“When written in Chinese the word crisis is composed of two characters – one represents danger and the other represents opportunity.”
John F. Kennedy
Taken from April’s edition of The Trumpit out next week.
With unnerving precision, we took our seats only a few weeks ago – same ones, same order of arrival – ahead of another Sunday night with the dour Mick the Quiz. Old habits clearly die hard.
As a walking barometer of climate change, so far this year Mick’s short, fat hairy legs have been covered up, which suggests North Bradford may avoid the ice caps melting a little while longer.
The usual afternoon shift was about to depart. Local slogger Black Pads Medley, having sunk another crate of Budweiser to ease fears of a trade war with the US, heaved his belly off his stool like a battered heavyweight.
Wife Claire necked her pint of cider, burped and kicked her man into action; it was off into the cold air, to the taxi for the arduous 300 yards home.
Uncle Andy was sat in the corner, morose as ever, another Saturday afternoon watching his beloved City crash to defeat; thank God for Coronavirus! Charlotte, the youthful face of the Scruffy’s bar, greeted me with her hand already clutching the Black Sheep pump.
Soon, in came Patch, still hoping somebody would ask him to sign a copy of The Trumpit, having featured as CEO of the month. Behind him limped the sorry figure of Big Al, like a giant neglected dancing bear, shackled for years by beer and much more.
He slumped in his usual spot adjacent to Uncle Andy, full of the joys of living; fortunately, his vaccine arrived and man and beer were reunited once again. If they could cure AIDS then surely gout and liver cirrhosis?.
Four became five as Five Pints duly arrived to collect the family eggs, even if that meant staying a few hours in the process. Mission Control had long since given up tracking her man, happy enough that the eggs came back in a better state than he did.
Talk naturally turned to the latest health scare – Coronavirus not Big Al – as Uncle Andy ventured an idea. “I reckon that we ought to isolate…right here! A month in The Scruffy…what could be better?”
It sounded a fine idea and a noble sacrifice to humanity but how would we eat?
“Easy!” he said and we knew what was coming. “When I was in the fire brigade…we used ropes and pulleys to get food and drink up and down the pole so we didn’t have to get out of bed and miss GMTV. We could string a pulley system across to Towngate; beer plus fish and chips for a month!”
It was starting to sound like a good idea, notwithstanding Big Al’s underlying health problems, far too numerous to list here. Simmy the one-legged driving instructor had been listening in and was keen to see if we had any spare spots for the disabled.
He was sat with Rose and Patrick, still dreaming of winning the quiz before they fell off their stools for the big bar in the clouds. Rose had been stuck in back copies of Encyclopaedia Britannia again all week but knew Mick’s tradition of beginning with two sports questions would require some serious networking.
To her shock and awe, we told her that, for once, we would not be donating answers, attempting to do the quiz and thwart the local rogues known as The Fishermen in their quest for free beer.
Local character Malcolm X was sat at the bar, reading quietly, bedecked in his biking leathers, his mobility scooter parked around the back, ready to take the fast road back to Wrose.
Patch was eying up his leathers and declared that his wife would look fine in a pair too as in came local celebrity couple, The Trumpit’s very own gardening columnist Joe and his long suffering companion The Kitchen Skirt.
Taking their usual seats in The Coffin, The Skirt settled herself as Joe headed to the bar. It wasn’t long before both heads were stuck into gadgets and that was that. Soon the pub was almost full to the brim, yet more assorted social misfits finding comfort for the evening.
The pride of The Scruffy – our quiz team – were led in by the captain. Each week he approaches the bar as if it were an electric fence, off come his glasses for a thorough steam clean as he studies the ales on offer as if about to win Who Wants To Be A Millionaire.
For the umpteenth time in living memory he opted for a pint of Tetleys as Charlotte’s eyes rolled skywards and hostess Sara tried hard to remain impartial and avoid wetting herself, jigging on the spot.
The quiz team, conscious of our participation as new kids on the block, took up the seats directly opposite, exchanging fixed stares.
Alongside them, The Odd Couple were playing Snakes on their Nokias awaiting the arrival of their companion, Donny, who duly arrived with his trademark smile and Nokias were downed as Donny hummed a few old tunes.
The quiz was about to start but first we had an announcement to cope with. Big Al confirmed that life was changing forever as his long-time carer, Luckless Linda, had finally agreed to move in.
She’d taken a crash course courtesy of London Zoo and now felt the time was right for her last big challenge. The big man could not believe his luck; never again would he have to pull on his own socks though Luckless had driven a hard bargain insisting that he actually buy an oven.
It was a small price to pay to live out your years with a full-time carer and a few quid in the bank.
Landlord Michael on hearing the news announced it was drinks on the house, confident that Big Al’s new found wealth would flow only one way as several local takeways prepared to close forever.
It was time for the main event as Mick took his stage – the step by the ladies – running his fingers through his mullet. He coughed into the microphone and it was heads down and facemasks on.
The first question was football as Rose groaned: “How many Premier League football teams scored more than two goals yesterday?”
She looked beseechingly across at me; generously I offered her two fingers. Her eyes lit up as she nearly knocked Patrick off his stool. “Two!!” she hissed into his ear, slightly missing the point of my response.
Their long-awaited win would have to wait a while longer.
There was no sign of The Fishermen, save for Charlie who advised Arthur had lost a quid the other day and so was sulking. Young Geoffrey was rumoured to be self-medicating.
It was time to go as Five Pints contemplated six and sod the eggs. Monday morning yoga was calling..so was something far worse…stay safe and keep those doors on stand by.
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