When people sometimes ask where the “inspiration” comes from for Tales, I credit copious amounts of Black Sheep Bitter. But, like most would-be writers, I admit I stole the idea. It was a decade of watching the best US comedy ever – Cheers – that inspired me. Set in a Boston bar with the theme tune “Where everybody knows your name” it was all about what makes local bars so special.
Whilst there are similarities, Cheers bar was run by a six-foot plus hunk called Sam Malone. The Scruffy is run by a little fat lad called Michael. Equally, the feisty barmaid Carla, with her nasal Bostonian drawl and sharp wit could be Our Jackie, save for the gravelly Bradford voice and constantly lit vape. It is this wild mix of characters that keep us all attached to our favourites.
Consider Norm, a giant struggling accountant whose only devotion was to a running beer tap; I give you Big Al. Regardless of obvious similarities, every bar has its fixtures, without who a place would lose a part of its appeal. If they gave clocks for long-service at The Scruffy, it would be a big queue.
You can forget fads though. Whilst we have Happy Hour, most blatantly ignore it largely because of a devotion to shared misery. Those who indulge do so mostly on fiscal grounds, bulk-buying beers to circumvent the artificial time zone and come home 20p a pint better off. Who needs the stock market?
By and large we hope to roll up and find the odd kindred spirit at the end of whatever kind of day has passed. If your world has caved in on you, a few hours in Nob Ed Korna is like a cocktail of Ecstasy and Viagra. A man can walk out of the doors a few hours later reborn; or stay till the lights slowly dim and call Uber to take him to the Khyber Pass.
The arrival of each new edition is a nervy time; with never any intention to offend, people can be precious. Fortunately, Wisey was nowhere to be seen last month. Also notable by his absence was Big Al, back from two weeks in Skiathos and strangely no reason for Border Control to refuse re-entry. The Scruffy had done a trade deal, exchanging Tropical Tim and the long-suffering Julie, off to keep propping up the Greek island’s economy.
Local tycoon Patch had joined us awaiting first sight of his big tanned drunk mate until he received a shocking text. Not out tonight as knackered and baby-sitting. We stared at Patch’s phone and feared the worst – had Luckless Linda broken him at last?
In an instant one’s faith in the old order was restored, as the familiar lumbering gait wandered through the door in two-week-old shorts. He was sweating profusely and chained to a deranged hound. Breathlessly he explained. “I told Luckless he needed a walk . The ****er’s mad…dragged me round the park…I thought I was ’aving an ‘eart attack!” The hound was unimpressed, as it sought to mount a nearby conquest.
Meanwhile, several others – dogs not Nob Eds – became excitable. One on the end of an extending lead prompted Patch to say “he must think he’s flying a bloody kite!” Big Al downed his pint in a flash and vanished to the bar leaving his amorous charge bouncing like Tigger, his ardours calmed by Onion Rings.
Royalty Visits The Village
Earlier in the day I had seen a strange sight in the village. Initially I thought it was someone down on their luck, dressed in rags and sandals. Then he spoke in a whispered, if crisp, Old Etonian twang. “It’s me old chap…be a good fellow and don’t rumble me….I’ve gone undercover toff today!”
It was Brideshead who had ventured down into the village for a pint of milk to “a shop!” to sample “real people” leaving the Rolex collection at Brideshead Towers. As he hobbled off with a put-on limp and borrowed dog seeking the safety of Checkpoint Charlie – the mini-roundabout – I marvelled at the invention of the British aristocracy. Safe in The Scruffy with his minder The Guvnor, he winked at me. “Grateful old boy…bit of a jolly scrape eh? Bit like being back in the SAS!”
With the recent discovery of Happy Days as The Scruffy’s very own repair shop guru, I approached him with another challenge. My four-berth toaster was down to two, a spring not springing anymore. Being a keen conservationist, aka tight-wad, I was not keen on a replacement. Happy Days considered the issue. “You need a copy of the Bible!” he said. I looked at him puzzled why God should be bothered about my morning toast. “To hold the lever down” he explained.
“How do I know when it’s ready?” I asked not keen to set off a domestic fire courtesy of a burning Bible as my Mother would never believe my ending in those circumstances. “You don’t” he said. “Have you another suggestion?” I asked rapidly doubting his recent elevation to Isambard Kingdom Brunel status. “I have” he replied quickly before taking a sip of his pint “buy a new one! Happy days!”
Post lockdown, Sunday nights have been a quiet affair, the quiz yet to return, despite Mick the Quiz turning up dutifully each and every Sunday like a lost dog. A few weeks ago, Uncle Andy and I braced ourselves for the return from a golfing weekend of Big Al, Five Pints and Patch; golf talk would descend like bad beer. Fortunately, Baildon exiles Doctor David and Old Feisty had made the trip across the valley. Feisty was buzzing as ever, a shoe-in for GB News if ever they sought an elderly Northern correspondent with purple hair. Doctor David caressed his pint, just happy to be there, blocking out the noise as ever.
By the time Age Concern had arrived to pick them up for the return journey to Nirvana-on-the-Hill, our usual conversation was in full flow. These days men are encouraged to share problems so we listened as Patch began to offload, this time not about his golf swing nor his trophy wife, the exotic Pampered Pawla. Having just bought a round, he bared all but it is fair to say the reaction was less than Samaritan. It took one quip from Big Al to break him.
Suddenly Patch lunged across the table, like a baby gorilla taking on a giant silverback. Perhaps the strain of a weekend together had proved too much, maybe jealousy as Big Al had been top dog on the tee? Fresh beers crashed all around us as the noise even woke Mick up in the corner. Our barmaid Four Quarters was so stunned she momentarily put her mobile phone down. And once it had all descended into laughter, there sat Uncle Andy his shorts soaked.
There was worse to come as Uncle Andy came out of the Gents to display a Christmas pair of snug-fits. Mick inimitably approached the bar “is it safe to order a pint again yet?” Our ever patient landlady, having endured many nights with us, took it all in her stride and, like a patient Mum, began the clean up once her charges had settled, calmed by fresh crisps.
Finally, The Scruffy said goodbye to one of our favourites, the lovely Florence. She has started a new career at Blakehill Primary School, having had solid training in Nob Ed Korna. Thank you and the very best of luck.
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