Knees Up Mother Earth bs-7

by Robert Rankin

And now he heard the words, “Goodnight to you, Campbell.”

  And John Omally made it away.

  Lightly and upon his toes.

  13

  John Omally for once didn’t sleep at all well. He slept alone, in the bed that was his own, which at least made a change for him. But he slept most uncomfortably. John Omally had much on his mind.

  He was puzzled and disturbed by the conversation he had overheard between Professor Slocombe and Mahatma Campbell. What had that all been about? The Apocalypse? The King of Darkness? Things that were blacker than black? Something beneath the football ground that had to remain undisturbed? And what had he, Omally, got Jim into? Mahatma Campbell was to protect Jim – from what? The blacker-than-blackers?

  Omally had considered having it out with the professor, but that would have taken more nerve than even he possessed. Omally revered the ancient scholar, and trusted him also. But if Jim was being used as some kind of pawn in some cosmic good-versus-evil game, then John could not be a party to that. Jim was his bestest friend.

  John Omally just didn’t know what to do.

  And when folk just don’t know what to do, they always do one of two things: the wrong thing, or nothing at all.

  John decided on doing the latter.

  Because John, like Jim, now had responsibilities. And to John, these were probably even more irksome than they were for Jim, for while Jim was at least responsible for himself, John was totally irresponsible. Although basically a good man, John Omally did do a lot of things that were not entirely good. They weren’t terribly bad, but they certainly weren’t good, either.

  “I’ll try harder,” said John, as he fought to get some sleep. “And I’ll work hard, I really will.”

  And then the thought of all the work that lay ahead of him kept him even wider awake.

  He’d taken on a lot here. Certainly he hadn’t taken it on out of a spirit of altruism. Rather, he had to admit – at least to himself, where no one else could hear him – that he had done it from greed, for the many potential pennies that might be made if the unlikely event of Brentford winning the FA Cup was to occur. There was Jim’s bet with Bob the Bookie, for one thing. And even if the team didn’t succeed, there would be the profits from the Omally-improved Stripes Bar, and the Omally-improved gift shop, and countless other nice little earners that were sure to present themselves to the aspiring entrepreneur who had a hand in running a football club.

  But now …

  But now it was a case of right here – right now.

  John had to organise a Benefit Night for the following evening and fill The Stripes Bar up with folk who were prepared to dig deeply into their pockets for a worthy cause that all considered lost. John took some comfort in the fact that he had made a single telephone call that evening, from The Stripes Bar, and it might just be that this telephone call would prove its worth upon the following morning.

  But it was all rather scary, this responsibility lark.

  And so John Omally did not sleep comfortably in his bed and did not greet the morning with a smile.

  Norman did.

  He was up with that lark that always gets up early, because Norman had a phone call of his own to make – to the Patent Office. Norman had all these plans that he’d painstakingly copied from those that had appeared on his computer screen, and Norman meant to find out whether any of the marvellous Victorian inventions pictured in these plans had ever received a patent.

  Because if they hadn’t …!

  Norman hoisted the bundle of newly delivered Brentford Mercurys on to his counter, took out his reproduction Sword of Boda paper knife, cut away the twine bindings, pressed apart the waxed brown paper and exposed the day’s front-page news.

  “A hard rain’s gonna fall!” exclaimed the shopkeeper, in no small surprise, as he read the headline: BRENTFORD DESTINED TO WIN FA CUP.

  An hour later, Neville read this selfsame headline and the text that was printed beneath it. And Neville the part-time barman ground his teeth and loosened an expensive filling.

  And at approximately the same time, Bob the Bookie viewed the front page of the Brentford Mercury and did grindings of his teeth, loosening an even more expensive filling.

  And shortly after that, Jim Pooley, a man for whom sleep was becoming little more than a precious memory, also read this headline and the text that was printed beneath it. Jim read it whilst sitting in his office and wondering what he should be doing with himself for the day. And Pooley smiled hugely unto himself and said, “Nice one, John, you’re certainly doing your job.”

