Knees Up Mother Earth

19

Scoop Molloy had not attended the match. He’d spent the day “following up leads” regarding the terrorist bombing of Norman’s lock-up garage and the queer events that had occurred at The Stripes Bar the previous night.

But he wasn’t getting anywhere.

He did, however, receive an “on-the-pitch” account of the match from the Brentford Mercury’s new self-appointed roving sports correspondent, Mr John Vincent Omally, via John’s mobile phone, from the top deck of Big Bob’s bus. It was a very full and glowing account of Brentford’s remarkable victory.

Scoop would have loved to tell the Mercury’s editor to hold the front page, but the Mercury didn’t come out on Sunday, so there really wasn’t any point.

But word of the victory did reach Brentford before the team returned. Omally made copious phone calls, and the team returned to an impromptu victory parade.

True, few of the revellers who had attended the Benefit Night at The Stripes Bar were there to wave Union Jacks and throw rose petals, but the plain folk of Brentford, the plucky Brentonians who had been hoping and praying a little, too, thronged the streets. And the bunting was up.

“Good grief,” said Jim, making a bewildered face at the cheering crowds lining the Ealing Road. “This is beyond belief.”

“Take a bow, Jim,” said John, waving somewhat. “You’ve played your part in this triumph.”

“I really don’t think I have.”

“The only way is up,” said John. “We’ll triumph.”

“Take a bow, Jim,” said Professor Slocombe.

Jim rose unsteadily from his seat and bowed towards the crowds.

“I know my opinion isn’t worth much,” said a casual observer peering up from the roadside, “but isn’t that Bertie Wooster?”

There was dancing in the streets of Brentford upon that Saturday night, and the team all got very drunk again.

John and Jim did what came naturally to them and headed off for a drink. They bade their farewells to Professor Slocombe, but, to Jim’s alarm, found themselves now in the company of the Campbell.

“I’ll come along, if it’s all right with you,” said the mystical highlander.

“It’s not,” said Jim.

“It is,” said John.

“It is?” said Jim.

“It is – the Campbell is now your, er, minder, Jim. A successful football manager always has a security man to protect him.”

“From what?” Jim asked.

“Oh, you know, overattentive fans, the gentlemen of the press. You’d be surprised.”

Jim Pooley shrugged. “So where are we drinking? The Stripes Bar, our own personal pub?”

“Ah, no,” said John. “The Stripes Bar is currently undergoing renovations.”

“Would this be something to do with the fire and chaos that you seem disinclined to speak to me about?”

“Possibly so,” said John. “Let’s go to The Flying Swan.”

“The Swan? But we’re barred from The Swan.”

“My, my,” said John, “by what would appear to be sheer chance, we find ourselves right outside that very pub.”

“He’ll club us down,” said Jim. “He will employ his knobkerrie once again.”

“Have a little faith, Jim,” said John. “I’ll sort it.”

Jim took out his packet of Dadarillos and lit one up.

“You smoke too many of those,” said John.

“They calm my nerves and keep me mellow.”

“You chain-smoke the damn things.”

“Let’s go somewhere else,” said Jim.

“No, my friend, we’re going in here.”

“But we’ve got our own pub and you said—”

“I can’t be having with loose ends,” said John. “Nor can I bear to be barred from any bar in Brentford. It’s a matter of principle.”

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

Trade was good in The Flying Swan. Saturday night was always Neville’s busiest, but tonight surpassed the usual. Neville was hoping it would make up for the previous night, when he had done precisely no trade at all.

Neville did not own any Brentford Football Club team flags, but he had managed to find, in the beer cellar, a number of Charles and Diana wedding flags and these now hung behind the bar. And as there had been no time to take on extra bar staff, Neville was very busy. And very busy can sometimes mean very stressed.

This was one of those sometimes.

Neville espied the approach of Jim and John, closely followed by the Campbell, and Neville’s good eye widened. And as John and Jim reached the bar counter, Neville’s mouth did also.

“Out of my bar,” quoth the part-time barman.

“Let’s not be hasty, now,” said John.

“Empty,” said Neville. “Last night my bar was empty.”

“It’s pretty full now,” said John.

“It will be emptier by two in just a moment. No, make that three – take that weirdo with you.”

“Oh,” said John. “Ouch,” and he clutched at his forehead.

“That’s where you’ll get it,” said Neville, “if you don’t leave now.”

