“Most of life is routine – dull and grubby, but routine is the momentum that keeps a man going. If you wait for inspiration you’ll be standing on the corner after the parade is a mile down the street.”
Ben Nicholas
The Regular Crowd were somewhat lacking last weekend for Sunday Prayers. Uncle Andy was on a conference for ex-firemen suffering from hose withdrawal. Meanwhile, Big Al was on his second romantic weekend of the year – a post-war record – and not a golf course in sight.
I arrived bearing gifts from my greenhouse but looking around I could see few takers for healthy living.
Former male stripper Gary Tipper was slumped in The Coffin, his trademark plunging neck vest – £3.99 for two at TK Maxx – stained after an afternoon’s pursuit of oblivion. He looked across at my plump tomatoes with curiosity, eyes as red as my offering.
The equally plump Budweiser Medley was also showing interest, confessing an unexpected love of tomatoes. I handed him a bag and he gently squeezed them, rolling each one carefully through his fingers.
“You never touch me like that!” said an irate wife Clare as she necked back another pint of Carling. “And last time you came in with freebies it were a lot more fun than bloody tomatoes!”
She was remarking on some marital lubes that I’d obtained from a customer some time ago.
“Best week’s sleep I’ve ever ‘ad” said Clare referring to the fact that her howling as a result of said lubes had forced Budweiser to seek a week with his mum till she calmed down.
I ordered a pint from the newly coloured and rinsed Young Bet, instantly struck by her new hair colour. It did look similar to a job lot a local sheep farmer claimed to be missing.
A cross between pink and grey, it looked like a bunch of candy floss perched on her head. I resolved to say nothing to avoid something perched on my head.
Patch was going through his weekly consumer watch moment, recalling with unfailing precision his most expensive round of the weekend, this time at his niece’s wedding.
“Feeding this ain’t cheap!” he said as he rubbed his belly and leaned back a contented man as Four Pints eventually surfaced.
The old place began to gradually fill up, the afternoon crowd staggering home, as the night shift drifted inevitably through the door, as sure as the tide.
In came The Odd Couple – as always apart – trying several vantage points before their favourite seats became free; life was in order again as heads simultaneously locked down on mobiles.
The Publisher came in with his long suffering wife, The Kitchen Skirt, and settled into The Coffin having been vacated by Tipper the Stripper.
He ordered his usual bottle of rare Echo Falls 2018 and life was good; if sales of The Trumpit continued one day he would get that corporate dinghy to moor at Apperley Bridge.
In wandered The Fishermen, unusually chirpy, as Young Bet slapped on a bit more Avon with the quiz looming. Camouflage soon followed sporting his new Iraqi army wear and several days growth.
Rumour had it that he’d been guarding the local allotments against phantom onion burglars; his appearance suggested as much. He sidled up to tell us his weekly joke only to look confused as we vanished in unison to the loo.
When we returned, The Fishermen were deep in conversation as the quiz had reached the halfway point. The usual fight was breaking out over the sandwiches as Sara, our hostess, wandered around to collect the weekly £1 punt.
Patch had been in contact with the absentees to gain their consent to place their bets – when the fun stops, stop – so a fiver was plonked in her jar as it nestled in her comforting bosom.
In her best smokey voice, Young Bet announced the jackpot at £100 and you could have cut the tension with a mouldy pork pie. She teased the waiting rabble as the winning ticket was slowly drawn.
“It’s a pink number” – WOOH – “It starts with an eight!” – GO ON! – “And then there’s a six!” – GET IN! – “And it ends with a five!” she purred as our little corner went wild – YOU BEAUTY!!!
We tried to get a Mexican wave going but The Fishermen were sulking.
As Giant Geordie gave us a threatening look, we managed to convince him that Young Bet was safe from our affections, especially with that hair, save from having the £100 jackpot in her hands. All we had to do was answer one question.
Four Pints was elected to make his maiden trip to the spotlight as Young Geoffrey flicked paper pellets at him, a blatant act of terrorism; who said an eighty year-old can’t act like an eight year-old?
The Scruffy was hushed as Young Bet leaned forward and whispered into Four Pints’ ear; manfully he tried to remember the real prize. She brushed her strawberry grey locks brazenly from her shoulders as he gulped nervously.
Big Al and Uncle Andy joined us in a video link, all eyes were on Four Pints. He turned slowly and a smile broke out – a winner! Generous applause rippled like the summer breeze as he returned to our corner and Big Al ordered a bottle of house finest many miles away in Cockermouth.
In an instant, Four Pint’s watch started bleeping; was it time to go already? But no, a different message from Mission Control.
“I know you’ve won, I have my sources” it read “don’t dare come back without a bottle of wine or it’s the shed for you again.”
Realising Mission Control is never one to disobey, Four Pints sent Sara to the wine cellar where she fortunately had some rare Echo Falls 2018. The Kitchen Skirt breathed a sigh of relief for this was one less for The Publisher.
It was time to take my winnings and scarper before the temptations of another slice of stale quiche and a lock-in took over.
I had a date with the Golden Girls from McCarthy & Stone in the morning at Pensioners’ Pilates and there was no telling what lengths those old biddies would go to steal my favoured spot.
Bradford’s House Price Failure
An interesting bit of feedback from a reader who provides the table above. If any Councillors can be bothered at all, can they explain why prices are actually falling and yet they insist there is a serious housing shortage to justify their ineptitude?
One Hundred Years Ago
An interesting take on life then and now here.
An election in the new Shipley Division is assured, Mr H Norman Rae, principal of Pickles & Rae, wool, top, noil and waste dealers, Greenhill Mills, Bradford, having accepted the invitation of the Selection Committee of the Liberal Association to be the party’s candidate at the next election
One hundred years on they name a Wetherspoons after you!
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