Knees Up Mother Earth bs-7

by Robert Rankin

  Terrence Jehovah Smithers and the Second Sponge Boy, cult figures and local legends, were not, as such, much to look at. They were slim and pale and pinched; they wore baggy trousers and training shoes (although neither of them were actually sportsmen) and the “hoodie” – a kind of hooded jerkin much favoured by the criminal underclass in order to evade recognition on CCTV.

  “Let’s go for it,” said Terrence. “The teams are coming on to the pitch.”

  The Second Sponge Boy clicked on his microphone and spoke the words, “Go live,” into it.

  In the rear of the ever-moving camper van, a fellow who in legal jargon is known as “an accomplice” pressed a button upon a small black box and replied with the words, “You’re on.”

  “Good evening, all,” said Terrence, “and welcome to the big match.”

  And all over Brentford – and, in fact, for a five-mile radius – his words poured forth from every television set and radio set and crystal set and—

  “Oh my goodness,” said Peg, who, left to her own devices at home, was enjoying one of these devices. “Who’s in there?”

  And moving swiftly on.

  “I’m Terry,” said Terrence.

  “And I’m Sponge,” said Sponge Boy.

  “And we’re broadcasting to you live from Brentford, where giant-slayers the Bees are preparing to make short work of Orton Goldhay Wanderers.”

  “Very short work,” said Sponge Boy, “positively dwarflike. And the teams are marching out on to the pitch, the home team in their distinctive stylish kaftans—”

  “It’s what everybody will soon be wearing this year,” said Terrence.

  “Is it?” said Sponge Boy.

  “It is.”

  “Well, I won’t be.”

  “Just get on with the commentary,” said Terrence.

  “Absolutely. The home team – deprived, I understand, of their right-winger, Billy Kurton, but with a most unique substitute in the twin figures of Don and Phil English, who, I am told, are currently appearing in Count Otto Black’s Circus Fantastique on Ealing Common.”

  “Were you paid to say that?”

  “Of course I was.”

  “Then open up a beer.”

  Beers were opened and guzzlings were done.

  “The home team,” said Terrence. And he proceeded to name the home team and sing their praises.

  “And the other mob,” said Sponge. “And the ref is tossing the coin. And the home team have won the toss.”

  On the bench, Jim Pooley eyed Professor Slocombe.

  “Did you?” he asked.

  Professor Slocombe smiled back at Jim. “As if I would,” he said.

  “And what is this?” said Terrence. “What kind of formation would you call that, Sponge Boy?”

  “Well, Terry, as you know, you have your four-three-threes, your three-three-fours, your two-four-fours and your four-four-twos. And, of course, if you’re into DIY, you have your two-by-one.”

  “I know a song about that,” said Terrence.

  “Me, too,” said Sponge Boy. “Positively Eurovision.”

  “So what would you call the formation the home team are employing tonight?”

  “A ten-zero-zero, I suppose,” said Sponge Boy.

  “And let’s see how it’s going. They’re dribbling the ball between them. Cardinal Cox, Orton Goldhay’s left-winger, has come in for a tackle. Now they’ve closed ranks into a sort of circle formation and they’re moving forward … ah … and now they’ve broken into a kind of dance. What kind of a dance would you say that was, Sponge?”

  “A kind of Russian dance, Terry, in a circle. Positively Cossack.”

  “Orton Goldhay are massing their forces now. All their players are trying to kick their way into the circle.”

  “Now that’s fouling, Terry. The ref won’t have that.”

  “No he won’t, Sponge, he’s showing them all the yellow card.”

  “But Brentford are still moving forward, if in a sort of circular pattern.”

  “It’s very graceful, though, isn’t it? That’s a sort of square-dance formation now, isn’t it?” said Terrence.

  “More of a line-dance, I’d say. That Mahingay is very light on his toes for a Sikh.”

  “Not as light as that Dave Quimsby.”

  “I heard that,” said Dave Quimsby. “I hope you’re not implying that I’m a poof.”

  “They’ve almost reached the box,” said Terrence.

  “Very nice for them,” said Sponge Boy.

