by David Nobbs
Alderman George Cornwallis thought it was a terrorist attack, and hid under the table. Miss Amaryllis Thrupp fled. It was important, out of professional loyalty to the Theatre Royal Repertory Company, that her beauty remain unscarred. Jimmy ‘Lino’ Parsons hurled himself at the nearest protestor, slipped, twisted his ankle, fell, spraining his knee, and ended up, as always, on the floor. Craig Welting, the Australian entrepreneur of the air-waves, enjoyed the happiest moment of his life to date. He punched an attractive leftist activist viciously in the mouth. Ginny Fenwick sat calmly at the judges’ table, writing furiously in shorthand.
Rodney Sillitoe rushed out to inform the reception desk and summon help. Several fights broke out. Simon Rodenhurst yelled ‘Scrag them. Scrag them,’ from the safety of his seat. Ted did battle with one of the male protestors. Graham Wintergreen, completely forgetting to look bluff, snarled and scowled and loudly regretted that he couldn’t take part. ‘Bloody high bloody blood pressure,’ he grumbled furiously. ‘Can’t do anything with bloody high bloody blood pressure.’ ‘Calm down, dear,’ said his wife Angela. ‘Remember your blood pressure.’
Craig Welting grabbed a male protestor’s banner, and tried to hurl it onto the stage. Unfortunately, as he wound himself up to throw, the male protestor twisted him round, and he flung the banner right into the middle of the judges’ table, where it knocked his own large glass of vintage port all over Ginny Fenwick’s despatches. She looked up, stood up, hurled the banner back at him, sat down, and calmly continued to write. She looked as if she thought it was the Intercontinental Hotel, Beirut, and the vintage port was blood. The banner sailed far over Craig Welting’s head and poleaxed the hotel’s duty first-aid officer as he rushed into the room.
Rita watched with a distaste which. Ted completely misunderstood.
Mr Gilbert Pilgrim, the manager, could remain on the sidelines no longer. He strode towards the smallest of the female protestors and attempted to capture her, thus incurring the full and mighty wrath of the tall, handsome Melissa Holdsworthy. She strode up to him, grabbed him by the hair, and attempted to yank him fiercely backwards off the poor, overwhelmed girl. All that happened was that his wig came off. Melissa Holdsworthy, expecting to grapple with the full weight of an overfed man and finding that she was holding only a repulsive object which looked like a hairy frisbee, hurtled backwards. With great athletic skill, she regained control, narrowly missed three tables, swung round three times like a hammer thrower, hurled the wig into the air, and remained, arm outstretched, a magnificent figure, a Greek athlete in the first ever Olympic games, motionless, as if posing for a vase, while the wig sailed across the flexible multi-purpose function room like a dead chihuahua and landed smack on top of the bluff Graham Wintergreen’s bald head. It was the furthest that a hotel manager’s wig had ever been thrown onto a bald head by an avant-garde sculptress during a melee in the middle of a beauty contest on a Saturday night since records began.
By the time the in-house security men turned up, nine protestors had been overcome, and it was the work of a moment to pin the other six to the ground. Alderman George Cornwallis, monumental mason and mayor, realizing that it wasn’t a terrorist attack, surreptitiously removed all the loose change from his pockets and spread it on the floor. Mr Gilbert Pilgrim retrieved his wig, in great embarrassment, Alderman George Cornwallis picked up the change noisily, and emerged from under the table saying, ‘Think I’ve managed to retrieve it all. Good God! What’s happened??’ and order was restored.
The police arrived shortly after order was restored, and took the fifteen protestors away. The protestors refused to cooperate, letting their bodies go limp, and had to be carried out. At the suggestion of the duty manager Mr F. Lombardo, who had been conspicuous by his absence until the police arrived, they were removed by a side door to avoid bad publicity. Mr Gilbert Pilgrim, who was wearing his wig again and would never be heard to refer to its brief departure from the top of his head, was not yet up to such clear thinking, but then, as he would tell Mr F. Lombardo later, he’d been ‘in the front line’.
