“In that case I will remove your temporary shackles, but know this: you are not free to leave this establishment. You are here for a reason, a very good reason, too, might I add, and for your own safety and the safety of Buckfutters everywhere, we will be remanding you until you can provide proof that you are not, as we say in the business, a few sandwiches short of a picnic. Do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal,” I said.
“I will listen to your story in its entirety, for it is warming up to be a good ‘un, but my decision is final. If I deem you a risk to society, you must remain with us here until we believe you are rehabilitated, or at least medicated heavily enough to go about your day in the proper manner.” As he talked, he began the time-consuming task of unjacketing me.
“I’ve always fancied being highly medicated,” I said. “Those people are always the nicest. It’s like they don’t have a care in the world.”
With the straitjacket off and hanging over the back of my chair, and with pipe in one hand and a large glass of scotch in the other, I said, “This is quite nice, really, isn’t it?”
The doctor shook his head. “Please continue with your tale.”
“Righty-ho,” I said. “Now, where did I get up to? Ah, yes, we were back in the pub, and that’s when I started noticing that things were a little off…”
21
“What the fucking hell is going on in here?” I said as we stepped into The Fox, or what used to be The Fox but was now some sort of Foxky wine-bar. Multi-coloured lights illuminated the glass bar from underneath. The pictures that had previously adorned the walls – vintage snaps of Buckfutt – were all gone, replaced by weird modern art that looked like someone had just spunked paint all over a blank canvas. In the corner of the room, where the dartboard used to hang, there was a massive jukebox, and from said jukebox spewed a torrent of deafening beats and ear-splitting loops.
I turned to Danny Barry and, knife or no knife, said, “This is all your fault. By shagging Margaret Thatcher, you’ve ruined the only decent place in town for a pint.”
“How is this possible?” said Danny, for he was just as shocked as the rest of us at the sudden transformation of our local.
I marched across the room and yanked the jukebox plug from its socket. A beautiful silence fell upon the pub that was no longer a pub, and I was about to celebrate said silence when I was clobbered unceremoniously about the head by a broom. On the end of that broom was Marla the Stereotypical Barmaid, and she did not look best pleased to see me.
“What are you playing at, Marla?” I said.
“We have to keep the music on at all times,” said she, and she struck me twice more with the broom.
“Stop striking me with a broom!” I said. “Where’s Pete? I would like to speak with him regarding the strange goings on around here.” I wanted The Fox to go back to how it had been an hour ago, and I didn’t trust The Barry Boys to go back in time and unshag the then Prime Minister of Britain. No, we would have to do this old-school, with all hands on deck, so to speak, and lots of elbow grease, and suchlike.
“Pete died last year in a freak masturbating accident,” said Marla, and she crossed her chest, and what a fine chest it was.
“Oh,” said John. “So who runs this place now, then?”
Marla said, “I do,” and we all laughed, but then we all realised she was being deadly serious, and then we all said, “Oh.”
“Why are you all acting strange?” said Marla the Stereotypical Landlady. “If you lot have been at the drugs, I’ll have no choice but to bar you for the foreseeable future.”
“We’ve not been at anything, have we lads?” I said.
“Not us,” said John.
“We’ve had some,” said Danny Barry, from whom I expected nothing less. “But not enough to cause a disturbance.”
Marla slipped behind the bar – the bar that now flashed intermittently and made strange beeping sounds if you touched it – and said, “So what’ll it be, gents?” she said.
“Seven pints of ale,” I said. “It’s John’s round.”
“Of course it is,” said Marla. “By ale, do you mean your usual?”
“By usual, do you mean what I normally have?”
“That’s the one,” said Marla.
“Then yes. Seven of those please.”
As Marla went off to get seven of what I usually have, and as The Barry Boys retook their seats around the table that was now an air-hockey game, I turned to John and said, “This is getting out of hand. Pete’s dead, and this place…well, it’s far too trendy for the likes of us.”
“I don’t know,” said John. “I think it’s quite groovy.”
