The Curmudgeon

To them, you see, blackout meant The Blitz. To me and some of the slightly younger older folk, it meant Ted Heath and the miner's strike back in the 1970s.

To some of the younger still, it was just a mystery, for they have never before experienced a blackout, so it was just a chance to mock the old folk - and have a good time too.

And to two strangers, it was a total bafflement. But we'll come to that later.

The blackout party, I should explain, was the idea of the Innkeeper's Lady in view of the fact that, according to the experts, this winter we will have to get used to power cuts.

This is because the fat cat directors in the electricity generation industry have spent most of the profits on their own "performance related" bonuses and handed the rest to the shareholders.

Sadly, this has left little cash to invest in new plant to replace the stuff that was installed half a century ago at the taxpayers' expense, when the industry was nationalised.

This has now been flogged to death, ergo we shall have to have power cuts this winter.

So the GBBBOP was thrown to kill three birds with one stone (stoned?): to let us locals have a family get together; to practise our blackout drills; and to put some much needed cash into the Beggars' Arms till.

Owd Tom and the Major turned up in uniform and entered wearing gas masks, which caused a few shrieks from the ladies, as the pub was lit only by a couple of oil lamps, some strategically placed candles, and the flickering flames from the log fire.

You could not see much of the latter, however, because of the suckling pig which was roasting over the flames.

Some of we junior wrinklies came in kipper ties and flared trousers or Laura Ashley long skirts (not at the same time, I should add) going back to the days when Ted Heath gave us the three day week - and lost the election as a result.

That, we remembered, was a particular gas because, over the tops, the Crooked Inn in Crookedale had just proudly installed electric pumps so that it could serve that awful pasteurised beer that was delivered by tanker.

On his first night, the power went off and he couldn't draw his beer from the cellar - so all his regulars came to the Beggars' for hand-pumped Rams' Blood.

Even Cousin Kate, the postmistress, looked pretty good by firelight. We grilled sausages on toasting forks, mulled ale by thrusting red-hot pokers into foaming pints of stout, port and herbs, and by 9pm, the party was in full swing.

Then the front door opened and, on the welcome mat, stood a pair of strangers, a man and a woman in their fifties, looking utterly and totally astonished.

The hub-hub stilled, a few whispered good evenings were said, and the couple eventually got to the bar. "Don't tell me there is no electricity in the village," said the man.

"Not tonight sir," said the Landlord, peering through the gloom. "It's a Beggarsdale Blackout Party do."

"Oh good, said the man. "We like communities that take their politics seriously. My name's Dr Durkin and we have just bought that cottage in Quarry Row across the road ...." Hmmmm!

* The Curmudgeon is a satirical column based on fictitious character in a mythical village.