Since the protestors were totally limp and inactive, and the police took them with such avuncular kindness, it was surprising that two of the protestors later had ribs broken and one sustained a broken leg. The police said that they went berserk in the Black Marias, and only Paul, Jenny, Elvis, Rita and Ginny Fenwick had serious doubts about their version of events.
How much effect can protests have? It didn’t seem that anybody changed their minds that night about the ethics of beauty contests, or of intensive chicken farming, but several waiters and waitresses would never again feel quite the same about their manager, Mr Gilbert Pilgrim.
The night skies still wept for the town’s lost innocence. Inside, Rodney Sillitoe returned to the microphone. The lights were dimmed. Everything returned to normal. Well, almost normal. Many people found the behaviour of Rita surprising.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said Rodney. ‘I must apologize for the delay. And I would like to thank all those of you who helped to remove those misguided young people.’
‘They weren’t misguided,’ shouted Rita. ‘They were right.’
‘Rita!’ said Betty and Ted in unison.
‘Well, they were,’ said Rita quite loudly, but no longer shouting. ‘And after all they weren’t violent. We were.’
‘They asked for everything they got,’ growled Ted.
‘I don’t think they were right,’ said Rodney. ‘However, Rita does have a point about the violence.’ Mr Gilbert Pilgrim couldn’t stop his fingers from moving up to his wig. ‘They were not the initial perpetrators of violence. That is true. And I do have to admit to a sneaking admiration for their courage and passion.’
‘Is he going soft too?’ groaned Ted, and there were other cries of dissent.
‘No, no,’ said Rodney. ‘Please! My point is this. No violence was intended to us personally, so there’s no reason why we should let it spoil our evening, on which many people have spent a lot of money.’
‘Hear hear,’ exclaimed a drumsticks size controller, and there was laughter.
Rodney introduced, and interviewed, the three remaining finalists. They were Beverley Roberts, Hannah Macpherson, and Glenys Williams of Cambrian Chickens. He asked them how they got their unusual hobbies and ambitions, and many and varied were the replies.
The judges filed out. Both Ginny Fenwick and Amaryllis Thrupp offered helpful arms to Jimmy ‘Lino’ Parsons, and he availed himself of both, so as not to offend either.
After a few minutes, they filed back in. Edgar Hamilton handed a large sealed envelope to Rodney. The judges took their seats. The lights were dimmed. The finalists trooped onto the stage in their swimsuits, to yet more applause.
‘The three winners will be handed their awards by last year’s Miss Frozen Chicken (UK), Karen Parkinson,’ said Rodney.
Karen Parkinson entered, smiling radiantly. After a year as title-holder, she even woke up smiling radiantly. She was tall, slim, dark-haired, and was greeting the end of her reign with mixed feelings. It had been fun, but her impending marriage to one of the leading younger insurance agents in Dewsbury would be more fun.
There was generous applause for Karen Parkinson. The five finalists looked extremely nervous and, despite her views on the contest, Rita’s heart went out to them. Soon, four of them would return to processing feed, assisting promotion, stripping and trussing dead chickens. This moment should be the highlight of their lives, had been looked forward to as the highlight of their lives, would be looked back on as the highlight of their lives. Yet tonight, as it actually happened, they were miserably sick with nerves.
‘I’ll introduce the three winners in reverse order,’ said Rodney. Slowly, with fumbling fingers, he opened the envelope. Carol Fordingbridge thought her heart would stop. ‘Third …’ He paused. For a few moments he had absolute power, and was corrupted. ‘Third … Carol Fordingbridge, of Cock-A-Doodle Chickens.’
Carol’s heart sank.
Her legs were like lead. Third. Useless. Dreams of glamour over, killed in two seconds.
She did her best to look utterly delighted. The other four girls applauded vigorously and smiled radiantly, not yet sure whether to be pleased or disappointed that they hadn’t come third.
Karen Parkinson placed the third place sash on Carol, handed her the bronze poussin which would be hers for twelve months, and kissed her demurely on both cheeks.
‘Our runner up is …’ Another pause. More absolute power. ‘… Beverley Roberts, of Happy Valley Poultry.’
