As Boris urged us to get on our bikes to fight the flab, local pilgrims made the familiar march back to their places of worship. Seats were taken and honorary faculty heads once again prepared their lessons in life.
As we took our first tentative steps into our locals once again, who could have imagined just how good it would feel? Faces not seen for months, sat in their familiar spots, socially distanced to a fashion, all discovering the joy of a pint and great company once again. Had it been almost four months since I’d seen Fat Lad’s beaming grin, his ever-expanding frame easing gently back into his favourite corner, holding court, the Prince amongst his Nob ‘Eds?
Hosts and customers alike battled with this new “normal”, feeling our feet as if one false step would trigger a deadly missile. In contrast, the youth looked oblivious, well before any alcoholic inducement too; who will be right when we all look back? Will bravado have proven false?
As I first set sight on the motley inhabitants, I was met with a roar of comic disapproval for my attempt at seventies glam rock hair. Several bellies heaved as I tossed my lockdown locks, I had never seen Mr Dead look so close to wetting himself. In the opposite corner Budweiser Medley looked as if he had spent lockdown attached to a drip feed of his favourite tipple; what had happened to the skinny kid I first met way back when?
Taking my first steps very responsibly, I had been sat outside until Nature could be denied no longer. After the abuse had died down, I climbed the two steps to the Gents and sanitised my hands for a socially distanced wee. No sooner had I felt the strange and admittedly pleasing cooling sensation of hand sanitiser down below than alongside me was Happy Days. He was positively bouncing from toe to toe and I was pleased I had on a good pair of waterproofs and walking boots.
We washed, sang Happy Birthday several times, bumped elbows and left as distanced as we could in a room that barely holds two people at best. More sanitising, more abuse, more jeers – it was so good to be alive!
Despite the steady drizzle, outside seemed a better choice, the rain worth suffering than the crescendo of mickey taking. Over the coming few days I popped back – acclimatising they call it – and day by day familiar faces reappeared, like blinking new-borns into the light. When the sun shone it was clear that whatever caution Boris had urged, he had not factored in the pull of a beer garden on a newly released population.
And what of this new continental approach with waitresses in smart new Scruffy polo shirts? Is this the death of the barfly? Outside we queued at the serving hatch and, great credit to all involved, the service was seamless. Back at our tables, spaced with thought, was I the only one watching the mouths of people talking, trying to detect the parabolic track of deadly spittle?
I spotted The Guvnor recceing the place with several drive-by laps in his Flying Squad Jag belching fumes, trying to determine if it was safe to return. Soon there he was sat amongst his disciples, the familiar grin, pint in hand putting the world to rights safe in the knowledge the BBC would not be asking his opinion on all manner of things.
The debonair Trowel was strutting his stuff as Best Dressed Yorkshire Pensioner, resplendent in a white open-necked shirt, pink jacket and matching laces adorning a natty pair of suede shoes. Sat alone in the railway carriage, The Scruffy’s very own Cary Grant looked as if he was on a blind date instead of necking one more before heading for a takeaway.
In contrast, Sir Geoffrey looked as if he had worn the same pair of shorts for four months, his hair even greyer than ever, the familiar smile and greeting. Tropical Tim was back too, the only man not to have spent lockdown dressed down, the Robinson Crusoe look serving him well, incarcerated or not.
It was wonderful to see Malcolm X back clutching as always one of his set of Jeremy Clarkson books, resplendent in black leather trousers and a snazzy new silver studded belt to boot. He’d parked his new E-scooter outside to let it cool in the rain. The joy of a pub, no need for conversation nor company, simply good enough to know it is there again.
And what of my lot? Our Zoom calls from way back in March seemed a lost age, even the mini garden parties clad like Eskimos just to meet up and chat, seemed a distant memory. Here we were, almost getting to know you once again. Big Al had rarely looked happier despite insisting on reminding us that the long-suffering lady Luckless was still indeed luckless, at least in his opinion. Revelations like this can turn a man to drink but we did not need any excuses.
Patch had ballooned like a drowned corpse whilst Uncle Andy looked happier than a released Nelson Mandela. Five Pints had clearly not been sticking to his name either. So welcome back to our wonderful locals and spare a thought for those whose hard work and dedication has meant we can all enjoy great company once again albeit with the spectre of more lockdowns if we do not behave.
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