Knees Up Mother Earth bs-7

by Robert Rankin

  “Knock yourself out,” said Norman. “A friend in court is better than a penny in a purse.”

  “We’re getting married,” said Ms Bennett.

  “You’re what?” said Omally.

  “I’m divorcing Peg,” said Norman. “I haven’t actually broached the subject with her yet. She doesn’t actually believe in my patents – happily. Even though the chap who’s bought them mentioned them to her on Sunday, she still doesn’t believe in them. Unlike Yola here.”

  “I believe in you,” said Ms Bennett, giving Norman’s crotch a loving tweak. “You’re a wonderful man, Norman.”

  “We’re soul-buddies,” said Norman. “We were made for each other. We’re going to buy a castle together.”

  “And a yacht,” said Ms Bennett. “And Argos.”

  “Argos?” asked Jim.

  “It’s a retail outlet,” said Norman, “with very competitive prices. It has its own catalogue. Yola likes the jewellery section.”

  “Well, I wish you both the best of luck,” said Jim, raising his glass in salute.

  “Norman,” said John, “do you think I might have a small word with you?”

  “You might,” said Norman, tipping champagne down his throat, “so long as it’s very small indeed.”

  “In private,” said John.

  “I have no secrets from Yola,” said Norman, and Yola snuggled against his chest and gave his bum a pat.

  “Naturally not.” Omally made smilings at Yola that were not returned to him. “But it is a personal matter. If you’d be so kind as to indulge me.”

  “A trouble shared is a bird in the bush,” said Norman, removing his person with difficulty from Yola’s caresses and following John to his office.

  “Sit yourself down,” John told him and Norman did so in John’s lounger. “Norman,” said John, seating himself, “Norman, how long have we known each other?”

  “Since we were wee small boys together,” said Norman.

  “Yes.”

  “With holes in our socks and tears in our trouser seats.”

  “Quite so.”

  “Playing conkers and scrumping apples.”

  “This is true.”

  “Filling our mouths with gobstoppers and slipping in through the back doors of the Odeon for Saturday morning pictures.”

  “Yes, I remember it well.”

  “Playing ‘knock down ginger’ on Mrs Smith’s door and—”

  “Shut up, Norman, please.”

  “Oh,” said Norman.

  “My point is,” said Omally, “that we have known each other, man and boy, for a good many years and I am proud to call you my friend.”

  “No,” said Norman.

  “No? No, I’m not your friend?”

  “No,” said Norman. “As in no, you can’t borrow a fiver.”

  “I wasn’t going to ask you for a fiver.”

  “Not a tenner, surely? Have you no shame?”

  Omally sighed a deep and truly heartfelt. “I wasn’t going to ask you for any money at all – unless, of course, you’d care to invest a couple of million in a football club.”

  “I might well do that.” Norman swigged champagne. “But I don’t get my money until Cup-Final Day. I’ll certainly give it some thought, though.”

  “This isn’t about money,” said John. “Well, in a manner of speaking it is, but it isn’t that I want to take your money. It’s about her.” Omally gestured in a subtle and understated manner towards Ms Bennett.

  Ms Bennett waved back at John, incorporating into this wave a subtle and understated two-fingered “Harvey Smith”.

  “Norman,” whispered Omally, “would you say that I knew something about women?”

  “If it makes you happy,” said Norman. “You know something about women. There, I’ve said it. If that’s all you wanted, I’ll be on my way now.”

  Omally made an exasperated face. “Norman, I’m trying to save you a lot of pain and anguish here – and a lot of money, as well.”

  Norman’s glass was empty and the shopkeeper turned it between his fingers. “What are you trying to say?” he asked.

  “She only wants you for your money, Norman.”

  “Who does?” Norman asked.

  “Yola – Yola Bennett.”

  Norman made the face of surprise. And then the face of doubt. This face of doubt became the face of grave concern.

  “You’re just jealous,” said Norman, which went to prove that faces can be misleading.

  “No, it’s not that. I promise you it’s not.”

