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By Dennis Rookard We all have our regular local pubs, Somewhere were we're welcome and feel at home in. Mines the Travellers Rest. Now to be fair, for the first timer it's rather hard to find. being off the beaten track in one of the quieter parts of town., being hidden behind the as yet to be fully occupied sixties style shopping mall. But should you venture down New Road, you'll find the Traveler's Rest just tucked in between the United Reform church and the old Court house, just across the road from the Library. True it's not much to look at from the outside, a bit down at heel in fact, and sadly both inside and out, in need of a lick of paint. As is well known among the towns female population, The Traveler's Rest in New Road, tends to be a hard drinking male establishment. It's f bit of a spit and sawdust sort of place, and not a nice place for a sweet sherry. Now of course this is a fable we, the Regulars of Brentwoods best pub have done much to promote. Preferring in the main to have somewhere in the town to escape that monstrous regiment of women. As Jack our Bachelor Landlord says, once you start cleaning the place up for them, they'll soon be wanting a children's rooms, or worse wanting the ankle biters in the bar. If you want that he says, you might as well stock up on booze round at Summerfields and stay at home. Indeed he maintains the saddest sight is that of a husband staggering home, Sainsburys Tescos or Sumerfield shopping bag in hand, weighed down with half a dozen cans of larger. So you can imagine our amazement a few months ago, when over a few weeks, a strange blond haired female of mature years, took to planting her mini skirted dressed self at the end of the bar, always deep in meaningful conversations with Jack. Something was going on we thought. A view confirmed when after allowing her to help him behind the bar on one of our normal barmaid Sues nights off, she was introduced as the lovely Sharon. It was obvious that Sharon was becoming more then just a good friend of Jack. After all, the signs where there for all to see. Jack appearing clean-shaven, wearing a tie, and stocking up of a box of sweet white Spanish plonk for Sharron. It was not that the lovely Sharron was not a nice person you understand, we soon got used to her screeching voice that could smash glass at twenty yards range, or the over powering sent she used. 'passion at night' she called it. or even her dress sense which veered toward short mini skirts and plunging necked lined tank tops. No it was just that as the days went by, it was obvious she was leading Jack astray. Not that she was Jacks first female companion. Over the years he had had many, often vanishing away on long romantic weekends. but they never seemed to last long. Jack had his sexual needs and this was recognised. They were even welcome to perch of the stool at the end of the bar. But with the lovely Sharron it was a different matter. For little minx was laying her traps with care, with nothing less then the aim of luring Jack from his life of bachelordom into her web of marriage. It was the little things we noticed, the floor being swept clean of dust and ash, for the first time in years along with the laying of a new carpet, followed by the cleaning of the curtains and worst of all in her attempts to feminise the Traveler's rest. The little vases of flowers placed on the four ancient wrought iron bar room tables, each of which then sported sets of beer drop mats on the by now highly polished surfaces. Sharron obviously had more on her mind then becoming Jacks latest barmaid. No she wanted more, dropping unsupple clues around the place of how two could live a cheep as one, and how business partnerships had a better chance of working when couples worked together as a team. And even god forbid, the suggestion to Jack that a little bar food might help build up the lunchtime trade, as in her view the evening trade, (i.e. us.) was a loss leader. Yep, our lovely Sharron had read the landladies Handbook, and knew it off by heart. Something was going to have to be done, So during a council of war held on neutral territory in the Spread Eagle, we decided on a plan or campaign for Jacks rescue. The first stage we decided, would be the finding out of a little more about the past history of the lovely Sharron, who we all felt was shaping up into a right little gold digger. Fred our tame journalist got lumbered for this task and within days reported back that far from being single or even divorced, the would be lady of the pub, was in fact still married. It was not the first time she had left her Husband, for Sharron had a roving eye. Even better from our point of view, was that the loving husband was a long distance lorry driver, who tended to disappear for weeks on end on long overseas trips. Indeed Big Clive, for that was his name, was not only a giant of a man, but one of the towns legendary hard drinkers, downing a good ten of so best bitters a session. All of which left him in a fighting mood by closing time, and much given to getting the first blow in during any augment. So well known was he among the local lads in blue, that once tipped off to his whereabouts, that packed car loads of our local law-keepers would lay in wait in various pub car parks. For according to Local Police records, Big Clive was rated as being in the top ten list of Brentwood wild men, requiring during his many arrests for causing mayhem, which happened on average, about once a month, at least four of our brave lads in blue to hold him down. All this was of course, music to our ears. Even better from our point of view Big Clive was a friend of Charles our Trainee Village idiot. So it was a simple matter to persuade Charles to let drop in conversation with Big Clive the where-abouts of the missing Sharron. Come the next Thursday, and Big Clives next return to the town. Charles clutching a twenty pound note donated from the Friends of Jack campaign, went off in search of Big Clive, who having returned home and finding it empty of food and home comforts in the shape of Sharron, was propping up a local bar in great despair over the disappearance of the only women he loved. Well it was only natural that Charles should casually mention her where-abouts wasn't it, and it was only natural that having dunk his way though our twenty quid, he should flatten Charles on his way down the High Street towards the Traveler's Rest. All we can say is that Jack, can thank his luck that Big Clives progress through the town was seen on the towns famed Closed Circuit Television system, and the local law alerted. From what they told us latter. (We regulars having the good sense to opt that evening for the delights of the Good Intents Quiz night.) Big Clive very nearly took the door off it's hinges busting into the unusually empty pub to lift Jack bodily from behind the bar. Not that he got very far, for Sharron leapt on to his back yanking his head back by his longish hair, and armed with an heavy ashtray proceeded to smash him round the head with it. Spinning round, an action that sent Jack flying to crash into the wall, the three of them were soon at it, Crashing to the floor, fists everywhere and blood flowing in buckets. A situation not altogether helped a minute or so latter, by the fifteen of so lusty coppers charging in to get their share of the action. By the time they managed to sort it out, Big Clive was spending the night in his favourite cell down the nick, four coppers were nursing broken limbs, the rest back eyes and bruises and Jack a broken heart. As for the Lovely Sharron, the last that was seen of her, was by Petes good lady, who reckoned that on her next shopping appearance in Sainsburys, she was sporting the largest pair of black eyes she'd ever seen. Interestingly despite Jacks questioning as to who among our gang had grassed him up, nobody ever let on. After all, we had all had a narrow escape from the pubs feminisation, , and no way did we want the lovely Sharron back, did we! ENDS |
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