call in at the Oak on my way home.’
‘Shall I see you there, say, about nine?’
‘Perfect. See you then.’
The Royal Oak was busy when I walked in. Ruby and Ronnie were sitting in the place of honour on the bench seat near the dartboard. Racquel and Sharon were at the same table and Natasha had stayed at home to watch
Charlie’s Angels
and look after Hazel. Duggie was mingling with the Ragley Rovers football team.
‘What’s it t’be, Mr Sheffield?’ said Sheila Bradshaw, the landlady.
I glanced at the menu on the chalkboard. ‘Just half of Chestnut and minced beef and onions in a giant Yorkshire pudding, please, Sheila.’
‘Ah like a man wi’ a good appetite.’ She was wearing a bright-pink boob tube and a black leather miniskirt. I averted my eyes from her astonishing cleavage and stared at the bottled shandy on the shelf behind her. ‘We’ve been ’earing about this metrication that y’teaching ’em,’ said Sheila. ‘Our Claire’s doing it as well at t’big school.’ Sheila’s teenage daughter, Claire Bradshaw, had been in my class when I first arrived at Ragley. ‘Ah think it’s wonderful what y’teach ’em in school these days.’ She leant provocatively over the bar and fluttered her enormous false eyelashes. I could almost feel the draught. ‘We never ’ad no teachers like you when ah were at school.’
Her husband, Don, ex-wrestler and built like a fork-lift truck, shouted from the other end of the bar, ‘Matriculation, did y’say, Mr Sheffield? Is it legal?’
‘Shurrup, y’big soft ha’penny,’ said Sheila. ‘It’s all that Frenchified stuff about weights an’ measures. One day we might b’serving beer in litres.’
‘Lads won’t like it, luv,’ said Don, nodding towards the inebriated football team. ‘They like beer in tankards.’
Team captain Big Dave Robinson leant on the bar. ‘Usual, Don,’ he said, and Don began to pull thirteen pints of Tetley’s bitter for team manager Ronnie, the team, plus the twelfth man, Stevie ‘Supersub’ Coleclough.
‘An’ that wants switching off,’ said Big Dave to Don, pointing to the television on the high shelf above the bar. ‘We don’t want no southerners ’ere wi’ puffy ’airdos.’
Noel Edmonds was presenting
Top Gear
at the Paris Motor Show. It was clear that the new range of Rolls-Royce cars, the latest Ford Escort and the turbo-charged Renault held little interest for these sons of Yorkshire.
Don switched it off and nodded towards three strange men in sparkly suits. ‘Entertainment’s jus’ arrived f ’Ruby’s party,’ he announced, ‘an’ they smell o’ fish.’
Troy Phoenix, lead singer and local fishmonger, otherwise known as Norman Barraclough, had teamed up with two of his friends who sold fish in Whitby. One had learnt three chords from his
Bert Weedon’s Play-in-a-Day Guitar Guide
and the other played the drums, or, to be more precise, a drum.
‘We booked a trio,’ shouted Shane Ramsbottom in disgust from the far end of the bar, ‘an’ three of ’em ’ave turned up!’
Stevie ‘Supersub’ Coleclough, proud of being the only member of the football team with any academic qualifications, spoke up. ‘No, Shane, a trio is …’ and then stopped when he saw Shane frown. Stevie had remembered it was never wise to disagree with a muscular psychopath who had the letters H-A-R-D tattooed on the knuckles of his right hand.
‘Who are they?’ asked Big Dave.
‘Troy Phoenix and the Whalers,’ said Don.
‘Ah’ve ’eard ’em,’ said Chris ‘Kojak’ Wojciechowski, the Bald-Headed Ball Wizard. ‘All they do is bloody wail,’ and he laughed at his own joke.
Little Malcolm Robinson and ‘Deadly’ Duggie Smith came to help carry the frothing pint pots to the thirsty footballers.
‘Ah’ve ’eard you’ve gorra new girlfriend, Duggie,’ said Sheila.
‘She lives in a posh ’ouse in Easington,’ said Duggie proudly. ‘She’s even gorra gazebo in ’er garden.’
