“I’m much more interested in who I’m with than where I am.” Helen McCrory
As we await the grand reopening of The Scruffy, read how some of us refugees have been coping. If you would like to read this month’s edition of The Trumpit in full you can find it here.
Despite our new freedom after months of Sunday night Zoom calls, we resisted the urge to go sit in Idle Recc with bottles of cider and trash the place. Patch had volunteered his sterilised executive decking as a venue. He’d also been to Poundland for a new fire pit with cold weather forecast; I had felt more heat from a box of matches.
Arriving to find Cub Scout Chris roped in to starting the fire, I guessed Bear Grylls would have wet himself. With some carbon neutral coal from Peru and damp kindling from B&Q, things were not going well. Eventually, after stealing Mrs Patchett’s nail varnish remover, Cub Scout got the fire going if at a cost of a set of eyebrows. It was clear that this was not the night to kickstart summer.
Big Al rolled up in his motorised chair, with a case of beer cooling in a bag under the seat. Sporting a pair of shorts we asked why to which he confessed he did not own any “long pants”. We shook heads in shared disbelief as he unrolled two old car blankets.
Uncle Andy took pity and pushed him closer to the fire which was now almost hot enough to fry an egg on as Five Pints arrived with the entire contents of the Co-op deli selection. Living it large once again, we sat huddled around the fire, faces blacker by the minute, smelling like coal miners. Inside, Mrs Patchett reclined in her Bradford Bulls nightie looking toasty as we shivered in unison.
Gary’s Old Village Tavern
Two weeks later we finally got the chance to savour proper beer again courtesy of The Commercial, an early seat of learning for old Trumpit hacks. It felt like a date night with an old flame as I sensed a few nerves; would we still have the chemistry? I fumbled with the iron, another unfamiliar task these last few months. The killer boots were buffed, undies and socks selected and with a final whoosh of Calvin Klein, off I went into the evening sun.
Adding to the sheer thrill of it all was the fact that The Scruffy was yet to reopen. Just like the characters of the long-running US comedy Cheers, in fading light we’d be sneaking off to our very own Garys Old Town Tavern. This was the friendly rival of Sam Malones Cheers bar and Garys Old Village Commercial would do just fine.
It was uncanny how much Patch resembled the barfly character of Cliff Clavin, the US postman and resident know-it-all.
Striding excitedly down Town Lane I noticed a hunched figure in the distance, limping along in a pair of shorts. Big Al was making progress slower than a hungry slug over my lettuce patch. At Thackley Corner, Uncle Andy joined us, also dressed for the allotment; did they know something I didn’t? Patch aka Cliff, restored my faith in Paul Hudson’s forecast, already at The Commercial to secure us a table, dressed by Go Outdoors.
The Tape
We sat down excitedly, like children about to unwrap gifts, not knowing who would speak first or what about. And then several stupid grins broke out – let the games begin!
A few familiar faces were spotted; inevitably Tropical Tim was sporting flip-flops and shorts, albeit a lot smarter than Uncle Andys Robinson Crusoe version. Little Gaddy was sat with his flat cap firmly pulled down like a jockey awaiting his ride in the Thackley Shetland Pony Derby. Unlike some locals, which had resembled Glastonbury as the crowds had flocked, the falling sun and chilly air sorted the men from the boys…and girls.
Bizarrely, we were presented with a secret recording to listen to. We leant towards the mobile phone on offer to hear the loud, guttural sounds of contented sleep clearly recorded as the subject slept unawares. Who could make such a noise? Who would make a recording? Was this Snoregate? The tape was played again as we winced, looking into the sleep deprived eyes of the “snitch” boldly risking the divorce courts and poverty.
A spirited defence of the “offender” was made – “She’s my life! No I’ve never thought about covering her with a big pillow! I just can’t live without her! Nor can I sleep!”
This was serious so we took an instant vow of secrecy and resolved to revert back to taking the piss out of each other, starting with my hair. Sixty-six hours till hairdresser time and it could not come soon enough; I looked like a greying Dougal from The Magic Roundabout. In defence I pointed out my shearing would amount to losing more than the combined heads of my five follicle threatened friends.
Big Al Goes Green
Meanwhile Big Al caused a few of us to quickly choose the Gents to avoid personal disasters as he told us he had cleared his wardrobes out ahead of Luckless Linda moving in; he now had several bags of clothes for charity. As we all thought he bought his clothes from the charity shop, a round of applause ensued as he was awarded the Greta Thunberg Cradle To Grave Recycling Award by Gary. He gave a less than gracious acceptance speech – ”F*** off!”
Sadly, Michael and Sara will not be able to welcome us back into the ample bosom of The Scruffy until May 17th. Lawyers had failed to resolve territorial claims to the abandoned Nightingale Tent. Barristers acting for Nob Ed Korna had insisted it be renamed The Nob Ed Extension, open to only those over fifty, clinically obese or borderline senile.
If you know Boris Johnsons text number you can gain entrance at the rear, nicknamed Rishigate. Our hosts had decided that it would be rash to risk losing half of the regulars to a late April frost like fragile tomato plants. And so we must wait patiently to meet up again with our very own cast of the long run comedy Tales From The Scruffy. Stay well all of you.
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