Out now in print and online here. My lips are sealed so far as the nun goes!
The Scruffy is not noted for its contribution to haute couture and one of the least likely to walk down any catwalk has to be Budweiser. Known for his Demis Roussos polo shirts and jeans styled by a blind-man, it was still good to see him in great form recently. We go back a long way as kids, to the days of the great milkcrate cricket test matches played out in summers of old when heatwaves really were hot.
Rain certainly did not stop play in the summer of ‘76; only the late Stevie Dunwell vanishing with his milkcrate if he copped a bad decision could do that. Budweiser was a talented young athlete way back then. He was bemoaning the fact that I’d not bought him a beer “for bloody ages you tight old ****!” The way he cuddled this latest bottle was touching before he necked it like a last minute grope in a night club. I showed my Mum his picture. “He looks like he’s ninety!” she exclaimed “Don’t you print that! He knows where I live.”
Almost as far back in time, our Sunday night gang dates back to the ‘80s with a cast more changeable than the Sugababes. Rarely though had we had such a confession from the inner circle, the saving grace being by the time it came, The Scruffy was all ours.
Outside the City of Culture’s nightly fireworks had begun as revelations that would shake the Vatican to the core were disclosed. It started with news of a lottery win of £195m; what would we all do with the winnings if it happened? We agreed we would roll up here the following Sunday – plus ca change!
Monica Who?
But surely a man must have some unfulfilled fantasies other than another bottle of Budweiser? I admit I had never heard of Monica Roccaforte, a former Hungarian adult movie actress, who invaded our night from this point on. Apparently, she was a victim of stereotyping, playing a nun many times without ever featuring at the Academy Awards. Our long-suffering landlady nearly fell off her stool as the story unfolded.
The sole and founder member of the Idle branch of the Monica Roccaforte fan club stood his ground, insisting she had played a formative part in his life. It was the first time I had ever heard anybody confess to hoarding nun DVDs. To a man we looked on incredulous.
Later in the week I chanced upon Wisey and The Guvnor, minus usual companion The Trowel. He was away at a fashion fair in Milan whilst Wisey sat dressed in trademark polo-shirt, shorts and pumps looking like Just William. They had been out for a pensioners’ afternoon and were about to make their way home, in Wisey’s case via a tour of the village, when two fellow old rogues rolled in. As Wisey was ordering his healthy option from The Khyber – lamb rogan josh, chips and chapattis – in strolled Fast Eddie and Magic Joe.
Not seen outside the darkness of captivity of the Idle Working Mens Club snooker room since lockdown, they had not lost their sharpness. Pointing to The Guvnor and Wisey, Magic said: ”It’s like being in a maternity ward!” Faster than Fast Eddie, The Guvnor replied: “You should know you’re having triplets! Now magic those daft shorts away!” With that the old pals toasted good times.
The Headmistress
With schools shut for the summer, Fagin was off to Tenerife. In charge of The Scruffy in his absence was Florence, now a primary school teacher but keen to do some more studying of childish behaviours in a contained environment. Nob Ed Korna was full with dedicated students gathered seeking the approval of the temporary Headmistress.
Fat Ping Pong and Sawdust Dave were representing the left-behind, levelled-down, blue-collar working classes, covered in dust of all sorts after another day of “bloody ‘ard graft you overpaid pen pusher!” The giant plasterer’s voice boomed like a jet engine as Sawdust sat there with his usual contented smile, pint in hand, week over, pissed again.
The Headmistress had more tuition required behind the bar. To my horror, I discovered young Dizzy had never heard of Gladys Knight & The Pips; what were they teaching kids in music these days. Perhaps it was time to get a juke box? I reeled off a number of classics and still she looked dumbfounded. How could anybody not know Gladys? I sat down dispirited with modern education.
Meanwhile, Fat Lad was distributing his curry deliveries with free samples as the Nob Eds dived in like hungry alligators around a stranded wildebeest. Keen to focus only on his regimented Friday night two pints, Gentleman John did a passable impression of Len Goodman as he pushed the food offering away muttering about “foreign crap”. Fat Lad took it in his stride and nobody rang the BBC.
That Goal
The next night I feared my Sunday solace would be disrupted by the women’s football final. Although the two screens were on, the usual crowd had already reached oblivion with Mini Me, out on a free pass, tormenting a frightened old lady with a cucumber.
Fagin was nowhere to be seen, rumoured to be trying on his Tenerife thong only a day away from the beach. And then the night – and perhaps life – changed in a swivel of a pair of hips and the celebration of that winning goal.
In truth, when the England winner hit the net there was polite applause. That is until the scorer whipped her top off and went on a run; the pub went wild. Mini Me danced mad-eyed with cucumber in hand and tongue out. Homeless nearly whipped his gut hugging top off; we all said a silent prayer of thanks that he kept it on. It made Gazza’s dentist’s chair celebration in 1996 look tame. Lord only knows how the suits at FA HQ reacted, mouths gaping, gin and tonics crashing to the floor.
A Leap Of Faith
The following week I’d been “hired” by Uncle Andy to assist him and Mrs Carter putting back together a pile of scrap they had acquired “for nowt” into its previous form of a greenhouse. With our combined practical abilities barely Airfix level, it looked like a long day ending in the divorce courts. Miraculously, by the time we dragged the man with the real tools – Greenfingers – away from the lunchtime football, it was up. A celebration was called for.
Of course we would accept a couple of pints in gratitude then wander home; you’ve heard it all before. Bombastic Billy joined us for a rare pint, having only been to The Scruffy once since the pandemic; his old eyes sparkling. Pubs are all about company and it was wonderful to see the old boy lap it up.
Greenfingers Senior popped by for a livener, all old school charm and old school manners. And, just when supper was calling Five Pints and Junior Ginger arrived to delay the depart. The trusted ruse of “tell mum you want to go to the pub and it’s a tenner” had worked again.
As the light faded and Junior counted her growing wad of tenners, Taliban joined us to discuss exciting things like the chimney pots of Idle. Listening to us, a bored and weary wasp clambered up the side of a discarded glass of Moretti, reached the summit, peered over and looked at the dregs before falling in to accept his fate. As he flapped then slowly gave up the ghost I mused what better way to go?
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