  “And the Orton Goldhay team are in the box, too. They’re confused. The goalie is confused. He’s running from side to side.”

  “Positively crablike, Terry.”

  “Oh and there it goes. The ball is in the air. The crowd is on its feet. And IT’S A GOAL!”

  “Oh, and what a goal, Terry. And a victory dance, too. What kind of dance would you say that one was?”

  “The macarena, Sponge Boy.”

  “The macarena,” said Jim. “Did I say anything to you about doing the macarena?”

  Jim was in the changing room now. The team was in the changing room now. It was half-time now. The team were eating their oranges. Now.

  “Did I say anything to you about doing the macarena?” Jim asked once again.

  “No,” said Alf, “you didn’t.”

  “Then why did you do it?”

  “Well, Boss, we got carried away, what with the early goal and everything.”

  “And so what happened next?”

  The lads’ heads went down.

  “They scored two goals, Boss. On the trot.”

  “On the trot,” said Jim. “Two goals. And so what happened next?”

  “You shouted at us, Boss.”

  “And I heard you, Boss,” said Dave Quimsby, “and I passed it on.”

  “You did,” said Jim. “And so what happened next?”

  “We scored three more,” said Alf, “on the trot, while doing the Wall Street shuffle.”

  “You did,” bawled Jim. And he flung his hands into the air.

  There was almighty cheering and Jim was lifted shoulder-high. Which was a pity as the ceiling was low and Jim’s head hit it with force.

  “Are you all right, Boss?” asked Trevor Brooking[31], fanning at the semi-conscious Pooley with a programme.

  “I’m fine, I’m fine,” said Pooley, who wasn’t. “Perhaps a tad confused. Go back out there and give ’em Hell. What are we?”

  “We are the lords of the dance, are we,” went up the chorus.

  “Oh yes we are,” said Jim.

  “And it’s coming up to the second half, Terry,” said Sponge Boy. “Would you care to make any considered observations regarding the team’s performance during the first half?”

  “Not many, Sponge. They were strong, I thought, on the modern dances, particularly the twist and the watuzi. But they were definitely weak in the old-time numbers. Their waltz lacked for finesse and the tango would have been spoiled altogether if it hadn’t been for the English brothers, who I felt gave a spirited interpretation, especially when they neatly covered that professional foul on Orton Golday’s striker Micky Carroll.”

  “Do you think we’ll be seeing any free-form in the second half?”

  “Self-expression through the medium of dance?”

  “That’s the kiddie,” said Sponge Boy.

  “I shouldn’t think so. My guess would be that they might go for a conga.”

  “But that’s only your guess.”

  “Or possibly the birdie.”

  “One of my all-time favourites.”

  Brentford’s glory boys left out the lambada. They turned down the tango, they shunned the shimmy, they side-stepped the sand dance and avoided the vogue. They pooh-poohed the polka, shirked the shake, dodged the disco, bypassed the bumps-a-daisy, spurned the salsa, flouted the flamenco, rejected the rumba and baulked at the bolero—

  They even nixed the knees-up, Mother Brown.

  “It’s the Tenness
ee wig-walk, Terry.”

  “No one remembers the Tennessee wig-walk, Sponge.”

  “Then they’re walkin’ the dog.”

  “I beg to differ with you, Sponge, I think you’ll find they’re doing the Lambeth Walk.”

  “It’s definitely a very ‘walk’-orientated dance.”

  “Perhaps they’re doing the ‘Walk of Life’ by Dire Straits,” said Terrence.

  “Perish the thought, but whatever they’re doing, it’s ANOTHER GOAL!”

  The home crowd were doing all manner of dances.

  The executive boxers did the March of the Mods.

  “Don’t do that,” shouted Omally. “The floor will go through.”

  “They’re certainly leading Orton Goldhay a merry dance, Sponge.”

  “They certainly are, Terry, positively lurch-puddle-like.”

  “And that would be, Sponge?”

  “It’s an Armenian folk dance that my nana taught me when I was a child.”

  “I thought your Nan was a Jamaican Rastafarian?”

  “Still is, Terry Babylon, still is. Ai.”

