“No place to be and miles to go, but miles to go is miles away.”
Bruce Springsteen – Hello Sunshine
This time last year The Trumpit lost our leader Bill; so we raise a glass to the old boy and hope he likes where his creation is now. Taken from this month’s edition with the cover page a lockdown montage by local photographer Tom Gadd.
Cheers Bill!
Having not seen the lads other than via Zoom, it was reassuring that our next “meeting” was in good spirits after my revelations in last month’s Trumpit. Equally reassuring was the news that Uncle Andy’s wife was still hammering away at the Prosecco not least for Italy’s trade deficit, albeit she was about to go into self-isolation via the local rehab unit.
A story had broken the same day concerning the increased alcohol consumption nationally with spikes in certain areas of Bradford. Rumour has it a Government inquiry will be held post the pandemic. Big Al took this all in his stride as he joined us in widescreen format, beers at the ready, a stellar example of our nation’s key workers. If Captain Tom could get all that fuss, what about services to the British beer industry he grumbled.
Uncle Andy was looking especially pale, as week seven of his own isolation began. It had been a welcome boost to locals who had not heard a “when I was in the fire brigade” tale for longer than they could remember. How nice if somebody reading this from the fire brigade could at least nip round with an engine and a ladder for him to climb; come on lads?
Patch had taken on board my comments about his Get Fat Fast diet and had decided to ignore this apparently on scientific advice. “You’ve all got to go sometime” he offered in true Private Frazer voice of Dad’s Army as another bag of Wheat Crunchies did go, down his gullet like a whale devours a shoal of mackerel.
Five Pints was keen to discuss another recent discovery of changing behaviours, that of a boom in amateur porn. According to a “source”, variations of Debbie Does Lockdown XXX were booming. “Where?” spat Big Al, frothing at the mouth, stabbing his Samsung violently, wishing he’d gone for a bigger screen. It was dawning on him that his antipathy to all forms of technology might be reviewed.
“If only Luckless were ‘ere” he wailed. Patch confessed he’d “rather have a pie! But you won’t print that will you?”
We were keen to hear of our long-lost friends at The Scruffy and it was great to hear from Simmy the giant driving instructor known locally as L-Plates. He’d been in touch to confess he’d gone teetotal and had lost so much weight he could see his accelerator pedal again. L-Plates wished us all well and said he hoped to be below twenty stone for Christmas.
Our hosts Michael and Sara were still providing a fine local service with eggs and pies weekly and not just for those preferring them to nookie. Big Al had cracked at his most recent visit to collect his pies, vainly trying to become the pub’s first illegal immigrant by stowing away in the cellar.
Good news of the elderly and infirm with Arthur spotted out walking, the familiar hobble, a reward for a rich sporting life, his wife with a tell-tale look of let this be over so he can go to the pub. Young Geoffrey, 87, is still bounding about the area in his chino shorts trimming old ladies’ bushes across North Bradford, his status as Bradford’s celebrity gardener unthreatened by the young sixty-year-old upstart Gaddy. Mind you there are enough bushes to go around.
Speaking of which – loosely I might add – it has been a pleasure to keep in contact with Gentleman John. Not even Hitler had stopped John’s from styling the locals, young and not so —”Will it be bowl 1, 2 or 3?” – so it was good to find him in good cheer. “I think when we reopen, we’ll need a skip for all the bloody hair!” he said “Although not for your mates as they’re all bald!”
Gentleman John loves his cricket but, at the time of writing, the prospects do not look good this summer. However, just like hair, grass continues to grow and the countless volunteers up and down the country are keeping grounds looking pristine.
Come week eight of the lockdown and, with Boris offering as much guidance as a driving lesson with a blind-folded L-Plates, we reconvened again. Big Al was looking as if he was planning for Father Christmas auditions and offered us a virtual tour of his new bottle bank, his kitchen floor.
Having been ignored by the British Beer industry he was now seeking to rescue the European Wine sector. Patch was demonstrating he had a handle on the issues of the day—”Its about time he opened the golf courses again!” he offered in statesmanlike fashion.
Later I disappeared to bed and had an erotic dream. I was sat on my casting stool caressing a cool, creamy pint of sweet tasting moist Black Sheep as my tongue tingled at the touch and sensation of forbidden pleasures. Not even a loud voice in my head could break this sensation.
“’Ere that’ll be eight new Boris Pounds!” cooed Our Jackie.
I was alive again!
Leave a Reply