Taken from February’s edition of The Trumpit out at a local outlet near you…well…if you live in Idle or Thackley!
For some of us, the festive period smashes well established routines, throwing us off well-trodden paths for a week or so, the comforting hooks of everyday life temporarily suspended. You would have thought that a reasonably intelligent man in his late fifties would, by now, have worked out a response…an antidote of sorts…not so.
There I was, the Monday before New Year’s Eve, out of Games Of Thrones episodes on the planner, no other fix available than The Scruffy. Time for a quiet pint, support your local on a quiet night, go spread some cheer I thought…any more excuses needed? As I opened the door, I sensed austerity had still to find The Scruffy as had Alcoholics Anonymous; the place was rammed full of kindred spirits.
Fat Lad had been enjoying his fiftieth birthday celebrations since Friday and looked like he was aiming to continue these well on into the new year. Nob Ed Korna was full of the usual suspects, The Guvnor holding court as ever, a snarling “watch what you write” look at me as I grabbed my notebook from the panting Smouldering Sue, her trademark mascara running freely as her brow perspired.
Regular Tropical Tim was sat in the corner in his usual shorts and flip-flops and I reckoned we should invite climate changer Greta Thunberg to come chat to him. Opposite sat a group with a small dog – one of several in this dog-friendly pub – albeit that the yapping mongrel was being outdone by the piercing howls from one of the adults.
Either the world’s funniest comedian had taken residence or she was on some serious laughing gas; the hoots and howls were as loud as I had ever heard, she sounded in pain. We grimaced in unison sat at the bar imploring Landlord Michael to create a new reason to bar someone – laughing.
The Guvnor was far from impressed and strode to the bar, grabbing what most of us had considered an antique, the bell for calling time, last rung by Mad King Billy way back yonder, convinced by too many Jamesons that the Germans were coming again.
Ringing it as vigorously as he used to shake the necks of local rascals when back on the beat many years ago, he was looking every bit like the local town crier, rosy cheeks glistening. The pub fell instantly into silence and I half expected him to scream “Oh yey, oh yey…. shut the **** up!”
No words were required as he returned to his seat, an adorning pat on the back from son, Red Bricks: “Father, you make me proud” he said.
Happy Days danced a merry jig in celebration of the restored order to the Court of The Nob Eds – “Happy days are here again” – he sang as Greenfingers offered a feast of recently picked sprouts at the feet of The Guvnor, now back on his throne. Fat Lad and Mr Dead clunked tankards together in joy; all was well…for a while.
Soon Howling Lady was off again, whooping away, causing even the dogs to cower under the tables, paws firmly over their ears. The Nob Eds were calling for a burning at the stake; Tropical had had enough and plonked his empty cocktail glass on the bar, striding out into the winter air.
Sir Geoffrey of The Fishermen came in after a day hunting on the river bank, seeking ale, roused by the noise from the corner. “Has she had one of those eggs for Christmas? You know…the ones they shove up there?” He licked his lips, winked and made a few hand gestures that few of us could fathom before clicking his fingers. “Wench! Ale over here, my throat is parched!”
Smouldering fixed him with a look that could have produced dragon fire and reduced Sir Geoffrey to ashes in an instant. “Piss off you old fart” as she duly filled his tankard.
Suddenly I felt a ghostly presence on my shoulder, The Guvnor had his cloak on and was about to leave for the highway via the chippie. “Anything about me being fat and it’ll be off with your ****ing head! Understand?” I shook my head, still attached to my shoulders for now, as my ale swirled in its glass.
Landlord Michael was stood at the bar, a constant stream of applicants approaching The Ale Bank for the seasonal Ye Old Tab Till February. Many left will sullen faces, forced home to suffer more BBC festive shite and the wife still stuck to the Quality Street tin.
By now the dogs had fled the pub as she howled on, taking their chances on the unmade Capital of Culture roads, full of screeching Audis and VWs. In desperation we sought the ultimate deterrent and coaxed Fat Lad to make the trip from corner to corner and expel the Mad Lady with his deadly Gas.
I swear she only laughed louder and it was then that something we had not witnessed in our lifetimes occurred; Fat Lad went to the New Inn, unable to take the noise any more. His close confidante, Ink Man, had tried to reason with the big man but to no avail; Fat Lad had been exiled, the Court of Nob Ed Korna was in disarray as a cloud came over The Scruffy. Happy New Year indeed.
Michael Leahy says
Sorry but, spotted what may be a mistake ~ re the Tab,
at the end of a line should “ Many left will “ read “Many left with “ ?
Steve says
Spot on…thanks for reading though