  “She loves me,” said Norman. “She said that she loves me.”

  “It’s your filthy lucre she loves. She’ll suck you dry, Norman.”

  Norman stared hard into the face of Omally. “Suck me dry?” he said.

  Omally nodded.

  “What, every night?”[30]

  Omally would have thrown up his hands, but one was holding his Large-and-champagne shandy. “When you get your money,” he said, “if you get your money, you can have your pick of women. Thousands of women. You could have your own harem.”

  “In my castle?”

  “Certainly. Or have an extension built.”

  “So what you’re saying is that I shouldn’t tie myself down just yet?”

  “That sort of thing. Don’t make any rash commitments.”

  “I see,” said Norman. And he nodded, thoughtfully.

  “Word to the wise, that’s all.” And Omally tapped at his nose.

  “Don’t tap at my nose like that,” said Norman.

  “I wasn’t. I was tapping at my nose.”

  “Oh yes, so you were.”

  “So you’ll bear in mind what I said.”

  “I will,” said Norman.

  “And you won’t do anything silly, like get engaged to Yola or anything?”

  “Ah,” said Norman.

  “You haven’t!”

  Norman grinned towards John. “No,” said Norman in a whispery tone, “I haven’t. Nor do I intend to. I’m not stupid, John. I know exactly what she’s up to, but I’m presently getting the best sex I’ve ever had in my life, so I think I’ll just stick with it for now, if that’s all right by you. Care for another?”

  And with that said, Norman returned to the loving arms of Yola Bennett.

  Jim Pooley joined John at his office table. He sat himself down and said, “All right?”

  Omally shrugged and shook his head.

  “Did you put Norman right on that gold-digger?”

  “I don’t think he needed putting right. That shopkeeper has more savvy than a Sainsbury’s cold-meat counter. I think we’ve sorely misjudged that fellow.”

  “Oh,” said Jim. “That’s a shame, because it occurred to me that we might ask him to invest some money in the club.”

  “Forget it,” said John.

  “Shame,” said Jim, “because the stripper’s got herself upright and she wants paying.”

  “I’ll get it to her later.”

  “And the Campbell has just brought me this.” Jim proffered an envelope. “More tactics from the professor, I think. The Campbell said we should put the team through their paces tonight in preparation for tomorrow’s game.”

  Omally pulled out his new mobile phone. “I’ll call them all up, then,” said he. “Leave it to me, my friend.”

  At seven o’clock, the team assembled themselves upon the hallowed turf of Griffin Park. Jim marched up and down before them, smiling encouragement.

  The team returned his smile to him in a somewhat sheepish fashion.

  “Is everything all right with you chaps?” asked Jim.

  Shoulders shrugged and mumblings were all the rage.

  “You look a tad, how shall I put this, uncertain.”

  Ernest Muffler spoke. “Perhaps if you’d like to count heads,” said he.

  “Count heads?” Pooley shook his. “Okey-dokey.” And Jim counted heads. “Someone’s missing,” he observed. “Who’s missing?”

&
nbsp; “It’s Billy Kurton,” said Ernest.

  “Our right-winger. Where is he?”

  “Gone,” said Ernest. “Upped sticks and gone.”

  “What?” said Jim.

  Ernest raised his palms. “Went round there earlier. The folk next door said a removal van came in the middle of the night. They said he owed a lot of money to the builders for his patio.”

  “Terrible,” said Jim.

  “I know. I’ve seen it – it’s a terrible job, pointing all over the place. And level? It’s like a humpback bridge with the mumps.”

  “I don’t mean that. I mean it’s terrible that we’ve lost our right-winger.”

  “It will put us at a bit of a disadvantage,” said Ernest, “when it comes to us scoring goals.”

  “Right,” said Jim, “but we won’t be disheartened.”

  “We won’t?” said Ernest.

  “We won’t,” said Jim. “A temporary setback. We’ll put in one of the substitutes until we can purchase a new right-winger.”

  “We’ll have a crack,” said Don and Phil, the conjoined twins.