  Now, to cut a long and what might otherwise become tedious story short, and to avoid further references having to be made to Roget’s Thesaurus and The Complete History of Dance by P.P. Penrose—

  The Brentford Bees went for the Border morris dance, possibly because the Morris Minor has always been the vehicle of choice amongst Brentonians, or possibly for certain esoteric reasons known only to Professor Slocombe. But the Brentford Mercury of the following morn told the whole story of the team’s second glorious victory beneath the banner headline:

  BERTIE’S BOOGIE BEES

  10-2 VICTORY DANCE

  Scoop Molloy dictated this piece from his bed in Brentford Cottage Hospital. He concentrated upon the details of the match specifically, rather than dwelling for too long upon the confusion and chaos that had ensued when the floor of the executive box fell through, disgorging its exclusive load on to the cheap seats below. Or even on the police assault that was made upon the ground by the Special Forces Unit, dispatched to arrest the Voices of Free Radio Brentford, who had disrupted all telecommunications and broadcasting networks over a five-mile radius, bringing minicabs and emergency services to a standstill.

  Scoop never even mentioned the rioting because he was already in hospital by then. The rioting had been started by the Orton Goldhay supporters and they had eventually been brought to book by the far greater numbers of Brentford supporters.

  Although, unfortunately, not before they had smashed every shop window in Brentford High Street and engaged in frenzied looting.

  No, Scoop stuck to the details of the match, and Brentford’s second glorious victory – which took them one step closer to winning the FA Cup.

  26

  Neville the part-time barman retrieved the morning’s copy of the Brentford Mercury from one of the hanging baskets of Babylon that prettified The Swan’s front wall.

  He growled towards the receding figure of Zorro the paperboy as he pedalled away on his bike, tucked the paper beneath his arm and stood for a moment drawing healthy draughts of Brentford air up the unbunged nostril of his hooter.

  And then, turning on a carpet-slippered heel, Neville returned to the saloon bar, where he drew himself a measure of breakfast and perused the day’s front-page news.

  Much of it wasn’t news to Neville. He hadn’t attended the match himself, his bar-keeping duties having prohibited this. Not that it would have hurt if he had gone – The Swan had known little business that evening. And what Neville hadn’t seen, he’d heard. The match, for instance, had been broadcast to him through the jukebox. The rest he’d just heard: the police-car sirens, the ambulance bells, the sounds of breaking glass and mob rule; the words of the riot act being read by Inspectre Sherringford Hovis through the police bullhorn; the sounds of the tear-gas shells being fired. And so on and so forth and such like.

  Neville couldn’t help but manage a small grin.

  He wasn’t a vindictive man, far from it; he was a good man, pure and simple, but this was all getting somewhat out of hand. Football in Brentford had never been quite like this before.

  Neville gave the front page further perusal. He’d wondered what the big crash had been. The floor of the executive box collapsing into the stand below, that was it, eh? Neville shook his noble head. Pooley and Omally would soon have the entire stadium down and save the Consortium the cost of a bulldozer.

  Neville grinned a bit more. And it wouldn’t be his fault. He’d appointed Pooley manager, certainly, but that was as far as it went. And if the walls did come tumbling down, well, it couldn’t be helped. And Neville would get his shares from the Consortium, so he could purchase The Flying Swan and run it entirely his way.

  Which would certainly please the patrons.

  So no harm done. Really.

  Neville further perused. There was a great deal of detail regarding the extraordinary tactics employed by the home team to achieve their decisive victory.

  “The cancan,” Neville read. “The floppy-boot stomp.”

  The part-time barman gave his head further shakings.

  Where was this all going to end?

  What possibly could happen next?

  “Mr Neville, is it?”

  Neville jumped back. He hadn’t heard anyone enter the bar.

  “Oh, Mr Neville, I’m sorry, did I startle you?”

  Neville focused his good eye upon—

  And Neville let out a gasp.

