to end upon a feather bed,
you are very lucky indeed!
Fact 5.
If you thought Fact 4 was
funny, then SHAME ON YOU!
Fact 6.
When touring, the Cheekies travel
in a custom-built Dormobile
camper (The Cheekymobile). It has
its own inbuilt Jacuzzi and a
full-sized snooker table.
By the most tenuous of links Norman had once owned a snooker table. The improvements he had made to it in order to “up the game” had failed to impress the World Snooker Association, who had that year burned Norman in effigy at the Lewes Bonfire Night celebrations.
Ding, went the bell on Norman’s door and in walked Jim and John.
‘Gentlemen,’ said Norman, ‘you only just caught me. I am about to go off and join the celebrations.’
‘Splendid,’ said John. ‘We just popped in to pick up all the money you’ve taken from selling lottery tickets.’
‘Ah,’ said Norman. It was a meaningful ‘Ah’.
‘I will gladly purchase a carrier bag to put it in,’ said John.
Norman scratched his chin and shook his head.
‘You are scratching your chin,’ observed John.
‘And shaking your head,’ said Jim.
‘Well,’ said Norman. ‘Here indeed I feel we are faced with what I would call a conundrum. You see I haven’t actually sold any lottery tickets. I sold raffle tickets. My raffle tickets. So you can hardly expect me to contribute money I earned from selling my raffle tickets to any lottery fund.’
‘Bravo Norman,’ said Omally. ‘I could not have put it better myself.’
‘You couldn’t?’ asked Norman.
‘No sir,’ said John. ‘I have to say that you have taken a great weight from my mind.’
‘I have?’ said Norman.
‘Yes indeed,’ said John. ‘Frankly this entire lottery ticket business was a terrible burden. Poor Jim here has been nearly tearing his hair out with the worry of it all.’
‘I have?’ said Jim.
‘You have,’ said John.
‘But,’ said John. ‘You, Norman, have put it all to rights. When I take to the stage at The Butts Estate this evening at eight o’clock sharp, it will be a great relief for me to say that due to a technical oversight no official lottery tickets at all have been sold. Only raffle tickets, your raffle tickets. From your shop.’
Norman shifted uneasily in his work coat.
‘Naturally there will be some sorrow amongst those who purchased raffle tickets hoping to nab that five-thousand-pound prize, but I am sure that you will find words of comfort to offer them when they appear upon your shop doorstep.’
‘Do you think they will carry flaming torches?’ Jim asked John.
‘Bound to,’ said John. ‘And tar and feathers too. But Norman will sort it all out for them, because they are Norman’s raffle tickets. Thank goodness we are no longer involved. Farewell Norman.’
‘Oh dear me,’ said the shopkeeper.
‘Of course these horrors, the burnings, the tar and feathering, the possible loss of life might be averted.’
‘They might?’ said Norman.
‘They might,’ said John. ‘Allow me to explain.’
Old Pete was quietly watering his monkeys when three shadows fell upon his plot.
The old one viewed his visitors with a red-rimmed quizzical eye. There stood Norman, out of his shop but still in his shop coat, looking somewhat twitchy. Beside him Omally in Pooley’s best suit, a bulging carrier bag clutched to his chest. And there was Jim, who was simply Jim, the way Jim always was.
‘Well blow me down,’ said Old Pete. ‘It’s the Three Stooges. Are you planning a comeback tour? I thought you were dead.’
‘Most amusing,’ said John.
‘Pardon?’ said Old Pete.
‘WHERE IS YOUR NEW HEARING AID?’ shouted Norman.
Old Pete dragged it from his coat. ‘It doesn’t work,’ he told the shouting shop man.
‘It does,’ Norman checked the device, adjusted the earpieces and thrust the whole onto the elder’s head.
A moment passed, then Old Pete’s face lost all of its grumpy aspect, became a thing of zen beatitude.
‘Oh my,’ said the ancient. ‘Oh wonder indeed,’ then, ‘what’s all that bloody racket?’
‘Celebrations for the opening of the ring road,’ said John.
‘Not so bloody loud,’ said Old Pete.
