Yo-yo's Weekend

by David Brining

  18.

  The Lettuce Brothers Leap into Action

  ''HE'S at the Minster, you arse,'' snaps Rocket. ''Minster. You know? Big fecking church in the middle of the fecking city.''

  ''There's no need to shout at me,'' says Kos. ''I'm doing my best.''

  ''Well, your best's bollocks,'' says Endive, ''Bag o' shite.''

  ''I met someone once,'' says Chicory, ''Who found a bag of shite in a tree…''

  ''Look,'' says Kos, ''Do you wanna drive? Right. Shut up and let me focus.''

  The four clowns are stuck somewhere on York's inner ring road in their rickety yellow car, the one with the black bulb-horn, the folding windshield, the squared-off bonnet, the grinning radiator grill and the scarlet wheels. They have dressed for this trip in their best checked jackets and bowler hats and painted their mouths brighter red on whiter faces.

  ''Where the hell are we?'' growls Endive, adjusting his orange wig.

  ''I don't know,'' snarls Rocket, adjusting his blue wig. ''Somewhere in York.''

  ''Oh, very smart,'' says Chicory, adjusting his green wig. ''Very sarcarstic. You said you knew the city, you anus.''

  ''Well, I do,'' says Rocket. ''I just don't know this part.''

  ''Look!'' cries Kos, adjusting his violet wig. ''Staples! And MFI. We must be close.''

  ''You twat!'' shouts Endive. ''Do you think they'd build an MFI near the Minster?'' He presses the bulb of his plastic daffodil and sprays water over Kos. The wheels wobble as a Number 6 'Brown Line' bus lurches towards him.

  ''Bloody idiot,'' he growls.

  ''Don't you bloody swear at me,'' says Endive, hitting Kos in the face with a custard pie.

  The rickety yellow car swerves towards the River Foss and back towards a Vauxhall Astra waiting patiently at the traffic lights.

  They have already passed the hugely barbicanned Walmgate twice. Chicory has suggested searching St Margaret's Court behind the Red Tower but has been sloshed into submission with water and pies.

  ''Ask the newsagent,'' says Rocket, who gets a jug of water poured down his trousers.

  ''Ask that Canada Goose,'' says Endive, who gets a custard pie splatted in his face.

  Kos stops at the lights near Monkbar. The sign pointing to Sainsbury's is tempting. They might find beer that isn't John Smith's.

  ''What are we doing here anyway?'' says Chicory.

  ''We're looking for Yo-yo, you fat-faced twat,'' says Endive. ''We've got to tell him that Truss has the ring and that Constable Kipper's trapped in the Hall of Mirrors.''

  ''Why?'' says Rocket.

  ''Because, you big-nosed berk, Yo-yo's the good guy and Truss is the bad guy.'' Endive pokes at his orange wig. ''Do you want to end up on the wrong side again?''

  ''I don't give a monkey's,'' says Rocket, ''Long as I get paid. 'Sides, Truss is our boss.''

  ''Bollocks to him,'' says Kos, guiding the car into Lord Mayor's Walk. ''He's a crap boss. Do you remember when he held that Professional Development Session on Clowning?''

  ''What a load of shite,'' says Rocket. ''To develop our Customer Service Orientation Competency, hit more kids with custard pies and randomly squirt more adults with water. What a wanker. How long have we been doing this job?''

  ''Fourteen years,'' chorus the others.

  ''Exactly. Fourteen years.'' Rocket slaps the dashboard. 'Thunder and Blazes' blasts out of the engine

  as the windshield falls flat. ''Fourteen years. We don't need a tosspot like Truss to tell us what to do.''

  ''56% of our customers said they'd like more custard pies in faces,'' snarls Endive.

  ''Whilst 89% of our customers said they'd prefer more water down the trousers,'' growls Chicory, ''And all presented as a pie-chart with differently coloured segments.''

  ''Power Point bloody Percy,'' rumbles Kos.

  '' 'We have to keep up with customer needs','' mimics Endive. '' 'The most recent needs analyses show that most circuses are not providing what the customer wants.' ''

  '' 'The last focus group said that whilst it appreciated the hard work of the Lettuce Brothers, they would prefer to see…''

  ''Redder noses,'' Chicory says. ''91% said they'd like to see redder noses.''

  ''And floppier shoes.'' Rocket cuts in. ''93% of the focus group said floppier shoes. Do they have any idea how difficult it is to walk in floppy shoes, the bastards?''

  ''Now now, Rocket,'' says Endive, ''You have to be open to feedback.''

  ''Feedback my arse,'' spits Rocket. ''You know what my last job plan says? 'Will experiment with larger shoes.' My shoes are already three feet long! What do they want from me?''

  ''Professional development?'' opines Kos, as he passes something called the University of York St John for the third time.

  ''Do you suppose that was it?'' says Endive, twisting his head to peer back at Number 42, St John's House Bed and Breakfast, a large, three-storey red and brown brick building with two doors and a wide bay-window facing the City Wall from its corner.

