“Happiness can be found even in the darkest of times, if one only remembers to turn on the light.”
Dumbledore
It was like The Last Supper: we had been here before but back then Spring was bursting into life. Now, on the first night of November we met to consider Michael’s brutally culled stock ahead of lockdown again.
This was less of an issue for Big Al would suckle on a smelly sock so long as it was soaked in ale. Uncle Andy peered fearfully at a brooding pint of Guinness; maybe it would put the hairs back on his head?
Cider was on offer but the memory of wandering naked into my parent’s bedroom aged 16 after a 2-litre bottle of Olde English from Mr Patel’s VG shop was still raw. Five Pints claimed lager lout status as Patch hopefully chose a Slimmer’s World cocktail.
Cheeseboard?
The weather mirrored the funereal tone of the night, had The Scruffy had a juke box “When Will I See You Again?” would have been a popular choice. Deciding to make a party of it we’d brought in cheeses, pickled onions and crackers. Our two young carers – Florence and Four Quarters – clearly thought we’d gone crackers.
Earnestly we discussed our respective views on lockdown as Big Al (Diversity Officer) offered us his usual lucid views on Bradford life. We sat and listened in awe; Red Neck TV had missed this one but we knew the BBC would not come calling.
Who else would come out on this foul night after such ominous words from Boris? Soon those questions were answered as The Odd Couple came in unperturbed by the lack of availability of their usual table. Homeless was also looking unusually sprightly in his favourite hillbilly dungarees.
With time honoured predictability, our cherished local began to fill, the punters oblivious to trivial issues like a raging pandemic. In came Malcolm X looking dapper in a sharp suit, making a late play to become the next James Bond.
As The Ship Went Down
Retired barmaid Young Bet -”oooh me back’s gone again Nev!”- was having another weekend on the lash with her man Giant Geordie. They gazed lovingly into each other’s eyes, awash with Snakebite chasers and tequila slammers, going down fighting to the last drop.
The Octogenarians wandered in with no fear of being refused a table as the rain poured down relentlessly. If this was to be our last supper, we would squeeze the pips until the Boris Bell tolled.
As the beers flowed, so did a form of temporary bravado/insanity. Surely we could meet on a driveway, technically not a garden, without Boris knowing? Obviously we had not factored in the realities of frail middle-aged bladders and peeing targeting a bucket in the dark; it was back to Zoom.
Double Lockdown
With Luckless Linda now embedded as Big Al’s live-in carer we hoped he’d got rid of the pub curtains. It was Tuesday morning as I awoke to see with horror the dreaded £12bn Cummins App flashing at my bedside.
“Stay in! You must not go to Barnard Castle for 12 days! If you do, lie your backside off!” A local had tested positive but the closest I had been was in the new Airbnb tent outside the pub at minus 5C. Sadly, it was the isolation tank for me.
After a brutally long first week, respite was afforded with a return to Zoom. It had not taken Patch long to ditch the diet and a packet of chocolate digestives stood no chance.
Big Al had joined me in lockdown causing Luckless to flee to her mothers so quickly she’d not even put up the new curtains. It was darkness on the edge of town. Despite problems with his true love – Sheffield United – Five Pints was in good form. Our IT guru was keen to show off his new companion called Alexa.
“Whatever you ask,she will provide. “ he claimed.
“Can she put up curtains?” came from the screen.
Uncle Andy was beaming, having rid himself of his bush eyebrows with a wax. Light bounced off his bonce as he lifted his apron – he’d been baking: “Julie’s going to do me chest and if I like that we’re going t’whole hog…top and bottom…you won’t be able to tell!”
As Time Goes By
And so to the following week with Big Al in turmoil. Abandoned by his carer and minus the usual option of ignoring reality with a nightly diversion to The Scruffy, he had taken on the task of reading his gas and electricity meters for the first time in adult life.
In a panic he had rung me. “British Gas want to know if I’ve cut the cable as they’ve never seen a reading so low!” Nor had I but I now understood his carefree diet had a purpose.
Levelled Up
One week on and we knew our fates were sealed; Boris had levelled us up well and truly; it was London calling. Frozen out, the North was looking at a sober Christmas. Five solemn faces filled the screen, Big Al now resembling Captain Ahab, the bare curtain pole still on show.
Patch had been helping with the installation of a new shower screen for friends which had exploded into bits. Big Al asked instantly: “Are you taking it back?” It was time to call his carer.
Five Pints had been placed on suicide watch as his beloved Blades had suffered yet another loss. Uncle Andy, fresh from a head polish, shared his pain with The Bantams losing again too; a long winter of discontent lay ahead.
Patch was looking nervous as his young trophy wife was prowling the kitchen in her Santa Baby-Doll “desperately” (his words) trying to entice him upstairs. Knowing Boris had guaranteed numerous nights ahead he shovelled a packet of cheese and onion down his throat, burped and popped another bottle. She scuttled off with warming words of advice: “you know where t’spare room is!”
I hope you have all enjoyed Tales From The Scruffy again this year. Up and down the country life would not be the same without our fantastic locals and their inhabitants. When we get back to some kind of normality, perhaps we will value them even more?
A Happy Scruffy Christmas.
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