Knees Up Mother Earth

24

Archroy did not pop into The Stripes Bar for a pint or two to celebrate his unexpected return to Brentford. Neither did he pop into The Flying Swan. Which was probably a good thing, because Neville was having a bit of trouble with the brewery.

It was Tuesday now and Neville was cringing at the unexpected and truly unwelcome arrival of the brewery-owner’s son, Young Master Robert.

Young Master Robert paced up and down The Swan’s saloon bar, turning occasionally to glance at Neville before pacing on.

“Everything is in order,” Neville told him. “The books balance, as near as books can balance. Trade is good.”

“Really?” Young Master Robert ceased his pacing and turned his visage fully upon Neville. “Words reach my ear,” said he, “words to the effect that The Stripes Bar has engaged the services of a lunchtime stripper.”

“No,” said Neville. “Really?”

“Trade appears somewhat slack in here at the present,” said the young master. “And the present is lunchtime, is it not?”

“They’ll be in soon,” said Neville. “They always are – young pasty-faced office types. We get through a lot of cider.”

“But not today, apparently.”

“They’ll be in.”

“Then perhaps I’ll wait and say my hellos.”

“Cheese,” said Neville.

“Needs a pep-up,” said Young Master Robert. “This place needs a pep-up, something to draw in the punters.”

“We have regular trade,” said Neville. “This is a highly respected establishment, very popular with the locals.”

“A lot of no-marks.” Young Master Robert paced up to the bar counter and sat himself down upon Old Pete’s favourite stool, which was unusually empty. “I hear that the team actually won a match on Saturday.”

“Indeed,” said Neville, “and I am responsible for appointing the new manager, not that I wish to take any credit. Although if any is going, I will receive it without complaint.”

“Needs a pep-up,” said Young Master Robert. “Needs a new look.”

“It really doesn’t.” Neville found himself wringing his hands. He thrust these wringing hands into his trouser pockets. “It’s perfect as it is. It couldn’t be more perfect.”

“New look,” said Young Master Robert. “Pep-up. Vodka and Slimline.”

Neville hastened to oblige. “Please don’t do anything to the decor,” he begged the young master as he presented him with his drink.

“One thing at a time,” said the brewery-owner’s one and only boy-child. “Let’s start with the bar staff.”

“Oh no,” said Neville. “You’re not going to sack me?”

“Oh no, not yet, but the place needs a little colour. And if The Stripes has strippers, then The Flying Swan needs ladies, too.”

“Not strippers,” said Neville. “Anything but strippers.”

“Not strippers, but female bar staff.”

Neville flinched, horribly. He’d never met a woman yet who could draw a decent pint.

“Female bar staff?” he said in a tremulous tone.

“Topless female bar staff,” said Young Master Robert.

“By the shades of the seraphim,” said Jim Pooley, for Dr Strange Comics were rarely far from his mind these days, “that lady has very large bosoms.”

“Very large,” said John Omally. “I agree that she doesn’t have much of an act, just sort of crawls on to the stage and tries to stand upright, but it works for me.”

John and Jim viewed the stripper, as did the large male contingent that thronged The Stripes Bar. Which included, upon this occasion, the now legendary Ivor Biggun.

“A decent turnout for a lunchtime,” said Jim.

“It’s a wonder what a few posters will do,” said John.

“Neville is not going to like this.”

“He’s a professional. He understands the spirit of healthy competition. Hey, look, here’s Norman. And who’s that with him? I know that woman.”

“Hello, lads,” said Norman, mooching up to the bar counter. “This is my business associate, Ms Bennett.”

“We’ve met,” said John, putting out his hand for an intimate shake.

“Have we?” said Ms Bennett, declining the offer of John’s hand.

“Champagne,” said Norman, “if you have any.”

“Of course we have.” John drew the attention of Mr Rumpelstiltskin, which was difficult as the barman’s eyes were fixed upon the bosom of the stripper. “Champagne over here.”

“She’s nearly up,” said Mr Rumpelstiltskin. “No, she’s down again.”

“Champagne,” repeated Omally.

“Cheers,” said Norman. “And get in further glasses. You can have some, too.”

“So what are we celebrating?” Omally asked.

“My patents,” said Norman. “I am shortly to be very rich indeed.”

“This would be the electrical business that nearly killed us all in The Flying Swan, would it?” said John.

“I’ve done a deal,” said Norman. “Signed the contracts yesterday evening.”

Mr Rumpelstiltskin uncorked a bottle of warm champagne and decanted it into champagne flutes and into John and Jim’s pints. “Can I have a glass myself?” he asked. “I’ve never tasted champagne.”

“Knock yourself out,” said Norman. “A friend in court is better than a penny in a purse.”

“We’re getting married,” said Ms Bennett.

“You’re what?” said Omally.

“I’m divorcing Peg,” said Norman. “I haven’t actually broached the subject with her yet. She doesn’t actually believe in my patents – happily. Even though the chap who’s bought them mentioned them to her on Sunday, she still doesn’t believe in them. Unlike Yola here.”

