gentleman John, the elder statesman of the village who thought he had seen it all after Hitler. He’s hunkering down until he gets the chance to crop a few heads and watch some cricket again. Roll on the summer and his pearls of wisdom.
As the weather turned nasty in January, Jet 2’s Customer of the Year, Tropical Tim, was still wandering the village in trademark shorts and flip-flops. I was also privileged to bump into local legend, Young Geoffrey, as he sat in his car outside Drakes the newsagents, signing copies of The Trumpit. Richard from Drakes had rung me to ask for more copies, a queue of old ladies outside the shop was stretching up to Martin Lonsdales. “Je suis un rock star!” said Young Geoffrey with a wink.
Housewives Riot
Out popped Martin Lonsdale after a quick shine of the shoes, a whoosh of Old Spice and Armani suit. He was handing out timeshare brochures to the ladies, stood like penguins flapping on a freezing ice floe. “Now then girls…had enough of the husband? How about a quickie divorce and a villa with a pool?” purred the local property tycoon. As the old girls contemplated swapping grumpy husbands for Costa Del Thackley, the local housewives choice continued to patiently sign on request but definitely no kisses!
For those of you who missed the picture – and the Kevin Keegan cut – here it is again. Soon it was time to go for there was work to be done and so our hero fired up his vintage Ford Granada Estate—The Golden Hearse—and booted it towards Thackley Corner.
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