‘A big party in The Butts Estate,’ whispered John.
‘Well, tell them to turn it down.’
‘How would you like to earn five hundred pounds?’ whispered John.
‘Who do you want me to kill?’ asked Old Pete, for the joke was old when he was very young.
‘Humour,’ said Norman, ‘more difficult than—’
‘We dropped that,’ said Jim. ‘It wasn’t funny.’
‘Five hundred pounds?’ said Old Pete. ‘In cash?’
John patted his carrier bag. ‘Allow me to explain,’ said he.
The Cheeky Girls need no explanation. Their style, their charm, their talent all speak for themselves. Seven of the evening clock found them in the Cheekymobile heading round the new ring road in search of the Brentford turnoff.
By seven it might have been supposed that the all day party in The Butts Estate would be dying down and petering out. But oh, not a bit of it.
If anything the celebrating had become amplified with the arrival of numerous out-borough types to whom word of the on-going festivities had reached. There was good rocking out on The Butts. And as the word which had reached out all around and about included mention that The Cheeky Girls were due to make an appearance, the electrifying buzz of expectation heightened the excitement. That and the enormous quantity of illicit substances that were being smoked upon this special day.
In the all but empty bar of the Amphibian’s Arms four men and a dog sat and whispered in a conspiratorial manner. Although the dog was mostly keeping watch and was not involved in the actual conversation.
‘Let us just run through this one more time,’ whispered John Omally. ‘When the Cheeky Girls arrive I will lead them onto the stage and introduce them. You, Norman, will then bring on the bucket of ticket stubs. The Cheekies will dig in, pass the stub to me and I will read the number out. The number will be one hundred and one.’
‘Why?’ asked Old Pete.
‘Because all my raffle ticket books only go up to one hundred,’ said Norman. ‘So any number between one and one hundred would mean about three hundred people claiming the win.’
‘You buffoons really cocked this up didn’t you!’ said Old Pete.
‘And you will benefit from this cock up,’ said John. ‘Because when I call out number one hundred and one, you will step up onto the stage and be declared the winner.’
‘But I don’t have ticket one hundred and one,’ said Old Pete.
‘No-one does,’ Omally’s voice became raised. ‘That’s the point of this deception.’
‘Only winding you up,’ said the old one. ‘And you want to calm down, Jim Pooley, I can hear your heart pounding away in your chest.’
‘Something is bound to go wrong,’ said Jim. ‘I just know it.’
‘Nothing will go wrong,’ said John. ‘I will be the one holding the microphone and I will be the one announcing the winning number. What could possibly go wrong?’
‘You’ll be fine, Jim,’ said Old Pete. ‘With five hundred quid at stake, believe me, I can assure you that nothing will be allowed to go wrong. Eh, Chips?’
Young Chips bared his teeth at Jim.
Jim just shook his head.
Sometimes things go so wonderfully well that you feel as if some power far greater than yourself must be smiling down from a blessed abode to touch you with its kindness.
Sometimes things go otherwise, but let us not dwell upon that.
The driver of the Cheekymobile, being a thoroughly modern fellow,
well-versed in present day technology, had simply typed the name Brentford into his satnav. The fact that the new ring road was not programmed into this satnav began to make itself known during the second circumnavigation of the borough.
‘I’ll take the turn off for Kew,’ he said, ‘and we’ll work it out from there.’
The Cheekies, playing snooker, did not hear him.
They first became aware that things might not be going entirely to plan when the driver drew up at the roadworks sign and found he could drive no more. Two great bearded sweating men were worrying the way ahead with road drills.
‘I think we’ll have to walk from here,’ said the driver.
The twin songstresses, in their sequined pink bikinis and their four inch heels weren’t keen.
The driver, who also served as roadie, minder, manager and Mr Fixit and who knew the ways of life on the road (having once served as Lemmy’s mole-wrangler) said, ‘leave it to me’ and climbed from the cab.
The adorable twosome peeped through a lace-curtained window and watched their employee engage in conversation with the two bearded men. Presently he returned to the cab in the company of these fellows.
