Scraps And Scribblings: Ladies and Gentlemen The January 2021 Story

by Richard Tearle

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN

It was one of those boozy evenings at The Feathers Inn.

There'd been a local band on and now an Eagles' tribute band were halfway through their set. Bloody good they were too.

Empty glasses congregated on our table – dead men standing. Mickey called for a toast and someone suggested Georgie Best, which was wholeheartedly approved of.

'Saw him play,' I said. 'White Hart Lane. Many times. Hate to say this, but best footballer I've ever seen.'

'That's something coming from a Cockney like you,' Roger called from across the table.

I sighed. I had given up explaining to these Midlanders that just because I was born in London, that didn't necessarily make me a Cockney. All Cockneys are Londoners but not all Londoners are Cockneys. On the technicality of being born outside the sound of Bow Bells, I was not a Cockney. Not far outside, but far enough.

St Mary-le-bow: Bow Bells!

'Yeah, well, you gotta admire talent wherever it comes from.'

'Ooh, he had a talent alright,' winked Moira. Moira was Stan's missus and, as the only lady present, an honorary member of our group for the evening.

'Oh yeah?' Stan. 'An' what does that mean?'

'He was – what'd they call it now? Fit? Yeah. Fit. All slim and boyish.' She cast a critical eye over her husband. 'Lovely hair. Cheek of the Irish.'

'George Best plays in a match at Villa Park,' I began, quickly followed by a chorus of boos and groans. I held my hand up. 'After a big win,' I continued regardless, 'he takes his girlfriend to a casino and wins about ten grand. So he takes her to a hotel and calls for room service. The waiter, he's a Brummie, - yeah? - knocks and George lets him in. The waiter does a double take seeing George standing there, then looks at the thousands of pounds thrown all over the floor, the chairs and all over the place. Then he sees Miss World lying on the bed. He looks at her, back to the money, then George and finally the champagne and caviar he's just brought up. Sadly he shakes his head. 'Jesus, George,' he says, 'where did it all go wrong?'

A guffaw and a couple of hearty laughs made the story worth telling.

The band were playing Lyin' Eyes. That lead guitarist with the chequered shirt and the Gibson Les Paul nailed the solo perfectly.

Len got up from his seat. 'Same again, lads? My shout?'

When he returned, Stan called for another toast. 'Michael Caine?' I offered.

'Michael Caine it is.'

We chorused his name, took a long draft from our refilled glasses and banged them down on the table.

'So there's me, Michael Caine and Ivor Emmanuel at Rorke's drift...'

I never got to finish the joke. Or rather, Stan finished it for me. Rather prematurely. 'Oh for God's sake, Ivor! Sing something they know.'

'You've heard it before,' I muttered miserably.

'Just a few times,' Mickey informed me and everybody laughed.

'And I thought that not a lot o' people knew that' I said in my best Michael Caine impression.

'You were only supposed to blow the bloody doors off,' Len yelled out. Which didn't really work because Len was as Brummie as hell and didn't even attempt my accent.

It's what we did, our little gang. We met up at The Feathers every Friday night to listen to the music, tell tales and drink ourselves sober after a hard week at work. Just a group of old mates having a jolly night out together. We didn't upset or harm anyone and if we got a bit loud at times – well there were plenty louder than us. The game was that we would buy our rounds in strict rotation and call for a toast. Anyone of worthy note would do and we would drink their health, living or dead.

I went to the loo and then outside for a cigarette. I reckon pubs lost a lot of business when the smoking ban was made. Alright, no politics. Just my opinion.

I wasn't quite drunk, but it wouldn't take too much more. And It was my shout next.

Back inside, the heat hit me and I slumped back in my chair. The thumping of glasses was a gentle reminder that it was indeed my round. I drained my pint. I stood up and shouldered my way to the bar.

'Same again?' asked the barmaid.

I nodded. 'Thanks, Vicky. One for yourself?' She did well out of us but she deserved it. Always smiling and friendly. A good barmaid.

The band were playing Take it Easy.

I took the drinks back and sat down.

'Toast! Toast! Toast!' came the chorus.

I rubbed my forehead, held my glass up. 'Ladies and gentlemen, a toast to … ' I went blank for a second. A name from the past crept into my head. 'To … Ginny Haywood!'

'Ginny Haywood' they chorused. Then: 'Who's Ginny Haywood?'

'An old flame, I reckon,' said Moira. 'You old dog you!' but she raised her glass again and winked.

I laughed. 'No, bless you. Nearly, but not quite.' I paused for a moment. Reflecting. 'Let me tell you about Ginny Haywood.'

'Here we go,' Stan said.

'No, no!' I assured them. 'No joke. All true.'

I composed myself. 'Take a look around you. Take a look at the women here. How many are wearing skirts?'

In truth, in this crowded bar, there were only about two or three so attired.

'Not many eh? Now for better or worse – for us men that is – Ginny Haywood is the woman responsible for this state of affairs. A true champion of Female Equality. Should have a medal struck for her. Or a statue.'

'Get on with it,' said Mickey.

I sipped my pint. 'Back in the sixties,' I began, a lot of things changed. We had the Beatles, the Stones, Angry Young Men in the cinema and a girl called Mary Quant invented the mini skirt. Now, most of you will remember when all the women wore skirts. But you never saw their knees, did you?'

'Nor anything else,' Len interrupted.

'Precisely!' I raised my pint to him. 'Until Ginny Haywood wore her mini skirt into work. I'll never forget it. It was very short, way above the knee and it was patterned with alternate black and white squares. We called it the Draught Board.' I paused to let that sink in.

'She had three or four of them, mostly plain, one was Tartan, but the Draught Board was the one I remember most. Of course it brought a lot of glances. Well, stares, to be honest. And not just from us lads either. Our boss used to send her to the typing pool, two floors above us, three or four times a day. Miraculously there would suddenly be various colleagues of his just happening to pass by as she climbed the stairs.'

'Dirty sods,' Moira exclaimed.

'Hoping to see her stocking tops, I suppose,' observed Mickey.

I shook my head. 'Someone had invented tights by then. Anyway, it wasn't just the men who were watching Ginny. The women too. Suddenly their skirts became shorter, though never as short as Ginny's.'

'Excuse me,' said Moira, 'but how, then, is this Ginny Whossname a champion for women's equality?'

'Well, I'll tell you, if you give me the chance.' I waited for silence from them. 'OK. You see, the older women, those who either openly disapproved or were too self conscious to wear one, were up in arms about it.'

The familiar and perfectly replicated intro to Witchy Woman rang out.

'And some of those who dipped their foot in the water, as it were, were also experiencing the same ogling looks and an unwanted audience at the foot of each flight of stairs. So they complained. Of course they were told that Ginny wasn't doing anything that was against the dress code, but eventually they came up with a compromise: for the first time ever in history,' I exaggerated, 'women were allowed to wear trousers in the workplace.'

Moira raised her glass.
'Ginny Haywood,' she toasted.

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