“That’s where I have already received it,” said John. “My solicitor is suggesting that I sue for damages. I found the figure he suggested preposterous, but then considering that I have always wanted to live the now legendary life of ease, I am tempted to let him go ahead with the lawsuit.”

“Do your worst,” said Neville.

“So you are really throwing us out?” said John.

“Do you have any doubt about this?” Neville sought his knobkerrie.

“I’m leaving,” said Jim. “I don’t wish to be smote a second time.”

“You stand your ground,” John told him. “Neville, I know we have had our differences, but—”

“Differences?” The part-time barman’s face began to turn that terrible whiter shade of pale once more.

“But there is nothing to be gained by petty feuding and the holding of grudges. Hence, I am willing to forgive and forget,” John continued.

Pooley flinched and Neville ground his teeth, loosening yet another filling to add to the previously loosened one, which had not as yet received the attention of the dentist.

“What I am saying to you, Neville,” John continued, “is that you should be thanking us rather than behaving in this discourteous manner.”

“Thanking you? Thanking you?”

“Can I have some service over here?” asked a lady in a somewhat charred straw hat.

“Thanking us.” John risked a lean across the bar counter and a conspiratorial tone. “Thanking us for saving your bacon.”

“My bacon?” Neville shook and rocked and the sound of the grinding of his teeth was hideous to the ear. One hundred yards away in The Four Horsemen, Dave Quimsby heard them and shuddered.

“Think about this, Neville,” said John. “Who was it who appointed Brentford’s new manager? The manager who has led them to an eight-nil victory over Penge?”

“Eh?” said Neville.

“You,” said John. “And look, here is Brentford’s new manager offering to favour this particular bar, out of all the bars in Brentford, including his own. What kudos, having the Brentford manager patronise your pub.”

“What?” said Neville, in a creaky kind of voice.

“An absinthe spritzer and a pale ale and Pernod,” called the lady in the charred straw hat. “And make it snappy, or we’ll take our business elsewhere.”

“You should take your due credit,” said John to Neville. “You deserve praise. And to be honest, I don’t know how well it would go down with the locals if they were to find out that you’d barred Brentford’s manager. Excuse me, madam,” John said to the lady, “but did I hear that you were thinking of taking your business elsewhere, because—”

“Stop!” cried Neville. “Enough. Enough.”

John viewed the trembling barman. He wasn’t enjoying doing this to Neville. Well, actually he was, because Neville had bopped both he and Jim upon their heads. “What do you say?” John asked, sticking his hand out for a shake. “Let bygones be bygones and all prosper from the glories that lie ahead for the team and the borough?”

Neville sighed. It was a deep and tragic sigh, but if all the truth was to be told, Neville was very pleased to have John and Jim once more in his bar.

“Bygones be bygones,” said Neville wearily and with that he shook Omally’s hand.

“And Jim’s, too,” said John. And Neville shook Pooley’s hand also.

“Splendid,” said John, a-rubbing of his palms together. “Then three pints of Large, please Neville.”

“All right,” said Neville and he set to pulling the pints. “But there is only one thing that I want to know.”

“Which is?” asked John with caution.

“Why is Jim dressed as Bertie Wooster?”

And so the celebrations proper began, much to the pleasure of Jim Pooley, who found his hand being endlessly shaken, his back being endlessly patted, pint after pint being placed before him and kisses being planted on his cheeks by numerous female football fans. John, who was not averse to bathing in a bit of reflected glory, engaged the kiss-planters in conversation and added several numbers to his telephone book.

At a little after nine, Norman Hartnel entered The Flying Swan. Norman was carrying two duffel bags and Norman had a big grin on.

“Evening, John, Jim, Neville,” said Norman when he had fought his way to the counter.

Heads nodded and glasses were raised. “You look very full of yourself, Norman,” said John. “Come to toast the team’s success and buy the men who brought it to fruition a pint or two?”

“Come to do a bit of celebrating myself,” said Norman, “on my own account, for I shall shortly be rich beyond the dreams of Avril.”

“It’s avarice,” said John.

“Then you haven’t met my cousin Avril,” said Norman. “But enough of that. I have, but yesterday, taken out five original patents. You had best shake my hand now, because it will be far too busy receiving awards in the future to be available for shaking then.”

“I am intrigued,” said John.

“Me, too,” said Jim.

“And what happened to you last night?” Norman asked Jim. “You missed all the mayhem and magic at The Stripes Bar.”

