“The stronger a man is, the more gentle he can afford to be.”
Elbert Hubbard
As the Nob Eds braced themselves for the annual shock of traditional seats being “squatted in” come New Year’s Eve, the shock news was announced; The Scruffy would be shut.
This was a refugee crisis not seen before; confused old men suddenly contemplated nights in with the wife, more Quality Street and Michael McIntyre on the box.
Fortunately, a rescue deal was agreed at the eleventh hour; Peter and Karen welcomed all with open arms at the excellent New Inn. There was still the dangerous short crossing over the local race track to negotiate with eyes peeled left, right and centre. The church wall had suffered another demolition job though, thankfully given the state of the wall, no serious injuries occurred.
Greenfingers and I opted for al fresco and the warm inner sanctum looked enviable. We gazed across at the abandoned Scruffy, like a ship floundering on the rocks about to be reclaimed by the sea. Suddenly, along came two more refugees, out for their first walk of the new year in pursuit of health and fitness. It lasted only another fifty yards, the temptation to join the “party” too much.
By now, Five Pints had legged it over the back wall to join us as had a local dog walker. He was deep in conversation re dogs and their need to be walked every day, come what may. The thought process had legs!
PICTURE
Bizarrely, the closure of The Scruffy also coincided with Big Al going into isolation, something many had suggested for years. How he had managed to dovetail his incarceration with the closure who knew? Collusion was odds-on favourite at the local bookies who could at least still rely on his online presence to keep their shareholders happy.
Given his list of “underlying health conditions”, longer than a junior doctor’s training manual, the four remaining members of our Gang of Five met solemnly at Gary’s Commercial, crossing the border from Idle with ease, most curtains pulled shut, cold, hard reality back in town this first Sunday of 2022.
And so “real” life began once again as I chalked off the days until The Scruffy reopened and awaited the Facebook post “Celebrity Reopening – Big Al Cuts The Ribbon!” As if things were not bad enough, news came of Fat Lad succumbing to the plague. The bank manager was in for a shock.
Come Thirsty Thursday, I broke free of the shackles of the sofa to skip up the road. Approaching the door I saw Gentleman John exiting with a worried look on his face. “There’s nobody in!” he said as he headed to the twinkling lights of the New Inn.
All the decorations had gone as had the punters – it was bliss! Landlady Sara greeted me warmly: “I’m glad you’re here” she said “I can go for a wee now!” It was great to be back and not even a lack of Black Sheep – the beer not the locals – could spoil the moment.
Suntan Sally was not far behind, almost biting the cap of a bottle of Chateau Scruffy, taking a good swig, wiping her mouth on her new Game of Thrones fur and slipping a little burp out. In came Greenfingers, dressed by Screwfix with a broad grin; good to be back.
JCB Steve was soon entertaining us as he and Greenfingers compared male grooming products to get the closest head shave. A fan of DIY, JCB described a recent shaving tool as “Black & Decker for baldies!” He went on: “It was a bloodbath after I’d finished. Me ’ead was like the moon and I ‘ad a sink of blood!”
K-Tel products were discussed in earnest with Greenfingers confessing to once buying a pair of X-ray specs although not quite sure why. “I kept bumping into things!”
Over the next few days, life gradually returned to normal even if there was a coup d’état of sorts in Nob Ed Korna. Lady Jayne had declared herself the new ruler of the Korna in the absence of Fat Lad. “I now declare Dry January over!” she said from her throne, albeit barely six days old. “Fetch me my wine!” Dutifully, The Tattooed Man fetched his good lady a bottle of Moet de Makro and the Nob Eds cheered their approval.
Come Saturday and the old place was alive. Sawdust Dave had been released from rehab after a festive Erdinger Beer experience never to be repeated. He brought solemn news of his boss, Fat Ping Pong, who had declared self-isolation in pursuit of Slim Ping Pong. With impeccable timing in he walked and another valiant new year’s resolution was in tatters.
Tipper the Stripper was sporting a plunging white V-necked Damart under his quizmaster’s jacket. He’d done a deal at the new tanning salon in the village and was radioactive. “Ask me how old I am?” he challenged young Dizzy behind the bar, the sort of question we men all ponder but normally only with the bathroom mirror.
With a knowing prod from landlady Sara she quickly chose well and offered “under forty” being duly rewarded with free drinks all night. His old mate Arthur Daley Jnr, bedecked in a new Christmas sheepskin looked on despondent at the course of male vanity. Dizzy plonked the cash triumphantly in a big jar marked “Exit Route – University”.
In another twist Big Al’s long-suffering partner, Luckless Linda, had drawn the short straw again and tested positive. As Dr Khan at the local clinic had assured Big Al many years ago, “positive” was not possible; fortunately it was only Covid. With The Scruffy now in full flow and no Luckless in full tow, it seemed as if all his birthdays had come at once.
Finally, it is with immense sadness I report the passing of a wonderful gentleman. We all knew Robert as half of The Octogenarians, his other “half” being Sheila. No matter how bad his own obvious health struggles, he always made sure Sheila was sat down, her drink delivered personally. Impeccably dressed, supremely mannered, sharp wit and a zest for life, that was Robert. We enjoyed many a night with them in The Scruffy and will miss his company. Sleep well old boy; it was our good fortune to enjoy your company.
Stop The Press!
Happy birthday Our Jackie! Although most of us had thought she had reached this milestone many years ago, the Queen Bee of The Scruffy hit sixty this week.
She is every much a part of the place as the bricks and mortar…a diamond personality, so typical of pubs up and down the country.
On behalf of all at The Scruffy, thanks for all the laughs along the way.
Happy birthday old gal x
Footnote
To read The Trumpit online click here.
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