Beverley Roberts did her best to look absolutely delighted, when in reality she was bitterly disappointed.
Carol Fordingbridge applauded generously, and smiled radiantly. So did the other three girls, though they weren’t yet sure whether to be pleased or disappointed that they hadn’t come second.
Karen Parkinson placed the runners-up sash on Beverley Roberts, handed her the silver poussin which would be hers for the next twelve months, and kissed her demurely on both cheeks.
The classless Nigel Thick took many pictures throughout, from all sorts of angles.
‘But our winner …’ said Rodney Sillitoe. ‘… our winner tonight … the new Miss Frozen Chicken (UK) is … Denise Saltmarsh, of Choice Chicky Chunks Ltd.’
Denise Saltmarsh squealed with delight, relief and, it is to be hoped, but not over-optimistically, anguish at the price that she had paid.
There was generous but not enthusiastic applause at this controversial verdict. Indeed, the applause was mingled with a few groans and even the odd boo. What has happened to standards of public behaviour in this great country of ours?
Hannah Macpherson and Glenys Williams made heroic efforts not to look disappointed, and smiled bravely through gritted rings of confidence.
Karen Parkinson placed the winner’s sash on Denise Saltmarsh, crowned her with a hint that she’d have preferred to crown her in a very different sense, handed her the gold poussin which would be hers for the next twelve months, and kissed her very demurely on both cheeks.
The male judges had the grace to look embarrassed. Edgar Hamilton, president of the Food Additives Consultancy Council, had suggested that they write their first three choices anonymously. All four men had honoured their promise to Denise Saltmarsh in the confident belief that nobody else could possibly vote for her. They’d been dismayed when she had received four winning votes, especially when the implications dawned on them, and even more so when it dawned on them that the implications were dawning on everybody else. What price anonymity now? They studiously avoided each other’s eyes, although in the case of Edgar Hamilton and Alderman George Cornwallis, shame was mixed with pride at being shown to be still capable of it at their ages. The four male judges hurried home as soon as they could. It wasn’t clear whether Amaryllis Thrupp realized what had happened, but Ginny Fenwick certainly did. She regarded her earlier description of them as ‘a load of wankers’ as regrettably inaccurate, even by the standards of the Argus.
After the judging was over, there was a-communal release of tension. Conversation buzzed. The Crabs began to set up their electronic instruments on the stage.
People began to move around, but nobody moved at the table where Ted and Rita sat with Betty Sillitoe.
Betty was worn out. She’d lived every moment of Rodney’s big night. He’d be chatting to all the girls now, bless him. The time to worry about Rodney and attractive young women would be if he ever wasn’t seen to be so openly and unashamedly fond of their company. She closed her eyes.
Rita was worrying about Paul and Jenny. Ted said that they’d probably shoved off because they were involved in the protest. He meant this to worry her. She thought it quite likely, and it relieved her. How little he knew her. How incredible their long marriage now seemed! How little he could read her thoughts!
‘How on earth could you cry out that they were right? I mean … Rita … how could you?’ said Ted, almost as if he’d read her thoughts about how little he could read her thoughts.
‘Because it’s true,’ said Rita. ‘How would you like it if you were described as an ex-company-director, five foot nine, with greying black hair, bloodshot eyes, vital statistics 29–36–5–31?’
Betty opened her eyes.
‘What’s the five?’ said Ted.
‘What do you think?’
‘Rita! I mean … that’s extremely personal and very insulting … and inaccurate. I mean … really!’
‘Hasn’t it ever occurred to you that maybe a woman’s chest measurements are extremely personal too, and she could find them insulting?’
Rita pushed back her chair, and set off towards the bar.
‘Oh heck,’ said Ted. ‘I just don’t know what’s got into her lately. I don’t. Apologize to Rodney for me, will you, Betty?’
‘Why don’t you do it yourself?’ said Betty.
‘No chance!’ said Ted.
And Ted also went off towards the bar, leaving Betty on her own. She closed her eyes again.