“The fact that you just used that word tells me that you’re not ready to frequent this bar, at least not without suffering the occasional kicking.” I glanced about the place, shaking my head and clicking my tongue. “I can’t believe it. Pete must be turning in his grave.”
“Here you go, boys,” said Marla. She placed seven glasses down on the bar, glasses filled with a luminous blue liquid and furnished with umbrellas, straws, sparklers and the like. “Seven of the usual.”
I examined the drinks thoroughly and came to the conclusion that I would not be partaking in the drinking thereof. “This is ridiculous,” I said. “We can’t let this go on. We have to do something.”
“You think we should call the police?” John said.
The door to the bar swung open, and in walked Constables Grimes and Whelk, the local bobbies.
“’Ello, ‘ello, ‘ello,” said Whelk. It was such a cliché, but then aren’t they always?
The Barry Boys, sitting at the air-hockey table, were doing their best to avoid eye-contact with the constables. This involved a lot of squirming, gazing nervously down at their own dirty fingernails, and whistling tuneless ditties. Whatever they did, it worked, and the constables turned their attentions to John and I standing at the bar with seven glowing drinks and nary a clue what they were.
“Mister Brewster, Mister Mackey,” said Grimes as the constables sidled up next to us. “Quite a night we’re having, isn’t it?”
I shrugged. “Not really,” I said. “Nondescript, I would say. A whole lot of nothing going on, if you catch my drift. Boring.” And I yawned, and John yawned, and the constables yawned because everyone knows you can die if you don't pass it on.
“Yes, well, we’ve had reports of some strange activity,” said Whelk, and he took out his notebook and began to read from it. “Strange flashing lights. Lots of engine noises. Fire in the road. Dinosaurs running amok. Vehicles from the 1980s driving around willy-nilly—”
“I’m sorry,” said I. “You’ll have to repeat that last part again.”
Constable Whelk cleared his throat. “Vehicles from the 1980s—”
“Before that,” I said. “Something about dinosaurs?”
He consulted his notepad. “Dinosaurs running amok,” he said. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”
I looked at John, and John looked at me, and we both cast evils toward The Barry Boys, who once again took to looking at their grubby talons. “We know nothing about that,” I said. “Are you sure these are dinosaurs running amok, and not just mutant hippos or something?”
The constables began to laugh. “Mutant hippos, he says,” said Grimes. “Like they exist!” And they laughed some more. By the time they had finished, I felt relatively small, but coppers have a knack for doing that, don’t they? “Anyway, you wouldn’t happen to know who that DeLorean belongs to, do you? The one parked outside in the middle of the road, still smoking with a trail of fire behind it?”
“A DeLorean, you say,” said John, scratching at his bald pate. “I thought they were a thing of myth? Like dinosaurs and drop-bears?”
“Don’t play silly buggers with us, Mister Mackey,” said Whelk, and he reached for his truncheon. “I’ll whack you with this. Tell him I’ll whack him with this, Constable Grimes.”
&nbs
p; “He’ll whack you with his truncheon,” said Constable Grimes.
“There’s no need for any whacking,” I said, and I passed Whelk one of the glowing blue drinks. “Get this down you,” I said. “And then read us some more from that fancy notepad in your hand.”
“We’re on duty,” said Whelk, but then drunk the blue drink all the same. Not to be outdone, Grimes snatched up one of the glasses and followed suit. They were a braver pair than us, that was for certain. Not only for downing the mystery drink with such confidence, but also because The Barry Boys were now a couple of drinks short. “What was in that drink?”
“The usual, apparently,” I said. “Now, about that report…”
“Ah, yes. Well, Mrs Quim telephones us at the station at approximately six of the afternoon clock.”
“Of course she did,” said I. Mrs Quim was Buckfutt’s resident busybody, a one-woman neighbourhood watch. She was a lot like The Punisher, if The Punisher wore beige cardigans instead of that groovy skull jobbie. “And what did Mrs Quim have to say?” I really hoped she hadn’t implicated John and I in the evening’s palaver.
