Out today in print and online here.
The sun had definitely got his hat on for the first weekend of April; it was time for a few Sunday afternoon beers and the beer garden was full of hardy early types clad sensibly. Surely that meant there would be ample seating inside for the pampered pooch? Inside the old place was rammed; the only option was to ask Fat Lad to shift at least one buttock so all three of us could find a place. He grunted but amiably gave way.
Young Bet grabbed me by the collar before I could take my first sips. Apparently I had mistakenly blamed her pooch Frank for peeing all over the carpet in the last issue. Frank’s solicitors would be in touch or, if that did not work, Giant Geordie had been instructed to take me around the back and “give ‘im wot for, wy aye man!” Frank nodded in approvement as she finally let go of my throat. I made a mental note never to offend dog lovers ever again and was grateful that the big man seemed more interested in his pint of peace.
Having considered all offers for an ageing, rotund, slogger to come out of cricketing retirement, it was good to see that common sense had prevailed and Budweiser had not been tempted. There would be no more sightings of those mud-stained pads waddling to the middle halfway up Westfield Lane before trudging off having been bowled by an eleven year-old. It was best to leave whatever glorious innings were left in the memory bank. After a long, hard road with many a bowler’s heart broken by the famous cow shot it was time to burn the bat.
I spent the last weekend of my fifties at the twin pillars of much of my life – Bolton Villas Cricket Club and The Scruffy – the former the best kept secret around so far as local party venues go. Old Feisty and Dr David had ventured down the hill from their Baildon tax-haven and generously donated £50 to the Bill Craven Fund. The old gal had had new purple streaks through her hair and was as sparky as ever as Dr David surveyed the carnage and simply wished for his old corner in The Scruffy.
Big Al had put on his only pair of long pants to honour my coming of age as Patch fretted about throwing up on the first green the following morning. Even Fag Ash Lil and Boy Band turned up to swell the club coffers as memories flooded like the melodies from local club crooner Gary “Minty” Stokes. I swear, after six weeks of dance tutoring, we even cracked the odd move on the floor, alcohol assisted.
The day after required the only medicine in town – hair of the dog. We arrived to find The Scruffy rammed again, the till jingling like the church bells and Fagin rubbing his hands with glee. Star columnist, Auburn Em, was in with her mum Young Bet and made a solemn promise not to miss her homework – The Trumpit column – next month. In an act of “generosity”, Fagin pushed a full shot glass in front of me which was definitely not on my list of most wanted birthday gifts.
I stared at it for several minutes as Young Bet slavered at the prospect of necking it. There was no choice and down it went burning a path down my throat; I was getting too old for this.
The inmates ranged from the usual coffin dodgers to the new born as Fagin’s customer recruitment continued. The latest recruit to Nob Ed Korna was six-month old Ronnie Jack Sykes. His dad held him aloft, proud to offer him a first sight of this great seat of learning as several ladies cooed in unison. The young man looked on mystified; was this all there was to do on a Bank Holiday Sunday dad?
To lift the clientele, in came the dapper Secret Millionaire, having spent the morning hacking around the local moors with his new Ping clubs. He could barely believe his eyes as seats were at a premium. A quick tap on Fagin’s shoulder – “sort me a few of your best seats out old fellow” – did the trick aided by a slip of a crisp, folded note; soon he was in situ with the common people.
By now, Fat Lad had been “on it” for a few hours and was keen to share a range of opinions on life in general before his beloved Gertrude came to rescue him. The trouble was I could not make out a word he said and lip reading was pointless after a dozen pints of Carling. I looked for help from his old mate Happy Days but he just sat there arms outstretched in a helpless gesture. Fortunately, Gertrude came through the door just in time, resisted her man’s offer of “one more love” and escorted eighteen stone out of the door.
Young Bet was in full swing and, with mum Brenda celebrating her eighty-third birthday, three generations lined up a tray of shots and necked them without a second look. Bet wiped her lips on her latest tattoo, looked across at me and said “That’s how yer do it!” Giant Geordie and trusty hound Frank looked on in shared horror knowing the morning after would soon arrive and it would be a testing one. Best go for that long walk.
At the end of any week, one of the weekend treats is a visit to your local where great company, lively chat and a wide range of personalities inevitably await to relieve the daily stresses of life. Except that, come Friday, expecting to see Nob Ed Korna bursting with Nob Eds, there was an eerie silence with the seats as vacant as the House of Lords after morning check-in for attendance allowance and the subsidised parliamentary bars opening.
A solitary copy of The Trumpit sat abandoned like a relic from another age; was this what Armageddon would look like? Had there been a mass kidnapping of Nob Eds? It turned out that another cult – golf – was responsible. Thomas Bjørn, a professional Danish golfer who captained the winning European side at the 2018 Ryder Cup, was speaking at Boy Band’s club, Horsforth, and the Nob Eds had legged it up the road to listen to the great man’s advice. It was doubtful he had any titbits for teeing off after ten pints in Nob Ed Korna but they were willing to listen.
Finally, Fagin celebrates his fortieth birthday in May coinciding with him being at The Scruffy for half his life; prison may have been easier. Prior to becoming landlord he served behind the bar for nine years.
From all at The Scruffy thank you for all you do in pursuit of our well-being and happiness. Happy birthday to you!
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