The Trumpit will be out tomorrow in print and online. Here is this month’s sorry tale of the goings-on at a certain little pub.
Pubs up and down the country are full of the entrepreneurs who keep our country going. From builders to electricians to joiners and numerous other trades, where would we be without them?
To celebrate this huge and often under-valued body of people, it was suggested The Trumpit feature one or two on a more regular basis. On that note, I’m pleased to offer our first Trusted Trader hard at work on site. The photographer is now out of work and looking for anybody who might need a joiner with a keen eye for the unusual.
After recovering from this submission, it was another Friday night and the pub was rammed with people unable to afford sky-high energy costs and looking for warmth and shelter. The end of another working week was here and the collective sigh of relief was palpable. One of our new barmaids was in situ, cautiously eyeing up the numerous characters amassed once again, not sure what she had signed up for.
I made my way to a spare seat between the immaculate coiffured Brideshead and the ever welcoming, if perennially grumpy, Guvnor. “Is that seat available, Sir?” I asked the village elder. With his usual bonhomie he replied. “Must you?” And then his craggy old face lightened with a mischievous wink as he granted my request. The old boy was sporting a natty pair of Rupert Bear check trousers and his favourite WW2 leather jacket.
In wandered the dapper Gentleman John, sporting a brightly coloured Gillet; perhaps spring was finally here? The Guvnor was at the bar as his old pal made a beeline to the generous vacated space. “Tell that skinny old sod not to plonk his bony arse in my place!” The Gentleman pointed to his earpiece, feigned a look of confusion and duly plonked his bony arse in place.
As smart as the two old boys were turned out, like champion racehorses, alongside sat the working seaside donkeys. Fat Ping Pong was paying for another staff night out with Sawdust Dave in tow and the “rat on a lead”, Chester, the gender-confused dog.
Suddenly a sight rarely seen in The Scruffy occurred. Several beautifully dressed young women walked through the door. Jaws dropped in unison in Nob Ed Korna and I swear Fat Ping Pong’s belly swelled like a giant silverback, throwing off a cloud of plaster dust over the dazed inhabitants. Sawdust sat and gawped, mouth open, like a village idiot as the ladies quickly took stock.
In a flash they realised they had got off at the wrong stop and with a clickety-clack of several pairs of new heels, turned in unison and vanished as quick as they had arrived. A collective sigh of relief followed as life returned to normal. Our new barmaid had learnt as much as she needed in the space of a minute, so far as the inhabitants of Nob Ed Korna were concerned.
Brideshead was still a tad confused. “Were they girls that just came in old boy?” he asked, flicking a whisp of grey hair back into place, smoothing it down with spittle. “Can’t be having that can we” he smiled as his trembling public school hands gripped his pint like a long lost friend in a dark dormitory.
The month of April means one thing for golf geeks – Augusta and the US Masters. So it was that I was Billy No Masters, declining an offer from Patch to join “me and the chaps at the club”. Pulling my toenails out one by one with rusty pliers had more appeal.
I decided on a social experiment, an early Sunday beer, surely a quiet one as the sun had shone all day. If spring had sprung, nobody had told the inmates of Nob Ed Korna; what Vitamin D deficiency? The place was as crammed as Manchester City’s Etihad stadium for the meeting of the premier league giants. In the Korna a few other giants were in possession and flowing beautifully.
“If you ask Fat Lad to breath in you might get a seat” said Fagin the landlord. Recently both Brookey and Happy Days had reached the grand old age of sixty. It appeared the celebrations were still in full flow; many more happy years to you both.
I took the safe bet and secured a stool at the bar, forbidden territory in the heat of the pandemic, almost luxurious now. Suddenly I felt a jab on my shoulder and turned around to find the local dog walking entrepreneur glaring at me.
“Oi you – wot you wrote about me in that propaganda rag last month were not right!” she said, eyes already suggesting the dogs were on auto-pilot in the woods the next day. “You sed I’d retired from t’bar but I were injud! I’m back!” Intimidation of the free press over, she ordered a packet of onion rings and returned to Giant Geordie for a snog.
Behind the bar toiling away was another of Fagin’s new signings making her way with the complex needs of her new audience. In the Railway Carriage sat Tropical Tim who, given the weather, I had half-expected to be in his summer thong. Thankfully it was just the Hawaii Five-O shirt, garden shorts and flip-flops. Haute Couture a la Scruffy by the Master.
Outside a couple chanced the elements with a drink al fresco but the sun had long lost his hat; a blue face popped up at the window as fingerless mittens handed back two glasses and a cup of tea beckoned.
Sundays at The Scruffy has changed beyond recognition post pandemic, the late night quiz replaced by the afternoon crush. Competitive cerebral contemplation replaced by ye olde banter and clinking tankards. What had become of The Fishermen, Odd Couple and the world’s worst pub quiz team?
Fagin prowled from bar to Korna to bar, taking in his burgeoning empire as Director of Operations – The Fixer – necked another Coors, flush with his Aintree winnings. Should they unleash The Kid with another pocket emptying raffle? The suits at Heineken would be purring over the P&L the next morning. From my lofty perch I sat and watched as the revolving door continued at pace with the comings and goings of another passing weekend. No finer place to be.
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