'Nothing ever happens here...' (From Bradford Telegraph and Argus)

'Nothing ever happens here...'

8:42am Monday 19th May 2008 in Leisure By Telegraph & Argus

Emboldened by his recent success of his utterly fake "Polling Station" poster in the window of the Boilermaker's Arms, which had attracted unwitting would-be voters to spend money over the bar, Boris the Landlord had come up with another poster-based coffers-boosting scheme.

"Beat the credit crunch," read The Scribbler aloud. "Drink beer."

"Good, innit?" said Boris proudly, standing shoulder to shoulder with The Scribbler outside the pub.

"But is it strictly true, in any sense of the word?" asked your humble correspondent.

"Of course it is," said Boris indignantly, heading back into the pub with The Scribbler close behind. "It stands to reason, don't it? How much is a pint of Old Muff?"

"£1.83," said The Scribbler without even having to think about it.

"There you go," said Boris with a self-satisfied smile. "Come to the pub for a couple of hours, drink three or four pints. For that money you get to stay warm and dry, have as much nourishment as you need, and be entertained for the evening. What could be cheaper than that?"

The Scribbler had to concede Boris had a point, and with that in mind ordered another pint of Old Enraptured Ragamuffin himself.

He took a table in the darkest recesses of the snug, where cobwebs festooned the old gas lamp fittings and there were rumours that there lurked a Japanese soldier who still thought the Second World War was being fought. Then he pulled out his notepad and tapped it thoughtfully with the end of his pencil.

He needed a good story to get his teeth into, that was a fact. He'd been short of some exclusive page one material lately. The problem was, nothing ever happened around these parts.

He sighed and peered through the gloom at the bar, where Boris appeared to be serving beer to a man dressed as a panda. Either that, or it was a giant panda. The Scribbler shrugged and took a sip of his beer.

No, nothing ever happened. He began to doodle on his pad and heard the sound of a large vehicle pulling up outside. Into the pub trooped a dozen comely nurses, apparently asking for directions. They evidently took exception to something Boris said, and began to chase him in a frenetic fashion around the pub, slapping his head as they ran.

The Scribbler let out a heartfelt sigh as Boris brushed the nurses out of the pub. All he wanted was for something out of the ordinary to happen. It wasn't much to ask, was it?

Boris was waving at him, in a seemingly agitated state. The Scribbler waved back, bored. Was Boris wearing a thick scarf? Or did he seem to have wrapped around his neck a slimy tentacle, which was protruding from the door that led down to the cellar. Should he get up and help? But Boris seemed to have shrugged off the attack, and was beating the beast back down below with the help of a three-legged stool.

Boris had barely recovered when the snug was bathed in multi-coloured light, accompanied by a whooping sound, very much like the noise of a washing machine taped and played backwards. The door banged open and into the pub slithered a green, damp creature with one glaring eye and a bizarre raygun in its warty hand.

"City Hall?" he heard Boris say. "Down the main road, across the lights, left at the roundabout and keep going. Can't miss it."

When he'd finished his beer, The Scribbler packed up his notepad and made to leave. "Going already?" asked Boris.

The Scribbler nodded ruefully. "I need some inspiration," he said. "Nothing ever happens here. See you later, Boris."