‘This is John and John,’ said he. ‘And very great fans of your work.’
‘We are indeed,’ said one of the Johns, the one who had lately been Dave.
‘They have agreed that they will carry you over the newly-exposed cobblestones on their shoulders to the venue in The Butts Estate.’
‘With the greatest of pleasure,’ said John number two. ‘And at no charge at all.’
The Cheekies, each a sophisticated chanteuse and holder of a doctorate, viewed the two bearded workmen, each dust-covered yet profusely sweating and each stripped down to the waist.
‘Yes, please,’ they agreed, without further delay.
John Omally studied his nice new wristwatch. ‘They should have been here by now,’ he said.
John stood with Jim and with Norman to the side of the makeshift stage. Norman had the bucket of raffle ticket stubs and all the three men lacked for was a pair of Cheeky Girls.
‘They are superstars,’ said Jim. ‘You can’t expect them to be on time.’
John glanced once more at his brand new wristlet watch.
‘And where did that watch come from?’ Pooley asked.
‘Never mind about that,’ said John.
‘We want the Cheekies,’ cried someone.
And, as the music had stopped, this cry was soon taken up. ‘We want the Cheekies’, it went, growing louder.
The Cheeky Girls sat in the small beer garden to the rear of the Flying Swan. Neville enforced a strict NO SHIRTS, NO SERVE policy, but as trade was slack, being no trade at all, he had allowed the Johns to purchase drinks as long as they stayed out of sight in the back, where Neville stacked the beer crates.
Of course Neville should have been furious, because he had after all wanted Lucy Worsley to grace the Flying Swan with her cultivated presence. But when you meet Their Cheekinesses in the flesh as it were — Neville’s good eye had glazed and words of solicitation issued from his mouth.
‘It’s called Quasimodo,’ said the John who was Dave. ‘I think it will appeal to your palate.’
The delectable duo quaffed Quasimodo.
Monica fished into her bikini top and brought out a silver cigarette case. ‘Anyone care for a fag?’ she enquired.
‘WE WANT THE CHEEKIES.’
‘WE WANT THE CHEEKIES.’
The crowd had quite agreed on what it wanted.
With his hands clamped over his earholes, Jim Pooley shouted to John that now might be the time to take to the stage.
Omally, never a man to dither, did that very thing.
The chanting turned to cheers, because, perhaps, he had actually come on stage to introduce the lovely ones. Omally raised his hands and waved and reached the microphone.
‘Hello Brentford,’ he shouted into it.
‘Perhaps I should simply run away now,’ said Pooley to himself.
‘I have just heard from the event’s organiser that the Cheeky Girls are on their way,’ said John, in a manner most convincing. ‘Let’s give them another five minutes and if they don’t turn up by then, I’ll pull the winning lottery ticket myself and get the ladies to sing you an extra song when they do arrive.’
The crowd seemed satisfied with his.
Omally left the stage.
‘Does anyone know the time?’ asked Monica Cheeky.
‘It’s early yet,’ said a bearded John. ‘I’ll get us in another round before we hit the road.’
Old Pete stood before the stage with Norman’s brass contraption on his head. ‘Get a bloody move on,’ he mouthed towards Omally.
The chanting of WE WANT THE CHEEKIES had now altered to WE WANT THE LOTTERY, which to John Omally’s ears seemed most encouraging.
Back onto the stage and back to the mike went John.
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ he said to the crowd. ‘Let’s wait around no more. We’ll pull the winning ticket now and when the Cheeky Girls do get here we’ll have them perform a full concert, what do you say?’
The crowd cheered in a manner that left no room for doubt. Lottery now and then a Cheeky-fest.
‘Bring on that bucket of ticket stubs,’ cried John Omally.
Norman tottered on to the stage in his shop coat, holding the bucket of ticket stubs in outstretched hands before him. A slight evening breeze ruffled the shopkeeper’s eyebrows. A breeze sufficient to waft the stubs from his bucket and into the crowd, perhaps?’
But no.
‘Mr Norman Hartnell, everyone.’ John Omally shook Norman’s hand. Norman might have dropped the bucket.