“I believe in you,” said Ms Bennett, giving Norman’s crotch a loving tweak. “You’re a wonderful man, Norman.”

“We’re soul-buddies,” said Norman. “We were made for each other. We’re going to buy a castle together.”

“And a yacht,” said Ms Bennett. “And Argos.”

“Argos?” asked Jim.

“It’s a retail outlet,” said Norman, “with very competitive prices. It has its own catalogue. Yola likes the jewellery section.”

“Well, I wish you both the best of luck,” said Jim, raising his glass in salute.

“Norman,” said John, “do you think I might have a small word with you?”

“You might,” said Norman, tipping champagne down his throat, “so long as it’s very small indeed.”

“In private,” said John.

“I have no secrets from Yola,” said Norman, and Yola snuggled against his chest and gave his bum a pat.

“Naturally not.” Omally made smilings at Yola that were not returned to him. “But it is a personal matter. If you’d be so kind as to indulge me.”

“A trouble shared is a bird in the bush,” said Norman, removing his person with difficulty from Yola’s caresses and following John to his office.

“Sit yourself down,” John told him and Norman did so in John’s lounger. “Norman,” said John, seating himself, “Norman, how long have we known each other?”

“Since we were wee small boys together,” said Norman.

“Yes.”

“With holes in our socks and tears in our trouser seats.”

“Quite so.”

“Playing conkers and scrumping apples.”

“This is true.”

“Filling our mouths with gobstoppers and slipping in through the back doors of the Odeon for Saturday morning pictures.”

“Yes, I remember it well.”

“Playing ‘knock down ginger’ on Mrs Smith’s door and—”

“Shut up, Norman, please.”

“Oh,” said Norman.

“My point is,” said Omally, “that we have known each other, man and boy, for a good many years and I am proud to call you my friend.”

“No,” said Norman.

“No? No, I’m not your friend?”

“No,” said Norman. “As in no, you can’t borrow a fiver.”

“I wasn’t going to ask you for a fiver.”

“Not a tenner, surely? Have you no shame?”

Omally sighed a deep and truly heartfelt. “I wasn’t going to ask you for any money at all – unless, of course, you’d care to invest a couple of million in a football club.”

“I might well do that.” Norman swigged champagne. “But I don’t get my money until Cup-Final Day. I’ll certainly give it some thought, though.”

“This isn’t about money,” said John. “Well, in a manner of speaking it is, but it isn’t that I want to take your money. It’s about her.” Omally gestured in a subtle and understated manner towards Ms Bennett.

Ms Bennett waved back at John, incorporating into this wave a subtle and understated two-fingered “Harvey Smith”.

“Norman,” whispered Omally, “would you say that I knew something about women?”

“If it makes you happy,” said Norman. “You know something about women. There, I’ve said it. If that’s all you wanted, I’ll be on my way now.”

Omally made an exasperated face. “Norman, I’m trying to save you a lot of pain and anguish here – and a lot of money, as well.”

Norman’s glass was empty and the shopkeeper turned it between his fingers. “What are you trying to say?” he asked.

“She only wants you for your money, Norman.”

“Who does?” Norman asked.

“Yola – Yola Bennett.”

Norman made the face of surprise. And then the face of doubt. This face of doubt became the face of grave concern.

“You’re just jealous,” said Norman, which went to prove that faces can be misleading.

“No, it’s not that. I promise you it’s not.”

“She loves me,” said Norman. “She said that she loves me.”

“It’s your filthy lucre she loves. She’ll suck you dry, Norman.”

Norman stared hard into the face of Omally. “Suck me dry?” he said.

Omally nodded.

“What, every night?”[30]

Omally would have thrown up his hands, but one was holding his Large-and-champagne shandy. “When you get your money,” he said, “if you get your money, you can have your pick of women. Thousands of women. You could have your own harem.”

“In my castle?”

“Certainly. Or have an extension built.”

“So what you’re saying is that I shouldn’t tie myself down just yet?”

“That sort of thing. Don’t make any rash commitments.”

“I see,” said Norman. And he nodded, thoughtfully.

“Word to the wise, that’s all.” And Omally tapped at his nose.

“Don’t tap at my nose like that,” said Norman.

“I wasn’t. I was tapping at my nose.”

“Oh yes, so you were.”

“So you’ll bear in mind what I said.”

“I will,” said Norman.

“And you won’t do anything silly, like get engaged to Yola or anything?”

“Ah,” said Norman.

“You haven’t!”

Norman grinned towards John. “No,” said Norman in a whispery tone, “I haven’t. Nor do I intend to. I’m not stupid, John. I know exactly what she’s up to, but I’m presently getting the best sex I’ve ever had in my life, so I think I’ll just stick with it for now, if that’s all right by you. Care for another?”

And with that said, Norman returned to the loving arms of Yola Bennett.

Jim Pooley joined John at his office table. He sat himself down and said, “All right?”

