Empty pockets never held anyone back. Only empty heads and empty hearts can do that.
Norman Vincent Peale
This article is reproduced with the kind permission of the owners, shareholders and board members of The Trumpit magazine. The Trumpit is a leading cultural and lifestyle monthly with a select circulation. It can be found in a limited number of high end outlets.
As most pubs end the weekend with a clatter of doors, a smattering of hardened regulars clinging to their favourite stools, The Scruffy’s Sunday quiz brings punters flocking in. For some, Sunday nights are “the law!”
Our gang arrive for Sunday Prayers at eight on the dot – the regular crowd shuffles in – as Billy Joel once sang. Big Al, Patch, Uncle Andy, Four Pints and myself ready to welcome other pilgrims to worship Young Bet, Queen of the Quiz.
Uncle Andy is always first, tales of long gone days up a ladder with his hose to tell for “I was once in the fire brigade.” We settle a bit further down our seats and reach for comforting beers.
Big Al will often bring up the rear, claiming Luckless Linda, his long-suffering lady, needed his attention. The rest of us try not to hold that thought.
If people need routine and certainty to cope with modern day life, here is where you find it in spades. All have their favourite spots, even ‘Nob ‘Ed Korna is up for grabs, the usual inmates, long since departed, Grumpy Hour over.
You can set your watch by the comings and goings just as you can predict who will be wearing what; the British High Street will find no saviours here. The regulars shamble in, too old to care what they look like anymore, more interested in a free stale sausage roll than haute couture.
The Odd Couple wander in, never together, only to find each other effortlessly, order drinks individually and then engage mobile phones, not a word exchanged.
The Students are not far behind, youth invading the world of Tena, polyester and fateful misery; young eyes on the prize, desperate to stop the oldies nicking more of their money. Not the reckless, free-spending youth we imagine, they can make a coke last longer than one of Uncle Andy’s tales.
By now Giant Geordie will have arrived to gaze lovingly at his new wife as she effortlessly works the growing flow of regulars with her tattooed forearms pumping away.
Upstairs, landlady Sarah prepares the weekly feast, hoovered up weekly by the inmates. No Michelin Stars are sought here, this is pub grub and testimony to the resistance of the great British intestine.
The tension slowly builds as Young Bet starts to distribute the quiz sheets. In come the Three Stooges, serious quiz men, who stare coldly at the Students as they take their seats in the far corner, well away from prying eyes, smelly anoraks dumped on seats as if to ward off any strangers.
They sit there, the tension etched across their world-weary faces, surely the coveted gallon of ale will be theirs this week? Maybe arch rivals – The Fishermen – have finally drowned, dragged to the depths of the Leeds-Liverpool Canal by a wild trout, moored to a Zanussi?
The sheer thought of this almost brings light to their gloomy corner until, with the usual grand entrance, in stroll The Fishermen, resplendent in red as ever. Arthur walks nonchalantly to the bar waving to his loyal subjects, awaiting offers for the best seats in the house, for The Fishermen shall not stand.
Next Young Geoffrey skips in gaily, his sweater clinging to his iron body. A housewife’s pin-up, he blows kisses to all, the frenzied roar of the arena alive in his ears. And finally, The Trumpit’s Fishing Editor – Charlie – wanders in like a lost soul wearing yet another contender for the worst fishing sweater ever.
It’s eyes down and no more talking. The quiz begins as eyes shift around the room, returning to Young Bet stood pert in her Matalan vest, belly held in, microphone teasing her lips as old men wish for things long since passed by.
Suddenly a bleep goes off, perhaps a pacemaker? It’s Mission Control sending a message to Four Pints that time is up and don’t forget to bring the eggs home or it’s the garage again and she and the kids will be off.
We hang around long enough for the weekly draw, a prize pot varying from just enough to buy Charlie a new sweater to new anoraks for The Three Stooges. The food is laid out as we marvel at the frenzied queue of salivating pensioners, elbows sharp as The Students hover for the scraps; there will be nothing for the ducks this week.
It is time to go home, the week awaits, as back inside the last round of questions begins and the final scraps are picked from the trays as the last bubbles expire from two-hour old cokes. God willing, we will all be back again next week.
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