But no.
‘Right then,’ said John. ‘I shall dig my hand in upon the count of three and draw the winning number. Count along with me if you will.’
The crowd obliged and John dipped in his hand.
He might certainly have upended the bucket into the crowd.
But no.
‘The winning number is—’
The crowd, as one, had their tickets out. The crowd was oh so silent.
‘Lottery ticket number…wait for it …one hundred’ (a great many members of the crowd gasped) ‘yes, one-hundred-and-one!’
‘Aw,’ went oh so many folk.
‘I have the winning ticket,’ cried Old Pete.
‘Gentleman down at the front,’ said Omally. ‘Give him a round of applause.’
In the spirit of the wondrous day the crowd did clap a little. There was a bit of cheering too from those who felt inclined.
‘Well done old chap,’ called someone to the rear of Pete and clapped him on the back.
The old one stumbled forward and his hearing aid fell off.
‘Bloody idiot!’ cried the winner of the lottery, dragging his hearing aid up from the ground and ramming it back on his head.
‘Come on,’ said Omally. ‘Give it up for the old gentleman. Brentonians are noted for their sportsmanship.’
The crowd gave it up with a quantum of vigour.
Old Pete dragged himself onto the stage. ‘Bloody hearing aid has broken again,’ he muttered.
‘Sir,’ said Omally, waving the carrier bag. ‘Come up to the microphone and collect your winnings.’
‘Pardon?’ said Old Pete.
Omally beckoned. ‘Come on if you please,’ said he.
Old Pete shuffled forward, his stick click-clacking on the floor of the stage. As he reached the mike Omally took his free hand and gave it a shake.
‘Congratulations,’ said John.
‘Can’t hear a bloody word,’ said Old Pete. ‘Just pass me the cash as we planned it you sod and I’ll be off on my way.’
The crowd, as one, heard all of these words as they poured out of the speakers. There came some mumblings from the crowd at this.
‘So what do you intend to spend it on?’ John asked.
‘Give me my money now before anyone twigs that they’ve been
cheated,’ went Old Pete.
Norman, standing so close as he was, was the first to notice that Old Pete’s lips were not moving.
‘Oh no,’ said Norman. ‘He’s got the headphones on the wrong way round again. They are broadcasting his thoughts to the crowd.’
‘How did the old geezer say that without moving his lips?’ shouted someone.
‘And what’s all this about being cheated?’ cried someone else.
‘And I was only one number away from winning,’ cried someone else.
‘Me too,’ cried numerous other someones overhearing this.
‘Hurry up, John, and give me the cash before this bunch of morons catch on,’ came Old Pete’s voice so very loud and clear.
It takes but a moment to move a crowd from merriment to madness.
And this was one of those moments.
Oh indeed.
18
The editor of The Brentford Mercury found himself spoiled for choice. This morning it had all seemed oh so simple.
X MAN GIANT SAVES
PRINCE CHARLES FROM
SPACE GREMLINS
And with only two major inaccuracies there it did not qualify as fake news.
But now, with all this going on…
The editor had lived in Brentford for almost all of his life and could remember many notable occasions. Brentstock, for instance, that three-day celebration of love, peace and music, held upon the St Mary’s Allotments, with such stars as Bob Dylan (not to be confused with the other Bob Dylan) in attendance.
And who could forget Cowboy Night at the Flying Swan? Or that darts match, during which the Great Pyramid of Giza (82.74 times the height of a Cheeky Girl) materialised upon the sacred soil of Griffin Park football ground?
Memorable moments.
But now, tonight.
The editor had so very many options, what with all the burnings and the lootings.
From the safety of a high oak branch, he viewed the mischief-making and as the crowd-turned-mob stormed the stage, marvelled that a single pensioner in the company of his dog could so successfully hold them at bay.
Recalling a comic book hero, The Wolf of Kabul, the editor penned these words, “swinging his cane in the manner of Chung’s clicky-ba, the ancient warrior split many skulls in defence of his carrier bag”.
The Lord of the Ring Roads Page 16