The Curmudgeon

It was a fairly ordinary evening in the Beggars' Arms - it takes a long time for the Christmas spirit to get under way in Beggarsdale - when we heard a coach pull up outside.

Then there were a few yells, a snatch or two of a Christmas carol, and into the bar rolled 20 or so lads and lasses from over the tops in Crookedale.

"Tha's been invited to a party," said their leader, the blacksmith known as Iron Fist, and proceeded to order everyone in the pub a drink.

Now, two years ago, such an invasion from the Crooked Inn would have been met with deep suspicion for we would have suspected some plot afoot: this lot have always been suspected of stealing our rugby posts one November a few years back.

A year or so ago, however, the Crooked Inn went under thanks to foot and mouth. Some of their lads began to use the Beggars' and a sort of truce was declared.

However, as I reported last week, the Crook (as we call it) has reopened under the care of a posh young couple from Down South. And, it was to transpire later, the said southerners had hired the coach and sent off their lads to bring us Beggarsdalians back for a house-warming beer.

Well, it's nearly Christmas. And free drinks were on offer. So off we went but not without some chagrined looks from the Innkeeper and his Lady.

And, I have to admit it, the Southerners did us proud: there was mulled wine, hot toddies, real ales, and finger food that was truly exceptional: rare beef in olive oil and garlic, stuffed quails eggs and much, much more.

They even managed to find a slice of homemade veal and ham pie for Owd Tom when he refused to touch "all this foreign muck."

When the feast was over, Iron Fist got onto a chair and made, for him, a very long speech: "Although ah 'ate t'admit it, tha Beggars did us reet proud this past year or so. This 'ere is a little thank you for that - an' a welcome to ah new landlord and lady.

"But nah things are back t'normal, that's an end to all this fratern ...eh ...all this togetherness. So to mark the recommencement of normal relations, we challenge the Beggars' to a game of rugby on Sunday next, followed by beer, darts, doms and skittles. Losers buy the ale..."

With that, they loaded us back on the coach and sent us home again, this time with a magnum of champagne for the Innkeeper and his Lady back at the Beggars' along with an invitation for a free dinner for two at the Crook.

Just whose idea all this was is still a matter of conjecture. The popular belief is that it was the Crook rugby lads, still smarting from the thrashing we gave them when we last played two Christmases ago.

But what if it was those two Southerners? If so, are they after the Beggars' Arms trade? T'will be an intriguing Christmas, this year, now that normal hostilities have been resumed.

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