  “Your job,” said Lily Marlene as she turned up her well-lashed eyes from the newspaper towards the customer who now stood before her counter in The Plume Café, “is apparently personal assistant to Brentford’s new manager, ‘a gentleman’ – and I quote from the Mercury – ‘who is employing a revolutionary approach to the beautiful game, honing the team to perfect fitness and investing them with a will to win that will make them unbeatable this season’.”

  “This is apparently the case,” said John Omally, smiling his winning smile.

  “All rather sudden, isn’t it?”

  “Grasp the nettle,” said John, miming the grasping thereof. “Seize the moment and things of that nature, generally.”

  “And yet the last time we met, you were buying dodgy fags off a dodgy salesman.”

  “All above board,” said John. “Would you care for a few packs to put behind the counter?”

  Lil shook her peroxide head, showering John with pheromones. “And I quote,” she continued, “‘Mr Omally is organising a fund-raising Night of the Stars, a charity auction with A-list celebrities and live music from “name bands”. A splendid time is guaranteed for all.’”

  “Stripes Bar tonight,” said John. “It will be my honour to act as your escort, if you would deign to grace this auspicious occasion with your divine presence.”

  “John,” said Lily Marlene, “this is one bash I wouldn’t miss for the world.”

  “Splendid,” said John. “I’ll be round here at seven-thirty to drive you there myself.”

  “I didn’t know you had a car.”

  “I don’t,” said John, “but I’ve got a big whip.”[13]

  “A whip-round?” said Mr Kay of Kay’s Electrical Stores in the High Street. “Naturally I’m aware of the concept. It’s just that I’ve never actually …”

  “For the club,” said John Omally, who now stood before Mr Kay’s counter. “Every tradesman, and woman, is putting in. I’ve just come from The Plume – Lily is offering her support.”

  “Oh,” said Mr Kay, and he sighed. “Lily,” he said, in a sighing voice.

  “It’s called sponsorship,” John continued. “You get to have your establishment advertised upon the team’s shirts. That’s the kind of advertising that money just can’t buy.”

  “But I thought you said—”

  “I don’t want your money,” said John.

  “You don’t?” said Mr Kay.

  “No,” said John. “Perish the thought. All I want is that.”

  “What is that?” asked Jim Pooley of the man who now stood before his desk.

  “It’s a mobile phone,” said John Omally. “I acquired it from Mr Kay in the High Street.”

  “A mobile phone?” Pooley drew back in horror. “I’ve heard about those lads,” he said. “They fry your brain with microwaves. Otherwise normal individuals turn into burbling fools the moment they put one of those things to their ear. They feel compelled to call people simply to inform them of their whereabouts. They will be the death of us all. Throw the thing away, John, while you still have the power to do so.”

  “Enough of your nonsense, Jim. This little baby is all charged up and ready to bring fortune to the both of us.”

  “I am afeared,” said Jim. “Use it out in the open, lest the death rays penetrate my groin.”

  “No,” said John. “I’ve read that an independent committee formed from employees of the
mobile phone companies has declared these contraptions to be absolutely harmless.”

  “Well, don’t blame me if you end up speaking in a high voice and feeling the urge to ride Marchant side-saddle.”

  “I’ll use it outside, if it bothers you so much.”

  “It does, and who do you intend to call on it anyway?”

  “A-list celebrities. Name bands. All manner of folk.”

  “May God go with you, then.”

  “Thank you, my friend.”

  Now, there are friends who have friends, who have other friends of their own (some of whom, no doubt, live by a river) and John Omally had cultivated many friendships in his time – mostly, it is true, with the female of his species. John had an awful lot of numbers in his little black book and the battery of his new mobile phone was all charged up.