  ''He's in COZEE NOOK, you twat,'' says Chicory.

  They roll to a stop at the Clarence Street traffic lights. Their rickety yellow car has stalled in front of a purple Ford Focus containing two pensioners and their overly boisterous chocolate Labrador. Rocket leaps out, opens the bonnet and pokes around with a spanner then he inserts a long crank handle into the radiator grill and winds up the engine. Kos steps on the gas. There is a chugging sound, a load of grey smoke and a sudden sharp BANG as the car backfires. The Focus's windscreen is covered in thick black soot. The Labrador blinks.

  ''Sorry,'' calls Rocket, wiping a circle on the glass so the driver can see out but instead of the driver, it's the chocolate Labrador who grins back at the clown.

  ''Hey,'' says Endive, ''We could get some tattoos.'' He is pointing at the '2 Ronnies' body piercing and tattoo parlour on the other side of the road.

  ''We are not getting tattoos,'' Kos says firmly. ''Rue would kill us.''

  ''Rue's gonna kill us anyway,'' says Chicory mournfully.

  ''Go left down Gillygate,'' barks Endive. ''Then turn left past the theatre.''

  The Lettuce Brothers move off. The Ford Focus follows. They pass the Salvation Army headquarters

  C

  E T

  R E

  E D

  1882

  and the motto in red brick

  BLOOD

  AND

  FIRE

  carved into the lintel.

  The foundation stone tells the clowns that it was laid by Miss Emma Booth on 10th July 1882. Another stone tells them that it was opened by General Booth on March 26th 1883. Inside the building a brass band is playing ''When I survey the wondrous cross.''

  They drive on, passing a Chinese acupuncture and herb clinic, a club called 18 CERT which advertises live music and a plasma screen, a shop called Noctule which advertises vampire shirts, Gothic equipment and Witchcraft and Wicca Magazine and a Private Shop where Endive and Chicory argue over the price of love- eggs and thongs.

  ''Catkin Silver bought the lot,'' says Endive mournfully. ''Reckon the shop's closed down after his visit.''

  Kos is cursing again. They are now at Bootham Bar. This is not a public house, but a word meaning 'gate', as 'gate' means 'road' (come on, keep up!) Here Gillygate, Bootham and St Leonard's Place converge outside the medieval gate and the art gallery. This is where Yo-yo encountered Mister Vanilla in the toilets, where the Ghost Walker shocked his listeners with tales of pedantic old bores, where William Etty R.A. came down from his plinth, where the Grey Lady strolled arm-in-arm with Miyumi. The traffic is grid-locked again and a red sightseeing bus full of foreign tourists, Americans, Germans and Japanese, is marooned among the Nissan Micras and VW Golfs.

  ''For feck's sake,'' snarls Rocket, parping the horn.

  ''Nooooo!'' cry his brothers. ''Don't parp the horn. For God's sake, don't…''

  PAAAAAAARRRRRRRRPPPP

  ''Oh
shiiiiiiiiiiit!'' cry the brothers.

  The rickety yellow car collapses in a heap of metal.

  ''You ass-clown!'' shouts Kos. ''You never parp the horn!''

  A bunch of blue-sweatered school-kids waiting on the pavement start laughing and pointing. Chicory kicks Rocket up the arse. The school-kids laugh harder. Rocket produces a custard pie.

  ''No, Rocket, not the pie,'' cries Chicory. ''Not the pie! We're supposed to be working. Not the pie!''

  Too late. The custard pie splats into Chicory's face and before the school-kids know it, the Lettuce Brothers are engaged in a full-scale pie fight outside Bootham Bar. The purple Ford Focus moves sedately away, the chocolate Labrador within looking longingly at the mayhem outside. But he can't join in. Hamish is off for walkies at Beningborough Hall where he will touch the electric fence with his nose at least twice and whimper for comfort for several hours.

  Custard and cream fly everywhere. ''Thunder and blazes'' plays frenetically from the remains of the old yellow car. Chicory stuffs a pie down Rocket's pants. Endive splats Kos full in the face. The school-kids cheer and holler. A couple of pies come their way, and, to their great delight, the school-kids are drawn in, a couple of the bolder Bootham boys starting it off by throwing cream back at the clowns.

  ''Oh,'' snarls Kos, ''You wanna fight, do you? Bloody kids….''

  The Lettuce Brothers fall into line, gunslingers in an old Western. The two sides face off across the traffic lights, school-kids on one side, Lettuce Brothers on the other, unfortunate teachers, ''Clowns to the left of [them], jokers to the right, stuck in the middle…''

  ''I'll never take another Year 8 trip anywhere ever again,'' moans Mister Mealey.

  ''Nor me,'' gasps Miss Mousey, raising her arm to ward off the custard pie deluge. ''Joshua Green, don't you dare….''