“She said, and I’m quoting here: ‘There’s some sort of souped-up Capri bombing around the jeffing street, flashing and setting fire to stuff and making a general nuisance of itself’.” Constable Whelk reached for a second glass of the blue stuff, knocked it back in one go, and then belched. “We’re assuming she was referring to the DeLorean, which is now parked illegally outside. You wouldn’t happen to know how it got there, would you?”
I shook my head, and John did the same (only with his own head). “We’ve been in here all day,” I said.
“Liar,” said Marla the Stereotypical Landlady. “You’ve only just come in.”
“Yes, but before we came in, we’d been here all day.” I was starting to sweat, and the constables were starting to suspect. I could tell by the way they both reached for their truncheons. “Ask anyone…ask…” And I took to glancing around the bar, searching for someone to corroborate our claim. And there, tucked into a darkened corner, was Sid. “Sid!” I said. “Ask Sid! He’ll tell you.”
Constable Grimes strode purposefully across the bar to where Sid stood and whispered something into the old man’s ear. Sid whispered something back, and my nerves began to jangle. “He says he’s not meant to have a speaking role in this particular narrative,” said Grimes. “And therefore, he can’t substantiate Mister Brewster’s claim.”
“Well that’s a bit of a c**t,” said I.
“Less of the star-words, Al,” said John. “It’s not going to help matters.”
“We’ve truncheoned people for the use of that word,” said Grimes. “Nobody likes that word. Not even seasoned swearers, such as those boys sitting over there.”
“Can’t stand it,” said Danny Barry. “Horrible word. Should be banned, or at least made illegal in Scrabble.” Then he went back to acting inconspicuous. He was very good at it.
“Look, Constables, John and I don’t know anything about that DeLorean, and unless you’re going to arrest us, we’d like to be left alone to enjoy our pints of usual.” I was being brave, calling their bluff, so to speak. I really hoped they didn’t arrest us. I was far too pretty for jail. I’d be buggered senseless before suppertime. John would be okay. In that moment I cursed his male pattern baldness and crow’s feet.
Grimes and Whelk shrugged in unison. “We don’t have anything on you,” said Whelk. “Which is a pity, as you’d thrive in prison, Alan.”
“By thrive, do you mean limp and cry a lot?”
“Exactly,” said Whelk. Then he turned to Marla the Stereotypical Landlady, who was filing her fingernails and blowing bubble-gum bubbles, the way that they often do. “That CCTV camera outside,” said he. “You’re going to tell me it’s not working, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” said Marla. “That is precisely what I’m going to tell you. Hasn’t been working since Peter’s masturbatory accident and subsequent death. I keep meaning to put a tape in it, but you know what these things are like.”
“That’s a shame,” said Constable Grimes. “Because it’s pointing right at that DeLorean, and would have made our jobs a helluva lot easier.”
“Sorry about that,” said Marla. “How can I ever make it up to you? Perhaps some gratis pork scratchings? Scampi Fries? Pint of the usual?” She blew another bubble, this one large enough to envelop her head, should it burst that way, which it didn’t. Instead she sucked it back in. It was all very erotic, if you liked that sort of thing.
“No, we have to be getting off,” said Whelk. “Criminals to catch, dinosaurs to destroy, that kind of thing.”
I thought this was a good time to ask. “You keep mentioning dinosaurs. Surely you don’t mean the big cumbersome bastards with the sharp teeth and propensity to cause mayhem in ill-conceived theme parks?”
Whelk nodded. “How many other types of dinosaur are there, dipshit?”
“Thought as much,” said I. “Well, should we be concerned?” I, for one, was concerned as hell. “Is there some sort of protocol we need to follow to avoid being devoured by these things?”
“Yes,” said Grimes. “Don’t get devoured by these things.” It was good advice, but not the sort I was looking for. “And on that note, we’ll leave you to it. Do have a pleasant evening, and if you remember anything about that DeLorean, like who the fuck left it there, be sure to get in touch. Our number is—”
“999?” John said.
“Can I truncheon him now?” Whelk asked Grimes.
“Better not,” said Grimes. “Too many witnesses, and whatnot. Get him later when he’s not looking.”
