The latest edition is out now in print and online here.
As the cool September mornings replaced distant memories of the heatwave, landlord Fagin packed his ragged old beach thong again. It was one last parade before the upcoming winter of doom gleefully predicted by every media outlet under the fading sun. Hardy regulars clung to the outdoor benches like planks on a sea as they dug out autumnal wear, consigning sun lotion to the bin.
It had been a close call for the prize of Tan of ‘22 with varying methods employed from the golf course, non-domicile status and tree-cutting. The three stand-out contestants – Evergreen, Happy Days and Intasun – in no particular order – had not needed to spend a quid at the local Tantastic salon. Looking down at my pale legs, a second mortgage would still not get me near the winner’s enclosure.
The grass remained parched with desert-like dusty patches. Meanwhile, across on the allotment, Greenfingers sat snugly having not entered the Scarecrow contest this year, avoiding donating his best fleece again. He was like a farmer surveying crops from his wooden hut as he rocked gently in his seat, eyes wide open for any predators, a half-full can of John Smiths at the ready.
The last Bank Holiday Monday of the year brought the regulars flocking like the Next Christmas sale with standing room only in Nob Ed Korna. Fat Ping Pong arrived with his non-binary, hump-anything-anywhere dog. “Chester’s a killer!” advised his owner “Just downed a Doberman by the throat!” A barmaid SOS call was put out and soon local dogger Young Bet had dropped her leads and was manning pumps, bingo wings flapping.
The Guvnor inimitably found a spot, plonking his giant frame on my knee; it was like musical chairs. Back from his Bridlington estate he advised his lad “I’ve got the crabs.” We shuffled to create a bit more room. It was pleasing to learn it was dinner he was discussing, sat in a shirt you needed sunglasses to view.
Brideshead soon arrived with hair slicked back in waves of grey and cultured conversation commenced. He had been to Bradford centre to see how the “other 99.9%” lived vowing to get a higher wall on his estate and maybe hire Chester. The shock of the night arrived with Sawdust Dave looking slick, like a young John Travolta.
Supernan Suntan Sally had just received news of her fifth grandchild and was looking to wet the baby’s head as well as her own. Fag Ash Lil, never one to miss the chance of a beer, took no convincing and had dragged Boy Band away from more attempts to write a comeback hit. His attempts at a new rap—”Golf, golf, golf…man!” were floundering. Instead he held his cold pint of Coors Light and dreamed of one more night at Batley Variety.
Suntan sat there beaming, wine in hand, dreaming of a cover page in The Trumpit’s Glamorous Grannie 2023 calendar.
Inevitably Big Al found the beat and drifted in to continue the celebrations re his recently announced engagement to Luckless Linda. She had finally signed the long-term carer contract relieving the state of an enormous burden in these times of national debt. A wedding is in the offing; we wish them both the very best and a long and happy road.
We were even joined by The Trumpit’s Muppet Hill correspondent bemoaning the slow start to the season at Ainsbury Avenue. It looked another long season ahead but they punch consistently above their weight and will be fine. Rumours of an approach for sacked Chelsea manager Thomas Tuchel are wide of the mark.
At long last Greenfingers was relieved from sniper duty on the allotment and arrived startled by the growing crowd. As Sawdust, several beers down already, began a rendition of Rolf Harris’s Greatest Hits, the allotment seemed like Heaven and back he went to peace and quiet in the blink of an eye.
As news broke of the solemn passing of our Queen, it was right and fitting that Brideshead was in attendance as the BBC announced the sad news. The closest thing to royalty The Scruffy possesses, he insisted we all stand as the national anthem played and the realisation of a new era dawned. To a man – and woman – Nob Eds bowed heads in silent tribute to a monarch who had set standards for us all. For the freedoms and liberties we all enjoy and treasure in this great country, she was the marker. Rest in peace.
After a week of respectful mourning The Scruffy was bursting at the seams once again come Friday night. From a trickle to a flood they came through the doors seeking relief from a gloomy week via great company and hearty cheer. Sensing the need for a bit of what only your local can provide, Scruffy exiles Dr David and Old Feisty had made the return downhill from exile in Baildon to treat us with their inimitable company.
From an early age I knew that, just because Dr David was sat in a corner with a pint, paper and a pooch at his feet, this was not an invite to be sociable. Some men seek the solitude of a crowded pub to find their own inner-most thoughts and enjoy a pint. Of course, living with Old Feisty would make any man find the quiet and comfort of a local; typically she was on fire as ever.
With fresh purple streaks decorating her head, she looked like one of those female warriors on Game Of Thrones; small wonder Dr David sat in quiet contemplation. Joining them were The Baxs, doubtless to seek me out and remind me that The Golden Child – their son and my godson – would be eighteen soon and seeking a wedge and cast-iron guarantee of inclusion in the will. Negotiations will continue next month as we have a weekend with Vittys Cottages – subtle plug – in Whitby and are taking the youngster as part of his education.
Dr David informed us that he had been drinking in The Scruffy for sixty-one years with Big Al keen to tell us he was not that far behind meaning he probably went straight from teat to Tetleys. We had more bad news to contend as Big Al’s father had sadly passed away. For our group of five who meet each and every Sunday, this was our first parental loss and we toasted the fine old boy for a good life.
In the sports section of the pub news came forth that local cricket team HICC had appointed the rotund Macca as next year’s fitness coach. Known in his “pomp” for being the slowest, scruffiest club cricketer in Bradford, what could possibly go wrong? Pre-season training was scheduled over beer and peanuts starting January as Budweiser contemplated boosting the club’s youth policy with a comeback aged 58.
Finally, I noticed Fat Lad wedged as ever into his favourite corner; he gestured to come sit. “The less people know that I know, the better” he said “now sod off!”
Leave a Reply