  Jim made a truly thoughtful face. “You are absolutely certain that you qualify as one player?” he said.

  “We only have one passport,” said Don.

  “And one birth certificate,” said Phil.

  “And one pair of trousers,” said Ernest, “although they have four legs in them.”

  Jim perused the new tactics, penned upon parchment by Professor Slocombe. He’d spent half the afternoon trying to memorise them, but had failed dismally. “All will be well,” said Jim. “Trust me on this. We will be on home ground, cheered on by our loyal supporters. And with these new tactics I have formulated, we shall triumph. Now, they might at first seem somewhat complicated, but put your trust in me and follow them to the letter and I guarantee that we will succeed.”

  “You promise?” said Ernest.

  “You have my word.”

  “He hasn’t let us down so far,” said Dave Quimsby. “The boss knows what he’s doing.”

  “Thank you, Dave,” said Jim. “Now, how best to explain this, I wonder? Ah yes, have any of you ever seen a chorus line dancing? Like the Tiller Girls? Remember them?”

  Blank faces gazed back at Jim.

  “Right,” said Jim. “Well, form yourselves into a line, arms about each other’s waists, like so. Yes. No, not like that. And …”

  It did take some hours. And to the casual observer who might have been looking down from the stands, it certainly didn’t look like football.

  “It looks more like origami to me,” said the casual observer. “But then what do I know, I’m still on the run from the men in white coats.”

  But the team worked hard, and Jim worked hard, and at length all was achieved in the unorthodox manner in which it was desired that it should be achieved.

  “That’s it, then,” said Jim, panting for breath. “You’ve all done very well. Do it like that tomorrow and we will win the match.”

  “With a bit of luck,” said Dave.

  “Oh yes indeed,” Jim agreed. “With a bit of luck, we will.”

  “So you won’t let us down, Boss?” said Dave.

  “Of course not,” said Jim.

  “There, lads,” said Dave, “I told you he wouldn’t let us down.”

  “Of course I won’t,” said Jim. “Did you think I would?”

  “I didn’t,” said Dave, “but some of the others were doubtful.”

  “Shame on you,” said Jim to the others.

  “They said you wouldn’t do it.”

  “Of course I will,” said Jim. “Do what, by the way?”

  “Do the thing that brought us luck last time.”

  “Ah,” said Jim, “the pep talk on the field of play. Have no fear on that point.”

  “No, not that, Boss. The lucky thing. The thing that brought us luck, that made us win last time. Sportsmen are superstitious, you know that, and once a thing is done once and it works, it becomes a talisman – a token of good luck.”

  “Well, whatever it was that I did, I promise I will do it again,” said Jim. “What was it, by the way?”

  “Wear your lucky Bertie Wooster suit,” said Dave.

  25

  Scoop Molloy had been given a special pass by John Omally that gave him access to Griffin Park’s executive box.

  Now, there are executive boxes and there are executive boxes. Happily, time and space forbid a prolonged monologue upon the disparities. However, let it be said that Griffm Park’s executive box did not rank amongst the higher echelons of the executive box world.

  “This is not so much a box,” Scoop observed, “it’s more of a carton.”

  “I have a new carpet on order,” said John, “and new seating also and a bar will shortly be installed.”

  “And then there’ll be no room for anyone.”

  “It’s not normally so crowded.”

  But tonight it was. Because tonight the home team, who had so recently wrought desolation upon Penge, had drawn something of a crowd. And the executive box was packed to capacity and beyond with all the local sponsors of the team.

  Mr Goddard was there. And Mr Paine, the undertaker. And Mr Ratter, the jeweller. And Mohammed Smith from the sports shop. And Mr Kay, of Kay’s Electrical Stores. And a good many others who had coughed up their hard-earneds to have John put their logos upon the team’s kaftans, and who were all entitled, by merit of their sponsorship, to a seat in the executive box. And there were others, too, others who really shouldn’t have been there. Others who didn’t deserve to be there, but who had demanded that because of “their rank”, they should be there.