I nudged John in the ribs. “Something to look forward to, mate,” I said.
The rozzers left, and those present breathed a collective sigh of relief. Over at the air-hockey table, The Barry Boys were becoming increasingly restless. “Take those drinks over to our new friends, will you, John?” I said. “I’m bursting for a slash. Would you care to come and give me a hand?” I asked Marla.
“I most certainly would not,” she said.
“Can’t blame a person for trying,” I said, and took myself off to the urinals, where I would have an encounter with—
22
“A tiny penis?” said the doctor.
“What an awful thing to say,” I said. “It’s an average size for a bloke of my height and weight. And I’ve never had any complaints.”
“Too busy laughing, were they?” The doctor stirred his Pina Colada with a cherry on a cocktail stick. I thought about snatching it from him and poking him repeatedly in the eyeball with it, but that wouldn’t do me any favours, not when it came to proving my sanity. Instead, I said:
“This story is about to really get interesting. Now is not the time for interruptions.” I refilled my pipe and lit it. “And where the hell did you get that cocktail from? I’d like a Sex on the Beach from the same place.”
The good doctor – though I wasn’t sure about the ‘good’ part, not yet – reached down beneath the desk and came back up with what looked like a rainforest in a glass. “All out of Sex on the Beach,” he said. “Settle for a Mojito?”
I told him that, while I would settle for a Mojito, I wasn’t too pleased about it. “Now, it was while I was in the lavatory, draining the snake—”
“Noodle,” said the doctor.
“Excuse me?”
“I believe you were draining the noodle,” said the doctor.
“I believe you’re mistaken,” said I. “Unless we’re talking about a snake-sized noodle.”
“We’re not.”
“Can I go on?”
“Please do.”
And so I did.
23
“Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh,” I went as the urine left my body. I chased those blue soap-cakes around the urinal going, “Pew, pew, pew!” the way most men do (just me?) and then gave myself the correct amount of shakes. Now, depending on who you hear it from, the acceptable amount of shakes
one is allowed to give oneself before it is considered wanking varies. My mother always said it was two. Two shakes. Any more than that, and you’ll go blind. For the longest time I believed her. I also believed that Stevie Wonder must have been a chronic masturbator, and thusly refused to buy his albums on those grounds. My grandfather once told me that no matter how many shakes you give yourself, there will always be that last little drop in the pipe. You could go at yourself like a jackhammer, but you’ll still get that wet dot on your trousers when you zip yourself away.
I try to find a happy medium. Six shakes while thinking about my grandma usually does the job. It was upon the sixth and final shake – and I wasn’t even rigid – that I heard, from one of the cubicles behind me, a sort of sick squelching sound. And also a growling. And I thought, as one does in such situations, that there was a simple explanation to it, and that explanation involved a couple of horny homosexuals.
“Get a room,” I said, and I banged upon the door with my fist, though part of me was happy for them. I had, upon occasion, considered becoming a homosexual, and not only because members of the opposite sex didn’t seem to find me attractive. I get on much better with men than I do with women. Wouldn’t it make sense to settle down with one? Get married? Adopt a Malaysian baby and walk around with it in one of those designer papooses? John wasn’t exactly boyfriend material, but I reckon I could take a good run at Mr Sidhu.
I was about to leave the ablutions when I heard a tiny chittering, high-pitched and alien. I’m not too clued up on the pastimes of homosexuals, but I was pretty certain that the noise I heard was not of the buggering variety.
“Hello?” I said, turning back toward the cubicles. “Is there somebody in there?”
Usually, when a person is having a poo, their feet are visible beneath the cubicle door, often trembling, sometimes with one sock on and one sock off depending upon the ferocity of said evacuation. I did, however, upon this occasion, discern no feet, and so I said:
“Are you an amputee?” I said this because even amputees have to defecate. I knew this because I’d previously looked into it on Wikipedia. “Hey, you’re not that blade-runner fella, are you?” I said. “The one who likes to shoot people in the bathroom?” And all of a sudden I wished I wasn’t in the toilets.
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