  Lunchtime found John still making phone calls. He sat now in The Stripes Bar, in the corner he had marked out as his office, in a chair he had acquired from Goddard’s Home-Furnishing Stores in the area of the High Street known as the Brentford Half-Acre. Mr Goddard had loaned the comfy recliner (the 3000 series Royal Damask model) in return for having his company logo printed upon the team’s shirts. The chair was a plug-in jobbie with a footrest that went up and down to offer support for the varicosely inclined and a vibrating doodad built into the seat for those who were otherwise inclined. John had the remote control in his phone-free hand and John’s feet were going up and down.

  “So let me get this straight,” John was saying, “you said to Val Parnell that if your name didn’t go above the jugglers, you would not appear.”

  John listened as further words poured into his ear.

  “And do you think you can get all three Beverley Sisters?” he enquired.

  Jim Pooley drank at the bar counter. He had no wish to interrupt John in the course of his business.

  “He’s certainly doing his stuff, isn’t he?” Jim said to Mr Rumpelstiltskin.

  “He’s switched breweries also,” said the barman. “We’ll have Large here on the hand pump by this evening.”

  “Bliss,” said Jim.

  “You reckon?” The barman shrugged. “He’s ordered enough beer for tonight to slake the thirst of the Queen’s Own Regiment of Foot, Fowl and Four-by-Two, and it’s not on sale or return.”

  “Beer never is,” said Jim.

  “The sort I always ordered was.”

  Jim shrugged also.

  “And crisps,” said the barman. “I never trouble with crisps. Too messy, crisps. They get in the carpet. I can’t be doing with crisps.”

  Jim cast a shufty around and about the dire establishment. There was nothing that crisps could do to make it any worse than it already was.

  “And peanuts,” said the barman mournfully. “And he’s hiring in extra bar staff. Women, I’m told.”

  “Stop now,” said Jim. “You’ll spoil the surprise.”

  “And bunting.”

  “Stop, please.”

  “I don’t know where you are going to find all the money.”

  “Definitely stop,” Jim told him. “All will be well.”

  “I’m thinking of running away with the circus,” said Mr Rumpelstiltskin.

  “Am I speaking to the Tom Jones?” Jim heard John Omally say.

  “And who exactly am I speaking to?” Norman asked.

  He was in his kitchenette and his telephone wasn’t working properly. He’d had to wire it back into the box into which he’d wired the Internet cable of his computer and there had been some more scorching of the fingertips involved.

  “Ah yes,” said Norman. “The Patent Office, Mr Parker … Pardon? Oh yes, I see, Percy Parker the patents person – rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it? I said, ‘It rolls off the tongue.’ Yes. Listen, I have to talk to you about a number of inventions. I want to know whether patents have ever been taken out on them. Pardon? Oh yes, I see, you’re the man to ask. Right then. Sorry, what? Ask you then? Yes, I will.”

  “Will I what?” Neville stared across the saloon bar counter of The Flying Swan at Old Pete, who stood smiling before him. “I thought I told you that you were barred for a week.”

  “You did,” said Old Pete, who today actually smelt of old peat, for he had been turning his allotment beds.

  “And you want me to do what?” Neville asked.

  “Just put one of these up in your window and a bundle of these on your counter.” Old Pete proffered papers.

  “Are they pamphlets?” asked Councillor Doveston, who had just popped in for a swift half-dozen before settling in for his afternoon snooze.

  “Flyers,” said Old Pete, thrusting one in the councillor’s direction.

  “About bees, by any chance?”

  “The Brentford Bees,” said Old Pete. “There’s a benefit fund-raising night this evening at The Stripes Bar. John Omally had these pamphlets run up on the library photocopier. I’m giving them out in return for free entrance to the event. Cheap beer and A-list celebrities.”

  “Out of my bar!” cried Neville.

  “Excuse me?” said Old Pete.

  “You heard me.” Neville reached for his knobkerrie. “Traitorous knave!”

  “Now, let me get this straight,” said Old Pete. “Are you refusing to display the poster and hand out some flyers?”

  Neville’s face was a sight to be seen. And not a very pretty one. “Out!” he roared.