There was a clunk of machinery. She opened her eyes, suddenly alert. All around her there was a ripple of astonishment and alarm as the flexible, multi-purpose function room demonstrated its flexibility and multiplicity of purpose. Four sections of floor, each with several tables on them, slid towards the wall. Two of the sections stopped, the others continued to swing round. There were shrieks of laughter and excitement from people seated on chairs which, it seemed, must shortly crash into the walls. But they all stopped just in time. A sunken dance floor was now revealed in the middle of the room. There was another clunk, and the dance floor rose until it fitted perfectly with the rest of the floor. There was a round of applause, which subsided somewhat self-consciously as people realized the absurdity of applauding a floor.
Laurence Rodenhurst had worn an expression of studiously lofty indifference as he, Liz, Neville Badger and Simon had slid towards the wall with their drinks. In fact he had frowned at Simon when the wretched boy, not content with drinking Southern Comfort, had let the side down by showing wonder and excitement at these absurd proceedings.
When they were stationary once more, Laurence gave Neville Badger a meaningful look, and indicated Liz.
‘I feel like a change of scene,’ said Neville, clunking into gear as smoothly as the machinery. ‘I don’t think I’ll be deeply worried if I miss some of the early offerings of The Crabs. Liz, would you like to come and have a drink at the bar?’
‘Why not?’ said Liz.
‘Good idea,’ said Simon.
Simon was just about to stand up when Laurence kicked him. ‘Ow!’ he said. ‘Ah! Yes … er … very good idea. You and Liz have a drink, Neville. Lovely stuff.’
Neville and Liz went off across the as yet unoccupied dance floor, elegant immaculate lawyer and hugely pregnant glamorous granny.
‘Sorry about that,’ said Laurence, ‘but Neville has promised to plead my cause with your mother.’
‘Ah!’
‘If what your friend Elvis says is true, I must stand a good chance.’
‘Yes,’ said Simon, without conviction.
Betty Sillitoe bought Rodney a drink, ready for when he returned. He needed it. He deserved it. She might as well buy herself one while she was about it.
Trade was quite slack. This gave the dark, intense Alec Skiddaw a wonderful opportunity.
‘He was in this motel with his second wife, who came from Nailsworth, well, I call it motel, it’s more a hotel with garages really, I don’t see the mystique of motels, me, never have, never will.’
Betty watched Neville Badger and Liz looking for somewhere secluded to sit.
‘Well, he hears this dog bark in the very next room – the very next room.’
Betty was wondering why Neville was leading Liz out of the bar, but she dimly realized that some comment was called for. ‘Good Lord!’ she said.
‘Well exactly!’ said Alec Skiddaw. ‘Because a) pets weren’t allowed, which he very well knew, and b) he’d k
now that bark anywhere. It was his first wife, the dog impressionist from Lowestoft!’
‘Good Lord!’
‘Precisely. Hard at it in the next room. Doing dog impressions, I mean.’
Rita had come back in. She looked as if she’d been titivating. Who for? Ted? Whoever it was, she was looking round for him.
‘Well, the moment he heard her barking, he fell back in love with his first wife.’
It wasn’t Ted. She’d spotted Ted and was avoiding him. ‘Good Lord!’
‘Exactly. You see, things hadn’t been too good lately with his second wife.’
Oh! Could it be Neville that Rita was looking for?
‘And he decided that things weren’t too good with his first wife either, because she only did dog impressions when she’d been on the sauce, which she only did when she wasn’t happy.’
And what was Neville doing with Liz? And did Rita know?
‘Well, to cut a long story short, next morning, after breakfast, because it was included, so you feel you have to have it, they ran away together. Isn’t that wonderful?’
Betty realized that she had been asked if something was wonderful, and she had no idea what. Still, it was presumably wonderful. ‘Wonderful!’ she said.
Alec Skiddaw beamed, all unwanted protuberances forgotten. He had told the whole of his story. ‘Precisely,’ he said. ‘They’re getting remarried. He’ll no longer be my ex-brother-in-law.’
‘Wonderful,’ said Betty Sillitoe.
Neville Badger and Liz were enveloped in a huge sofa in an alcove in the vast foyer.