The new edition is out today and if you cannot get a paper copy, you can find it here.
As life raced on by, Friday came around again and I found myself in the company of The Three Wise Men: Gentleman John, The Guvnor and Young Geoffrey. The Guvnor was recovering from a bout of illness and what better remedy than a few in The Scruffy on the pretext of collecting the weekly eggs. Meanwhile, Young Geoffrey’s gardening business had suffered with the wet and windy conditions. Buddy, can you spare a dime?
“Gardening!” exclaimed an exasperated Guvnor “I book him for an afternoon a month and all he does is sit and drink wine with me! And I pay for that too!” Young Geoffrey gave him a conciliatory smile as Gentleman John knew his mediation skills would not be required to sort these two old boys. Biden and Putin might be a better bet.
Storms Dudley, Eunice and Franklin had raged all week but the diehards would not be denied an end of the week slurp or two. Mini Me and Mini She – the Gaddys – were out on a date night with a table booked, candles lit and Dunelm’s Finest Egyptian. To set the mood the old romantics were having aperitifs as the hounds of winter howled outside and familiar chatter found its own force inside.
To entertain the rest of us, an electrical fuse had lodged itself in the grouting of the latrine. So it was that a contest began to try to dislodge the fuse and move it along. We filled our bladders, tried numerous angles of attack, made repeated visits but it would not shift for days. Finally, I got a text: Done it, exhausted, can’t stand up!
Meanwhile, Vladimir was testing everybody’s patience; if ever we needed The Scruffy it was now. Retired barmaid Young Bet was in touting for business for her fledgling dogging enterprise.
She was offering a free lead and a trip down the woods; even Doomsday Dave and Downbeat Des perked up. Grateful she no longer had to serve this motley crowd Giant Geordie came to collect her with soothing words. “Let us naa what ya deein if yee wanna gan for scran or aal just gan yem?” Swooning at the sound of his voice she was his and only his.
In came the high-rolling Secret Millionaire wearing his trademark down and out jacket, and scuffed shoes. Several Rolex watches and rolled up bundles of notes were bulging under his sleeves to avoid detection by Nob Eds, Dick Eds or HMRC. It had been another busy week selling twenty-year old, one careful owner Golf GTis to the local fast pharma populace; the Carling had rarely tasted better.
Landlord Michael looked sheepish having done a deal with local councillors to artistically promote Idle using the gable end of The Scruffy, ironically only seen when exiting the village. Promised a mural worthy of Banksy, the final sketches looked dubious, in a garish yellow with a huge Vote Lib Dem slogan.
Meanwhile, as local Leeds United fans contemplated a week where they had lost 14-2 over three games, suddenly hope sprung eternal with the long-suffering Bradford City contingent, and in the form of an ex-Man Utd player too. Would Mark Hughes prove to be the long awaited saviour after so many years of frustration? Good luck Sparky!
We all know how precious life is and how time flies so quickly, often unpredictably. Motor Neurone Disease (MND) has been in the news of late, largely down to the efforts of three sportsmen, all current sufferers.
Rugby players Doddy Weir and Rob Burrow plus Bradford City favourite, Stephen Darby, are all battling this cruel condition with no cure in sight. As is local lad Dave Sharpe, pictured in the Ibiza sun way back in 1986 with a slimline Tropical Tim.
Dave is a lifelong Bradford City fan and the club has been a rock since his diagnosis. With a cruel twist, son Liam had been scheduled to walk the Three Peaks in support of Stephen Darby when Covid postponed the walk for a year. In that time Dave cruelly received confirmation that he had MND. Since then Liam has been a powerhouse, relentless in his support for his dad.
Bradford City Football Club deserve a very special mention too for all their support. From CEO Ryan Sparkes down, including several ex-players, they have done all they can to give Dave some treasured memories. They have also provided a couple of special treats for Dave and his mates. Tropical Tim even ditched the Hawaiian shorts and flip-flops in honour of his old mate. The lads would like to express their gratitude to the club.
Mid-month there was a birthday to celebrate with the local aristocrat, Brideshead, enjoying a few with the little people. He was wearing a garish rugby shirt with a giant number eight on the back. “Wanted to blend in with this rag tag lot old boy!” he muttered under his breath, carefully stroking his Bertie Wooster hairpiece. The usual telegram had been received at Thackley Towers.
Finally, a fond farewell to Four Quarters; Nob Ed Korna thanks you for all your hard work. In her place we welcome back the ageing but reliable Young Bet for more lip. The last word goes to Big Al who HMRC have finally got off the state payroll. A happy and long retirement after almost fifty years to the big man. Swing low, swing straight.
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