Our November edition is out today and, although several of our great locals may not be attempting Carling sandwiches to stay open, I hope you can find a copy out there. Here are more Tales From The Scruffy.
Publication day for The Trumpit always excites me; I know…its only a free rag…but allow me. As I walk through the doors of The Scruffy, I never know what to expect; perhaps a writ or maybe the directions to the Idle Draper and asylum. Awaiting are some sharp dressed old boys, not least the immaculate Trowel. Gentleman John wears a mean cardigan and even Greenfingers has ditched the I slept in the shed look.
Sat savouring the cool, refreshing first pint of the night I heard the unmistakable thunder of Porky Ping Pong The Plasterer. “Bloody ‘ell did you pour the bottle over you?” he asked referring to my generous use of L’eau Dissey Miyake. I looked around at the dust covered blob behind me whose claim to fame is as the “best ever table tennis player Idle has ever had!”
There was no stopping him now, in full-throttle moan mode. “Michael, this buffet is not giving me any comfort!” Our ever patient host gave him a look easily translated into “you look like you have enough padding!” Ping Pong moved off beaten to the gents, a cloud of plaster dust peppering the locals.
News of President Trump’s hospitalisation the same day may have shaken the US Stock Markets, but there were worries closer to home. Rumours were circulating that The Guvnor was self-isolating, abstaining voluntarily through Stoptober. Would the temporary power vacuum cause a coup? I looked into the soulless dark eyes of Mr Dead for a clue but found nothing as he huddled in conspiracy with The Tattooed Man.
Like most locals, the staff and customers alike have all been doing their very best to comply with our new normal, our biggest fear being another lockdown depriving us of our wonderful locals. A strange structure had appeared outside the pub; I asked Michael if it was a new Nightingale Hospital. He consulted his Customer Care Guide and told me to “**** off!”
The following week was my Godson’s mum’s fiftieth. Having started the year with thoughts of a grand marquee, champagne and a glitter ball, there we were huddled together in a three-sided arctic wind tunnel.
It was the coldest night for some time but we were warmed by the presence of Idle exiles and Scruffy patrons, Doctor David and Old Feisty. They had made the trek down from Bradford-on-the-Hill (Baildon) to slum it with us as our birthday girl shivered and wondered if she would see the next birthday.
Inside, the regulars sat in toasty warmth ignoring our pleas for a rota. Back outside, landlady Sara sprang into action fearing several more C19 deaths—underlying health condition: frostbite. Out she came with a heat source as she plugged in her upright face tanning lamp; I swear we would have been better off huddled around a candle.
Harry my Godson, by now swathed in all forms of extra layers, declared if this was what drink did to you he was teetotal for life. Old Feisty was having none of it, brimming with life, fresh purple streaks amongst her grey, living proof you get dafter as you get older.
Mercifully, the night was over; we awoke Doctor David and bundled his shivering body into a taxi as Old Feisty slipped a couple of bottles into her bag for the trip home. If this was what Sleazy Blair had intended when his government introduced all-day drinking in search of a continental café culture, it was not catching on in these parts. My feet were like blocks of ice as I made one last trip to the loo; I swear I was so cold I nearly asked Fat Lad for a cuddle.
The Octogenarians are taking it all in the stride although Sheila is finding the closure of local nightclubs hard to bear. “What’s a Sunday night if you can’t dance till midnight?” she asked. Conversely, Robert seemed very grateful for Boris’s new house rules as he slurped his favourite tipple.
Meanwhile we made an effort to educate our young staff – Florence and Four Quarters – with some locally grown produce. Conscious of the fast food era, I’d brought in some newly pickled spring onions; my how we live it hard and fast on a Sunday night. Big Al, a mobile incinerator of junk food if ever there was one, turned his nose up instantly. “They’ll be no good for my guts” he said pointing to the giant mass above his stained shorts.
Four Quarters was looking quizzical. “Wot are they?” she asked, peering over Big Al bedecked in her mask (just in case Boris is reading). I explained and offered her one which she accepted. In a split second she’d almost blown her mask off as she sought a glass of water in a state of panic. It was as if we’d offered her poison; clearly, there was no hope left for this generation. Uncle Andy quietly munched away consuming the rest of the jar in a flash.
As regards the senior resident carers, Our Jackie has adopted a new look . “’Ere I’m not serving you until me picture’s in that rag ‘o yours again!” she boomed the other night. “What do you think about me new belly dancing look?” We looked up in shared dread, relieved to see there was no belly bursting from her new corporate polo shirt. If she was going for the Persian look it must have been the bank robber variety. As ever we chose to avoid conflict and kept heads down. On sale now are smart polo shirts and hoodies to ward off the winter chills.
The newly published Boris’s Good Beer Guide was consulted ahead of our march into Tier 2; as ever, the locals were creative. Gentleman John and The Trowel had opted for quickie divorces during the week after fifty years each of marriage and were now living over the shop. As the new village standard bearers for the old age LBGT community they had married in secret and were sat in the tent patiently awaiting a seat inside as a couple.
Young Geoffrey tried a different approach and had been found sat outside with a placard around his neck – “Please adopt me” – desperate to get inside out of the cold. A few locals tossed coins into his lap until Sara gave in as he was scaring customers away. Our new couple announced they had always wanted a son and, although he was 75, Young Geoffrey would do for now. Meanwhile, the rest of us sat shivering outside.
Michael T. Leahy says
Should that have read ” our march into Tier 3 ” ?
However now we are doomed to 4 more weeks lock down !
Brilliant piece, as ever.