Taken from this month’s edition of The Trumpit – read it online here.
It was almost the first Thirsty Thursday of May as I found myself unable to resist the charms of The Scruffy. It had been a long afternoon labouring for Gangmaster Greenfingers on the community farm, otherwise known as Boris’s Backyard. We’d endured a couple of harsh, near-Siberian weeks and little was tempted to poke heads above the dry, dusty land.
And yet there are always jobs to do with a chance meeting with a local tree surgeon solving the big issue of a lack of tree bark. Our promised free delivery arrived courtesy of Karl and West Yorkshire Tree Management; as true Yorkshiremen, we lapped up this freebie. Several barrowloads later and with new pathways akin to plush Axminster, beers were well deserved.
Our new barmaid had survived another week and the place was buzzing. Deciding to retain blue-collar status – stink now, shower later – I wandered in. The sprightly veteran gardener Evergreen looked startled. “Are you trying to look like me?” he asked, Jordan-like tan coating his outdoor skin.
As the flies followed me to my seat, it was a pleasure to join the Mini-Mes with Mr Mini Me – several times retired – clad in similar gear. Mrs Me claimed that the smell of musty earth was all she needed; Mr Me smiled nervously and worried that his old back may not make it through the night.
Eventually Gangmaster Greenfingers arrived having necked a few secret tinnies on the plot whilst admiring the new freshly shaven carpet. Meanwhile, The Scruffy’s Judith Chalmers – Suntan Sally – was hacking all and sundry off with tales of her fifth holiday to date this year and a sure thing for Idle Travel Customer of the Year.
Come the following night, I arrived late but suited and booted having said goodbye to a surely irreplaceable lady the other side of the Pennines. Rest well old gal. Evergreen was still dressed like a tramp and, with Fat Ping Pong and Sawdust Dave in attendance, standards were far from Saville Row.
The Nob Eds were in full flow, competition the name of the game. You may have to read the following a few times to believe it. Apparently, reigning champion, Happy Days, was being challenged by Tattoo Man, egged on by a vocal (pissed) Lady Jayne. To do what you may well ask? The challenge was to place the most number of peanuts in a single Quaver crisp. We all looked on incredulous. As war raged in Eastern Europe, man still took on man in a little pub in Idle.
We were treated to a visit from the retired Four Quarters, come to haul her dad – Fat Lad – out and home. The rotund regular was at pains to point out that he was an official observer of the attempt by Happy Days to break the world record. With a shake of her head, young Four Quarters turned on her heels and left the building. Meanwhile, with the concentration of a jet fighter, Happy Days loaded up fourteen peanuts as Fat Lad duly rang the Guinness Book of Records.
It was the end of a long week and the day I realised Bradford was eternally doomed. Hapless Hinchcliffe, the worst council leader in living memory, had actually increased her power base, whilst Boris, the worst Prime Minister in living memory, probably wondered how he could afford so many kids on the dole. I needed The Scruffy badly.
I was sat between Fat Lad’s dad Ronnie Sparrow and Gentleman John – 160 years plus of wisdom and rich memories – all I needed was The Kray Twins. It was time to sip and listen as the boys recounted glorious times gone by before they faded away for good.
In came the sprightly Best Dressed Man in Idle, still working at seventy-five to feed his habit for designer labels. The Trowel’s kangaroo leather moccasins shone like beacons, the creases in his trousers sharp enough to shave with. His all-year-round tan had been topped up down at the new tanning salon in the village and he was ready to party.
Meanwhile, Fat Lad sat as contented as the cat that got the cream. Another week working down south and it was good to be back amongst the real people.
Strangely there was no sight of Happy Days nor Mr Dead; had tragedy struck the inseparable duo? To shared relied, not least Fagin the Landlord, the profitable duo finally arrived having been on a date night to the golf club. Soon they were waxing lyrical about balls, shafts and swings; it was time to go home before I got really teed off.
The following week I opted out of Thirsty Thursday to visit the bright lights of Leeds. After a night of over-priced crap beer, I was happy as a sand boy to be back in the comforting bosom of The Scruffy. Soon Greenfingers rolled in, opting to maintain his trademark allotment look, closely followed by Fag Ash Lil and Boy Band. Fag Ash was halfway down her first pint of Coors before Boy Band had actually sat down. It was like watching the female version of Big Al.
Then, to the delight of several, she proceeded to expertly roll her own with numerous exotic twists of tobacco between her skilled fingers before seductively placing the finished product between her lips as if she was Marlene Dietrich. The locals sat agog at this sensual dexterity as Fag Ash cuffed Boy Band on the head and said “Outside now…am gagging for one!” And off she wheezed.
Young Dizzy, newly promoted to Maître D following the mysterious disappearance of Our Jackie, was marshalling the new staff like a veteran general. Landlord Fagin sat engrossed with his mobile as ever. Our Jackie had recently campaigned for a chair-lift up the High Street but sadly this was rejected. In a huff, rumour has it she has upped sticks and joined Al -Qaeda.
In came the perma-tanned White Bear Golf Society Chief Hacker, Dog Leg Dave, with his glamorous wife voted Miss Sixth Form Hanson School 1979. She still looked glowing even in her dotage in a smart summer dress – even Greenfingers tucked his tee-shirt in. As Dog Leg recounted his latest round, shot by shot, Miss Sixth Form 1979 cradled her gin, closed her eyes and drifted away.
The end of another week arrived and, expecting The Scruffy to still be rammed full, I was pleasantly surprised to find it near deserted save for new barmaid Cher and Dizzy plus a gloomy looking Fagin. There was no need to stare anybody out until “our corner” became free. A recent court case had decreed that calling anybody bald was now sex discrimination. I looked at my four pals who could barely muster one full head of hair between them; it looked like a long night. Soon we would have nothing left to talk about that had not been banned.
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