Omally shrugged and shook his head.

“Did you put Norman right on that gold-digger?”

“I don’t think he needed putting right. That shopkeeper has more savvy than a Sainsbury’s cold-meat counter. I think we’ve sorely misjudged that fellow.”

“Oh,” said Jim. “That’s a shame, because it occurred to me that we might ask him to invest some money in the club.”

“Forget it,” said John.

“Shame,” said Jim, “because the stripper’s got herself upright and she wants paying.”

“I’ll get it to her later.”

“And the Campbell has just brought me this.” Jim proffered an envelope. “More tactics from the professor, I think. The Campbell said we should put the team through their paces tonight in preparation for tomorrow’s game.”

Omally pulled out his new mobile phone. “I’ll call them all up, then,” said he. “Leave it to me, my friend.”

At seven o’clock, the team assembled themselves upon the hallowed turf of Griffin Park. Jim marched up and down before them, smiling encouragement.

The team returned his smile to him in a somewhat sheepish fashion.

“Is everything all right with you chaps?” asked Jim.

Shoulders shrugged and mumblings were all the rage.

“You look a tad, how shall I put this, uncertain.”

Ernest Muffler spoke. “Perhaps if you’d like to count heads,” said he.

“Count heads?” Pooley shook his. “Okey-dokey.” And Jim counted heads. “Someone’s missing,” he observed. “Who’s missing?”

“It’s Billy Kurton,” said Ernest.

“Our right-winger. Where is he?”

“Gone,” said Ernest. “Upped sticks and gone.”

“What?” said Jim.

Ernest raised his palms. “Went round there earlier. The folk next door said a removal van came in the middle of the night. They said he owed a lot of money to the builders for his patio.”

“Terrible,” said Jim.

“I know. I’ve seen it – it’s a terrible job, pointing all over the place. And level? It’s like a humpback bridge with the mumps.”

“I don’t mean that. I mean it’s terrible that we’ve lost our right-winger.”

“It will put us at a bit of a disadvantage,” said Ernest, “when it comes to us scoring goals.”

“Right,” said Jim, “but we won’t be disheartened.”

“We won’t?” said Ernest.

“We won’t,” said Jim. “A temporary setback. We’ll put in one of the substitutes until we can purchase a new right-winger.”

“We’ll have a crack,” said Don and Phil, the conjoined twins.

Jim made a truly thoughtful face. “You are absolutely certain that you qualify as one player?” he said.

“We only have one passport,” said Don.

“And one birth certificate,” said Phil.

“And one pair of trousers,” said Ernest, “although they have four legs in them.”

Jim perused the new tactics, penned upon parchment by Professor Slocombe. He’d spent half the afternoon trying to memorise them, but had failed dismally. “All will be well,” said Jim. “Trust me on this. We will be on home ground, cheered on by our loyal supporters. And with these new tactics I have formulated, we shall triumph. Now, they might at first seem somewhat complicated, but put your trust in me and follow them to the letter and I guarantee that we will succeed.”

“You promise?” said Ernest.

“You have my word.”

“He hasn’t let us down so far,” said Dave Quimsby. “The boss knows what he’s doing.”

“Thank you, Dave,” said Jim. “Now, how best to explain this, I wonder? Ah yes, have any of you ever seen a chorus line dancing? Like the Tiller Girls? Remember them?”

Blank faces gazed back at Jim.

“Right,” said Jim. “Well, form yourselves into a line, arms about each other’s waists, like so. Yes. No, not like that. And …”

It did take some hours. And to the casual observer who might have been looking down from the stands, it certainly didn’t look like football.

“It looks more like origami to me,” said the casual observer. “But then what do I know, I’m still on the run from the men in white coats.”

But the team worked hard, and Jim worked hard, and at length all was achieved in the unorthodox manner in which it was desired that it should be achieved.

“That’s it, then,” said Jim, panting for breath. “You’ve all done very well. Do it like that tomorrow and we will win the match.”

“With a bit of luck,” said Dave.

“Oh yes indeed,” Jim agreed. “With a bit of luck, we will.”

“So you won’t let us down, Boss?” said Dave.

“Of course not,” said Jim.

“There, lads,” said Dave, “I told you he wouldn’t let us down.”

“Of course I won’t,” said Jim. “Did you think I would?”

“I didn’t,” said Dave, “but some of the others were doubtful.”

“Shame on you,” said Jim to the others.

“They said you wouldn’t do it.”

“Of course I will,” said Jim. “Do what, by the way?”

“Do the thing that brought us luck last time.”

“Ah,” said Jim, “the pep talk on the field of play. Have no fear on that point.”

“No, not that, Boss. The lucky thing. The thing that brought us luck, that made us win last time. Sportsmen are superstitious, you know that, and once a thing is done once and it works, it becomes a talisman – a token of good luck.”

“Well, whatever it was that I did, I promise I will do it again,” said Jim. “What was it, by the way?”

“Wear your lucky Bertie Wooster suit,” said Dave.