  Before him stood possibly the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life. She was tall and shapely, with long auburn hair and the most remarkable emerald eyes. Her facial features seemed delicately carved, as from ivory; her mouth was wide and upturned at the edges into a comely smile. She wore a pink T-shirt, the shortest of skirts and undoubtedly the highest of heels, which probably accounted for her height. And she had …

  “By the Gods.” Neville raised his hands to his face and peeped through his fingers.

  She had a truly stunning pair of breasts.

  “She’s always creeping up on people.”

  Neville’s mouth fell open. The woman’s mouth hadn’t moved when she spoke these words.

  “I’m over here.”

  Neville turned his head and all but fainted from the shock. There was another one of them, identical to the first. Neville’s brain flip-flopped about in his skull. Two of them. Identical. There had to be an obvious explanation for this. Clones, that’s what they were, grown in some secret government research laboratory beneath Mornington Crescent Underground Station.

  That had to be it.

  “We’re the new bar staff,” said the first clone.

  “I’m Pippa,” said the second clone.

  “And I’m Loz,” said the first.

  “Bar staff,” whispered Neville.

  “Bobby from the brewery sent us,” said Pippa.

  “To pep the place up.” Loz looked all around and about. “It’s a bit of a dump, innit?”

  “It serves,” said Neville, straightening his shoulders and his clip-on bow tie. “It’s a traditional hostelry.”

  “We’ll soon liven it up,” said Pippa. “Do you want to show us how those beer-pump thingies work?”

  Neville groaned, internally. He was no misogynist, was Neville, he wasn’t anti-women or anything. Nor was he one of those fellows who avowed that “a woman’s place is in the home”. Oh no, Neville had always considered that women should be treated as equals. They should be allowed to go out and work. Nay, they should be encouraged to do so. Let them pull their weight and do their fair share of the graft, rather than loafing about at home watching daytime TV and breeding babies. Let them work if they so wished.

  But not in a bar.

  And certainly not in his bar.

  And then there was that other thing. That other thing that Neville never spoke about. That personal thing. That private thing. That thing about him and women. That thing about his p
roblem with women.

  That, pure and simply, they terrified him.

  Neville had never been a ladies’ man. He lacked the confidence, he feared rejection, he feared for his performance, sex-wise, feared, that he might be scorned and laughed at. So he kept his distance. He worked in an environment where he was safe, where there was a sturdy counter between him and the world of women. And where the world of women did not encroach too freely.

  Certainly women drank in The Swan, but they were far outnumbered by men. And it was usually men who bought the women drinks, so Neville could remain uninvolved.

  “Hello,” said Loz. “Anybody home? You seem to have drifted off somewhere, Mr Neville.”

  “No,” said Neville, doing further straightenings. “I’m fine. A lot on my mind. A very responsible job, keeping bar. A lot of technical details.”

  “I’m sure we’ll soon figure it all out,” said Pippa and she leaned forward across the bar counter, her breasts provocatively caressing the polished bar top. And Loz did likewise and Neville took a big step back.

  Colliding with the optics.

  “Have you worked in a bar before?” he enquired, clinging to his dignity as a drowning man will cling to the matchstick of proverb.[32]

  Loz shook her beautiful head. “Not behind one,” she said, “but we’ve danced in lots. We’re pole-dancers.”

  “You don’t look Polish,” said Neville.

  Loz looked at Pippa.

  And Pippa looked at Loz.

  And both laughed coquettishly.

  Neville clutched at his heart.

  “So do you want to show us how these pump thingies work?” Pippa asked once more.

  “And should we take our tops off now, so we can all get the feel of things for the lunchtime session? Mr Neville? Are you all right? Wake up, Mr Neville.”

  “Are you all right, John?” asked Jim Pooley, looking up from his office desk, upon which rested the morning’s copy of the Brentford Mercury and tapping the ash from his smoking Dadarillo into the ashtray shaped like a football boot. A cup of tea steamed at his elbow and a smile shone out from his face.

  “I’ve just come from the Cottage Hospital.” John sat himself down in the visitor’s chair before Jim’s desk and availed himself of Jim’s cuppa. “I think I’ve managed to talk them out of suing, although those town councillors were pretty surly. But no one seems too badly hurt, except for Mr Ratter, who fell on to a casual observer in the crowd.”