This months edition is out next Monday; you can find the edition on The Trumpit website here.
Our regular group were almost in tears as we gathered for Sunday prayers at the spiritual home for the first time in months. So imagine the shock as we entered to see our favourite corner with “other” people sat there? It might not have been too bad had it been The Fishermen; we would have scowled at them with great pleasure.
As it was, the young couple must have sensed it was home time and, in a flash, off across the floor we scurried leaving Florence to clean the vacated table she had just cleaned, muttering under her breath “silly old farts!”
After months playing away, the evening stuttered as we searched for an old familiar flow; not even the drone of golf talk could fill the silences. Big Al got us going by announcing that he was “going to get fit… again”. None of us could recall when he was fit for anything. Was it really New Years Eve so soon?
The installation of Luckless Linda plus a new dishwasher and oven – his first working one since Tony Blair was PM – would push his change of lifestyle. The local takeaways would be pleased to get their trays back so pristine. Loved-up Luckless was moving in and it was time for a new start he declared as he necked a Pravha, licked his lips and presented the empty glass to the ever-patient Florence.
As things edged back to a kind of normality, The Trumpit was out and there was no hiding place from those feeling “slighted”. Young Four Quarters had an almighty pout. “Why arrn’t I in ‘Trumpit when she is?” pointing to the picture of Our Jackie. The sulk lasted all month so a truce is sought with this inclusion.
The Guvnors was irritated too, about his son, Red Bricks, a local estate agent. “’Ere lad. How come every agent in Bradford’s on the front of this rag and only you drink ‘ere?” he asked brandishing a copy of the offending “rag”. He was referring to last months cover by local paparazzi Tom Gadd which was a fair impression of a local Zoopla guide.
Red Bricks, The Scruffys resident Phil Spencer, looked ashen “We can’t compete with the Armani set down the hill.” The Guvnor was not impressed as Red Bricks looked on sullen and began to consider a transfer request to any of the local property moguls called Martin or Martin or Martin & Co.
Finally, hot weather arrived to set the tills jingle-jangling as cash came pouring like the rain in May. Tropical Tim was all a dither unable to choose which shirt matched which flip-flops. Meanwhile, the end of a different season had another meaning as Five Pints went off the rails. I received a text from Mission Control; Five Pints? At this rate it’ll be Five Nights! Send him home…if he can find it! Our token ginger – for diversity – skulked home.
Uncle Andy also had a new excuse of “I’m just off to the allotment to water the crops love!” Translated this meant: “A quick bucket and across for a cold one!” He was celebrating six years since leaving the fire brigade. We thanked the gods for six months without a “when I was in the fire brigade” story but we knew one was coming especially with the new BBC “reality” series on West Yorkshire lasting several weeks. It was time to consider Stella Artois as an alternative vaccine.
The following weekend the sun had finally got his hat on. I’d chosen the hottest day of the year to walk from Idle to our economic twin Ilkley in the company of two fellow slurpers. The views from atop the moors were spectacular. Marsy, so typical of the youth, had a variety of gadgets to tell us how fast we were walking and how far. It was a good job we lasted longer than the gadgets which gave out well before the descent to Olicana. A few beers served for lunch before the calling came.
The Scruffy beer garden was packed with tables jealously protected. Luckily, two old men, coaxed out from the cave-like Nob Ed Korna, had spare seats. Kneeling at his feet I asked The Guvnor for permission to share with his sidekick, the immaculate Trowel. In a flash Scruffy newbie and fast emerging wit and character, No Worries Tom, was on hand to take our order. The place was alive as was The New Inn across the road; it seemed all of BD10 was out with a queue to the tasty treats of Towngate Fisheries snaking down the hill.
The Trowel had opened his summer wardrobe, a double garage by all accounts. He was sockless with leather moccasins, lemon slacks and a shirt that Molly described as “me Dads old cricket shirt!” Young Geoffrey had arrived in a straw boater in fine form too, those bright blue eyes shimmering like the sun. “I’ve been punting down on the water!” he announced gaily. “On my gondola!”
The local Laurel & Hardy duo, friends since school days back in the Blitz, recalled a tale. Years ago, after a few beers, the taxi had delivered them home living nearby to each other up the steep Green Lane. The Trowel got out backwards but the pavement was like a toboggan run, coated with winter ice. Powerless, he began to slide backwards down the hill doing a good impression of a Michael Jackson Moondance. The Guvnor could not help for laughing as The Trowel eventually arrested his descent courtesy of a lamppost, hugging it like a drunken last dance. I swear I thought I was never going to stop laughing.
With no furlough for strippers, Tipper the Stripper had hit the Guinness, so bad he had come out in his pyjamas. The local was well and truly alive; it was a great sight to see and a wonderful place to be. Times are still tough though so please be patient if you have to wait a bit longer to get served or your favourite tipple has run out. Behind the scenes things remain difficult; be kind, please.
Finally, the lovely Octogenarians have not had a great run of luck recently with their health. From all at The Scruffy, to Robert and Sheila, a speedy return to better times. Your table is waiting for you – get well soon!
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