Big
‘Shall I see you there, say, about nine?’
‘Perfect. See you then.’
The Royal Oak was busy when I walked in. Ruby and Ronnie were sitting in the place of honour on the bench seat near the dartboard. Racquel and Sharon were at the same table and Natasha had stayed at home to watch
Charlie’s Angels
and look after Hazel. Duggie was mingling with the Ragley Rovers football team.
‘What’s it t’be, Mr Sheffield?’ said Sheila Bradshaw, the landlady.
I glanced at the menu on the chalkboard. ‘Just half of Chestnut and minced beef and onions in a giant Yorkshire pudding, please, Sheila.’
‘Ah like a man wi’ a good appetite.’ She was wearing a bright-pink boob tube and a black leather miniskirt. I averted my eyes from her astonishing cleavage and stared at the bottled shandy on the shelf behind her. ‘We’ve been ’earing about this metrication that y’teaching ’em,’ said Sheila. ‘Our Claire’s doing it as well at t’big school.’ Sheila’s teenage daughter, Claire Bradshaw, had been in my class when I first arrived at Ragley. ‘Ah think it’s wonderful what y’teach ’em in school these days.’ She leant provocatively over the bar and fluttered her enormous false eyelashes. I could almost feel the draught. ‘We never ’ad no teachers like you when ah were at school.’
Her husband, Don, ex-wrestler and built like a fork-lift truck, shouted from the other end of the bar, ‘Matriculation, did y’say, Mr Sheffield? Is it legal?’
‘Shurrup, y’big soft ha’penny,’ said Sheila. ‘It’s all that Frenchified stuff about weights an’ measures. One day we might b’serving beer in litres.’
‘Lads won’t like it, luv,’ said Don, nodding towards the inebriated football team. ‘They like beer in tankards.’
Team captain Big Dave Robinson leant on the bar. ‘Usual, Don,’ he said, and Don began to pull thirteen pints of Tetley’s bitter for team manager Ronnie, the team, plus the twelfth man, Stevie ‘Supersub’ Coleclough.
‘An’ that wants switching off,’ said Big Dave to Don, pointing to the television on the high shelf above the bar. ‘We don’t want no southerners ’ere wi’ puffy ’airdos.’
Noel Edmonds was presenting
Top Gear
at the Paris Motor Show. It was clear that the new range of Rolls-Royce cars, the latest Ford Escort and the turbo-charged Renault held little interest for these sons of Yorkshire.
Don switched it off and nodded towards three strange men in sparkly suits. ‘Entertainment’s jus’ arrived f ’Ruby’s party,’ he announced, ‘an’ they smell o’ fish.’
Troy Phoenix, lead singer and local fishmonger, otherwise known as Norman Barraclough, had teamed up with two of his friends who sold fish in Whitby. One had learnt three chords from his
Bert Weedon’s Play-in-a-Day Guitar Guide
and the other played the drums, or, to be more precise, a drum.
‘We booked a trio,’ shouted Shane Ramsbottom in disgust from the far end of the bar, ‘an’ three of ’em ’ave turned up!’
Stevie ‘Supersub’ Coleclough, proud of being the only member of the football team with any academic qualifications, spoke up. ‘No, Shane, a trio is …’ and then stopped when he saw Shane frown. Stevie had remembered it was never wise to disagree with a muscular psychopath who had the letters H-A-R-D tattooed on the knuckles of his right hand.
‘Who are they?’ asked Big Dave.
‘Troy Phoenix and the Whalers,’ said Don.
‘Ah’ve ’eard ’em,’ said Chris ‘Kojak’ Wojciechowski, the Bald-Headed Ball Wizard. ‘All they do is bloody wail,’ and he laughed at his own joke.
Little Malcolm Robinson and ‘Deadly’ Duggie Smith came to help carry the frothing pint pots to the thirsty footballers.
‘Ah’ve ’eard you’ve gorra new girlfriend, Duggie,’ said Sheila.
‘She lives in a posh ’ouse in Easington,’ said Duggie proudly. ‘She’s even gorra gazebo in ’er garden.’
Big
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