The September edition of The Trumpit is out today in print and online here. Here’s Tales From The Scruffy.
As the forecasted monsoons headed North, Thirsty Thursday called; it did not seem the best time for Tropical Tim to be launching his new winter footwear range.
With England struggling again at the form of cricket lasting longer than Happy Hour, local legend Wisey was in-situ, flowing with advice. “They could do worse than ‘ave a few beers before they bat! It never did me any ‘arm!” My memories of Wisey batting were a combination of Stevie Wonder on LSD.
Our hosts were away for the week and had left Fat Lad in charge which was a bit like leaving Billy Bunter to run a Macdonalds. He was wedged into his usual corner in Nob Ed Korna surrounded by Happy Days – who was not happy at the prospect of golf in the rain – and Mr Dead – who never looks happy.
The Guvnor was sat with Wisey discussing a memo to the English Cricket Board regarding the forthcoming humiliation in Australia this winter. Wisey, having chaired the Bradford Junior League on the promise of a few beers to keep him going through endless meetings about nothing, suggested he could run for Chairman of Selectors. “Is it still a boat trip?” he asked salivating at the prospect of three months duty free en-route to Perth.
Thirsty Thursday regular Suntan Sally wandered in having put the kybosh on summer 2021 with the recent purchase of a patio jacuzzi. After going eau naturelle the night before on Facebook with an early entry into Idle’s Glamorous Granny, she was wondering what to do with a winter plunge pool.
In walked Gentleman John, catwalk immaculate in smart jacket and jeans, his golden tan lighting up the room. The Nob Eds shuffled uneasily and a few attempted to tuck in outsize polo shirts. He asked of a recent article in The Trumpit regarding Idle Village, winked at me and said “I could tell you some far better stories young lad!”
Apparently, back in 1963 – the year of my birth – there were no less than twelve mills. I made a note to make him an offer for his memoirs before Harper Collins. Canny as ever, he bulk purchased his two pints for the night, ensuring he got the full Happy Hour OAP discount and joined the fray.
High-rolling Red Bricks arrived having recently completed a big money transfer to a local estate agent. No more was he flogging shoebox apartments in Hapless Hinchcliffe’s Happy Valley of Culture for a commission that would not keep Wisey in beer for a night. He had hit the big time. Gentleman John kindly agreed to restyle him from his favourite menswear catalogue; the scuffed shoes and Farah slacks were going.
Looking like a man who had discovered a seam of gold in the local Klondike, he sat amongst the good, bad and the very bad. Watching all the comings and goings – mainly Suntan for a fag – Florence our newly-retired waitress was back behind the bar. No more did she have to serve these delinquents hand to mouth; let them fetch their own beer, women still had rights in The Scruffy. Life was good again as the banter flowed like the pumps with joyful chatter.
Back came Suntan with her food order for the night to soak up several bottles of Cabernet Scruffy 2021; Chilli Twists were back on the menu again! Who could want more?
Meanwhile, the Korna had been led down Memory Lane. Who could remember the most pubs from Leeds Road, Bradford, where few remain? Downbeat Des, still with remnants of his eighties perm, had been quiet but it was clear he had visited more than most as names like The Lemon Tree were recalled with affection.
Pubs were dying it was claimed; why would you pay £4 a pint when you could get a six-pack from the supermarket for the same price? Who would be daft enough? And then we all looked around and the answer looked back at us.
One Week On
I clocked in for my usual Friday teatime to hear Fat Ping Pong’s booming voice. A lifelong mate of a neighbour who used to run several lingerie stalls in various local markets before the advent of Le Primark, Fat Ping Pong is a larger than life character. He began a tale from long gone bachelor days, one I was hesitant to commit to print for fear of a volatile wife, with images of my shorts burning on the washing line.
Back in the halcyon days of Billy and Pat Blackburn, legendary and long gone licensees of The Scruffy, Billy pioneered the concept of the lock-in. As long as you were in the pub when the bell rang – an admittedly arbitrary process – you were safe to remain well after common sense had left for the night. This suited Billy down to the ground as once Pat had given up on the devil – Billy – the Jamesons bottle was his.
The two pals, having been down the village, had given up on making the cut back up, so to speak. So they opted for food and climbed the hill with two full bags of Chinese. On seeing the door ajar, Fat Ping Pong insisted they try. Billy was only too pleased to welcome them into the crowded pub, safe in the knowledge that, although the police station was less than a mile away, there was more chance of him catching the clap than getting a visit from Plod.
The only problem was what to do with the food. So, they decided to hang it from the branches of a nearby tree and collect on the way home. We all know how this ends; the food was soon forgotten and left hanging in the wind. The following lunchtime, the said package was remembered and unhooked from the tree like the aftermath of a lynching. And so it was that two unsuspecting young wives got a Saturday night takeaway.
Time Passes
Roll on a week and we were treated to a royal visit from Brideshead, resplendent in his technicolour dream shirt, hair coiffured immaculately. He was regaling all with tales of his prized shoe collection – “simply have to be made in England…triple-welted my good man…nothing but the finest leather!” It was House of Windsor meets House of Wynsor.
The shirt was a pastel pastiche, a Breitling hung casually from his wrist – “left the Rolex at home old chap” – as he wafted away plaster dust from the vocal artisan Fat Ping Pong, sat far too close. Greenfingers walked in and remarked dryly “I’ve been listening to you on the allotments!”
It turned out Happy Days could change a watch battery for the price of a pint although it might not survive Suntan Sally’s plunge pool. Few Nob Eds dared to even hope for an invite there. Soon it was time to go home – “One really must have dinner!” announced Brideshead. It had been a surreal night.
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