  “You are saying,” said Old Pete, unflinchingly, “that you do not wish to offer your support to an enterprise that might save Brentford football ground?”

  “I …” said Neville. “I … never—”

  “You wish to number yourself amongst the vile would-be despoilers of our borough who seek to destroy our glorious heritage?”

  “I never said that.” Neville shook from Brylcreemed head to carpet-slippered toe.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” said Old Pete. “I dread to think of how dire the consequences might be for you if you had.” He mimed once more the throwing of a rope over a high beam.

  “Give them here,” snarled Neville, “and then depart.”

  “Are you not going to offer me one for the road?”

  “Get out.”

  Old Pete chuckled as he shuffled away. “Don’t forget to put up the poster,” he called upon his departure.

  “I know it’s a bit of a departure from the norm,” John Omally was saying into his mobile phone, “but please bear with me on this, there is a good reason for it.”

  Words of affirmative reply were evidently spoken into John’s ear.

  “Thanks very much and see you later.” John switched off his mobile phone and slotted it into the top pocket of his jacket. “All done,” said he.

  Jim viewed his bestest friend from the bar counter. “All done?” he said.

  John pressed a button on his remote control and lowered his feet to the unspeakable (but crisp-free) carpet. “All done,” he said. “Everything arranged.”

  “For tonight? You’ve done it all?”

  “You won’t be disappointed. We should be able to raise enough money to pay the team’s wages for the next couple of months.” John sauntered up to the bar.

  “If I possessed a hat, I would take it off to you,” said Jim.

  John Omally saluted him. “You do your job and I’ll do mine,” said he.

  “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you, John?”

  John ordered two pints from Mr Rumpelstiltskin, who didn’t waste his time asking for the money. “We’ll pull this off,” John told Jim.

  “I wish I shared your confidence.”

  “You just wait until tonight.”

  “It’s going to be a good bash, is it?”

  “I think I can promise you,” said John Omally, raising his pint, “a night to remember.”

  “Kenneth More starred in A Night to Remember,” said Jim Pooley. “It was all about the sinking of the Titanic, if I remember correctly.”

  14

  P.P. Penrose – Bre
ntford’s most famous son, creator of Lazlo Woodbine, the twentieth century’s most beloved fictional genre detective, polymath and genius, and a man who would die before his time in a freak accident involving a vacuum cleaner and a pot of fish paste – had been big in the sixties.

  In the music industry.

  P.P. – or Vain Glory, as those who knew then knew him – had been the lead singer of that seminal sixties prog-rock ensemble The Flying Starfish From Uranus. Who, through a number of personnel changes (due to what is known in “the biz” as “musical differences”) later became The Plasma Jets, and later still Citizen’s Arrest, and later later still Dada Black Sheep. And later later later still, and probably most famously of all, the seventies supergroup The Rock Gods.

  And although old rockers really should know when to call it a day, consign the Wem Vendetta speakers to the garage, fold up the stage clothes that no longer look quite so convincing now that snake hips have swelled from adder to anaconda, they really can’t.

  There is simply too much of a buzz to be had from getting up on the stage and doing it one more time.

  Being an author is a fine enough thing, of course. There are few finer callings. It is a precious thing, a special thing, to bring joy into the hearts of readers. Who could ask for anything more?

  Well.

  There is that buzz.

  That buzz that can only really be attained by being up on stage bawling into a microphone and working up a good old sweat.

  And there is the “woman thing”. The “fan-woman thing”. Because, let’s face it, how sexy is it being an author?

  Well, obviously quite sexy – some might say very sexy – but never on the scale of being a rock star. And call it weird and wonderful, or call it something else entirely (possibly due to the water and the direction it goes down the plughole) but there are very few rock bands (given, of course, that the members actually manage to go on living) that don’t continue to go on playing.

  Certainly they may be reduced to the pub circuit, or one of those terrible multi-band retro tours that always seem to involve Nick Heywood or Tony Hadley somewhere on the bill.[14] But they do go on playing.