Out today and online at https://www.thetrumpit.com/
There is something about Thirsty Thursdays that sets them apart from the rest of the week. Perhaps it is the knowledge that the weekend is in touching distance, though having abandoned nine-to-five over a decade ago, that may sound rich. Maybe it is the fact that the regulars are never quite as predictable as other nights? Regardless, I had a debt to settle.
Several weeks ago I had discovered that Happy Days had hidden talents, notably regarding watch batteries. Having told him how much Timpson’s charge, he smiled his golf-tan smile and said: “Bring your watch to me.” And so I did and for the price of a pint it was fixed. “Spread the word…I do other types of batteries too…get my drift?” he said.
Meanwhile, The Scruffy’s equivalent of Last of the Summer Wine were in situ having been on another afternoon session. The Guvnor was looking forward to a week in Malta at the annual crooked cops convention but had refused Wisey’s pleadings to take him along as an example of a reformed villain.
Wisey was in full flow telling the tale of an old mate called Bruce who liked a tipple but always had a regular response when asked if he had had too many. Having watched him stagger up the High Street bouncing off cars and shop fronts with regularity, Wisey asked him if he was p*ssed. “Not yet!” replied the old boy as he continued on his way.
Accompanying the gruesome twosome was the debonair Trowel this particular night choosing a lemon sweater with matching socks and shoe laces. In contrast, Greenfingers strolled in having been asleep on the allotment all afternoon after a few John Smith chasers smelling of John Innes, followed by his lad Bellend.
The lad was sporting a trendy tee shirt with Jack & Jones emblazoned on the front. This caused a stir as many of us remembered Jack Jones, an American crooner who, as I remember well, my Mum adored. Working at St George’s Hall back in the day, she would get all excited at the mention of another concert by the tanned vocalist. “Eee that lad could melt my ice cream tray well before t’interval! And plenty more!”
Wisey would not believe this so grabbed his phone and asked Google: “’oo iz Jak Jones?” The phone tried to align itself to the booze addled request and spun and spun and spun. Frustrated by the lack of a response, Wisey tried again: “’oo iz ****ing Jak Jones?” Again Google did not seem to have the technical capacity to understand the unique Bradford pensioner out on the pop dialect.
Meanwhile, Suntan Sally was in to show off her recent tan and looked concerned pointing a wrinkly finger my way. “You look like you have lost weight” she said. I tried to point out that sat between Greenfingers, The Guvnor and Wisey would make anyone look anorexic.
The Guvnor was off to the bar again and asked Wisey a really stupid question: “Do you want another?” No words were needed in reply for which the still spinning Google was very grateful. A rueful Guvnor returned and observed: “It’s like offering strawberries to an elephant! Will you have had enough after that?” Wisey looked him almost dead in the eye.
“Not yet!”
As the country lit bonfires in tribute to Her Majesty – and the rest of the city of culture lit them in continued good faith in the insurance industry – at last the sun came out. A local cricket club held their annual golf day and invited past legends such as Sweeney Mick and Mini Me.
Although the day had started overcast, despite decades of Saturday afternoons chasing leather, Sweeney had been caught out. Due to his undercover work with CIA and MI5 we are only allowed to show the above. Anymore and he threatened me with a “hit”.
It had not been a good day all round as he confided in me that every bit of his body ached. That said, having shared a dressing room with him over twenty years ago, if he had been a racehorse, we would have shot him way back then. His old mentor – The Guvnor – was quick with the sympathy: “You daft old t**t!” he said. ”Go get me a pint, you need to keep moving.”
Typical of sporting circles, there was little sympathy forthcoming with somebody else suggesting he could have a new career as a street lamp. It was the school of hard knocks; Sweeney Mick had little choice but to take yet more fire.
Meanwhile, shock of the night arrived soon after. Greenfingers had actually had a bath, ditched the Greenham Common look and arrived sporting a natty checked shirt, smart jeans and a whiff of eau de anything but the allotment.
The ladies turned heads admiringly as he coolly strutted to the bar and ordered a typically smooth John Smith’s Smooth. New lass Ella even looked confused. “Aren’t you the scruffy gardener?”
Fag Ash Lill looked him up and down and then clipped her man Boy Band around the head. “Time to get you to JD for a new trackie top!”
Away from The Scruffy and a damsel in distress – Suntan – was in need of assistance. Her new birdbox had been taken over by squatters in the form of a wasp colony. In desperation she had tried spraying them with bulk supplies of Super Drug Ambre Solaire but they were unmoved.
Turning to her best mate Mr Shifter – “let us take the strain of moving you” – she was confident she had her Knight in shining armour.
Mr Shifter’s tactic was to attempt to suffocate the offenders with a bin bag. No sooner had he tied the bag over the birdbox, than the squatters forced themselves out of the flimsy plastic and were showing their contempt for this initial attempt by divebombing him. Suntan vowed to never buy discount bin bags ever again.
A resourceful Mr Shifter was on to plan number two, this time dunking the box and bin bag in a bucket of water. Unfortunately, he’d forgotten that he had punctured the base of the same bucket several years ago and out poured even angrier wasps.
Undeterred he vanished leaving Suntan trapped inside on one of the hottest days of the year as the wasps peppered her patio windows. This time he returned with a giant can of WD40 which succeeded in only making the wasps fly faster. It was time to lie down.
The moral of this story? Always call an expert – see page 21 – and if you are moving house and you have a wasps nest Mr Shifter is sleeping.
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