  These others were Town Councillors Vic “Vanilla” Topping, Doris Whimple and David Berkshire (David Berkshire was hard to spot, but he was in there somewhere). These town councillors had decided that they had better make an appearance, in the pretence that they supported the team. Omally had been all for sending them packing, but Jim, being Jim, had let them stay.

  “Shift along,” said the voice of Norman Hartnel as the scientific shopkeeper elbowed his way into the crush. “Give my girlfriend a seat.”

  “Who let you in?” John Omally asked.

  “Jim did,” said Norman. “I’ve decided that I will invest in the club when my money comes in. In fact, I’ve decided to buy it.”

  “That’s all very well,” said John, “but—”

  “I bunged Jim one hundred pounds up front, to seal the deal, as it were.”

  “Where did you get one hundred pounds?”

  “Insurance money for my lock-up. I’m glad I had that terrorist-attack clause written into my insurance policy. It always pays to think ahead, doesn’t it?”

  “Apparently so.”

  “I’ve brought my own champagne,” said Norman, proffering the bottle, “so you don’t need to buy me any.”

  “Ah,” said Mr Ratter, who was getting somewhat squashed, “the champagne. You did mention champagne, didn’t you, Omally?”

  “I’ll get to it,” said John. “And for God’s sake don’t all stamp your feet when the team scores or you’ll find yourselves down in the cheap seats.” And with that he eased himself out of the executive box and went off in search of Jim.

  Jim was to be found in the changing rooms, giving the team a pep talk. It was a most inspired pep talk this evening, which likened the noble game of football to a beautiful garden that had to be nurtured and cherished, its darling buds and precious blooms coaxed into being. And so on and so forth and such like. Most of it didn’t mean much to the team, but Jim’s words flowed over them, wonderfully, magically. Into Jim’s head and out of Jim’s mouth, these wonder words got the job jobbed.

  “Sporting your lucky suit, I see,” said John when Jim had done with his wondrous words.

  “Lucky suit,” said Jim and he said it slowly and with thought.

  “Or so I heard,” said John, with haste. “Is everything hunky-dory?”

  “Our rivals are
changing next door – the Campbell is looking after them.”

  “Lucky them.”

  “And the BBC? You said you were making phone calls on your portable telephone. Are the BBC going to cover the match?”

  “Ah,” said John.

  “Ah?” said Jim.

  “Well, I had a bit of trouble with the BBC. They said that they were covering a match involving a team called Manchester United tonight. Some bunch of Northerners.”

  “So they won’t be covering us?”

  “Sadly, no. But I got the next-best thing.”

  “And what is that?”

  “The voices of Free Radio Brentford.”

  Jim made groaning sounds. “Those mad blokes – Terrence Jehovah Smithers and the Second Sponge Boy?”

  “They’re cult figures. They have a lot of something called ‘street cred’.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “I’ve no idea,” said John, “but they’re very popular. They’ll be covering the match live, and their portable transmitter is very powerful. They say they’ll turn it up full blast and it will cut into every radio and TV channel in a five-mile radius. Think publicity, Jim. Think further sponsorship.”

  “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear,” said Jim.

  “The professor is waiting for you on the bench,” said John. “Oh yes, and he told me to mention that –” Omally perused his wristlet watch “– it’s five minutes now to kick off.”

  “Four minutes now to kick off,” said Terrence Jehovah Smithers. “Should we go live, do you think?”

  “Give it another minute or two,” said the Second Sponge Boy. “We’re all linked up, aren’t we?”

  The two of them lay commando fashion, in the company of many cans of lager on the roof of the executive box. They had microphones strapped about their necks and headphones on their heads. Cables ran from their portable transmitters, conveying their words to a knackered VW camper van that kept constantly on the move through the eveningtime streets of Brentford. From this van their words would be broadcast to each and every thing of an electrical nature within a five-mile radius, including pop-up toasters, hairdryers and items from the Ann Summers catalogue. It was all very hi-tech, bought-over-the-Internet and utterly illegal.