“I did?” said Jim, casting a suspicious glance towards Omally.

“Forget all that,” said John. “Tell us what you’ve been up to, Norman.”

“I heard your lock-up was blown up by Al Qaeda,” said Neville, sticking two olives into a pale ale and Pernod.

“Al who?” Jim asked. “What team does he play for?”

“We’re not on one of those right now,” said John. “Tell us what’s what, Norman.”

“About the lock-up?” asked the shopkeeper. “It doesn’t matter, it was insured.”

“About whatever you’ve invented that is going to bring you untold wealth,” said John.

“Ah, that.” Norman unshouldered his duffel bags and placed them upon the bar counter. “Wireless transmission of electricity,” he said. “Which is to say, electricity without cables beamed from one place to another upon a carrier wave. It will literally revolutionise everything.”

Neville the part-time barman scratched at his head with a cocktail stick and nearly put his good eye out. Wireless transmission of electricity? That rang a bell somewhere. Someone had mentioned something about that to him recently. Neville tried to recall just who it had been.

“Does this involve microwaves?” Jim asked fearfully. “Like in portable telephones?”

“No,” said Norman. “It’s all very simple. Would you care for me to demonstrate?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” said John, as yet another young woman came forward to offer Jim a kiss.

“I’ll be getting all that soon,” said Norman, unpacking his duffel bags. “A king’s chaff is worth other men’s corn. And I’m thinking of getting one of those special wheelchairs like Stephen Hawking has, with the voice box and everything.”

“Why?” John asked, as he watched Norman setting up strange contraptions upon the bar counter.

“Just trying to think of things to spend my money on.” The strange contraptions that Norman was now setting up were mostly constructed from Meccano. They resembled two little towers surmounted by silver Christmas-tree decoration balls. One of the little towers had a hand-crank attached to it and what looked like a tiny generator. The other was simply attached to a light bulb on a stand.

“Put that one at the other end of the bar,” Norman told Omally.

“Is this safe?” Neville asked. “There won’t be any explosions or loss of life or anything? I can’t be having with that in my bar.”

“It’s perfectly safe.” Norman took hold of the little tower with the hand-crank. “I will turn this handle and charge up this tower, and the electricity will be transmitted to the other tower and light up the light bulb.”

“No offence, Norman,” said John, “but that is most unlikely.”

“Nevertheless it will occur, as surely as a trained dog needs no whistling.”

The crowd in The Flying Swan, which had been conversing and hubbubbing and singing, too, and chanting Brent-Ford, Brent-Ford from time to time also, had been doing less of the conversing, hubbubbing and so on and so forthing also with the setting up of Norman’s little towers.

The crowd was growing interested. Heads were turning, elbows nudged elbows. A certain hush was descending upon the saloon bar of The Flying Swan.

“It seems you have an audience,” said John.

“Wonderful,” said Norman and he turned to address the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “what you are about to witness is something that you will never have seen before, something that will change the very face of civilisation: the wireless transmission of electricity. I will crank up this tower here. The crank powers this little generator, which in turn charges up the capacitor. When it’s completely charged up, I throw this switch.” Norman turned and pointed and turned back once more. “And the electricity will be transmitted through the air to that tower at the other end of the bar and will light up the light bulb.”

“For what it’s worth,” said a casual observer. “I—”

“Are we all ready?” Norman asked.

Heads nodded. The word in the bar was yes.

“Then I shall crank.” And Norman cranked. He cranked and he cranked and then he cranked some more. And then he said, “That should be enough. Would you like to count me down? It makes it so much more exciting.”

Shoulders shrugged and then the countdown began. Necks craned to see what would happen. Folk at the back leaned upon shoulders and stood upon tippy-toe.

There was a general air of expectation.

“Three … two … one …”

And Norman threw the switch.

And then there was ooohing and aaahing and then there was silence.

For nothing whatever happened.

“Cop-out,” called someone.

“Load of old toot,” called someone else.

“No, hold on, hold on,” Norman called back. “I’ll just make an adjustment or two. It must work. I obviously haven’t charged up the capacitor enough. It needs a lot of energy – after all, the electricity does have to travel through the air.”

Norman took to cranking some more. He cranked and he cranked and he cranked. He cranked as one possessed. Sweat appeared on the shopkeeper’s brow and his face became crimson. His breath came in short pants. His short pants came in a gingham design.

“There,” gasped Norman, when he could crank no more. “One more time, if you will. Three …”

The crowd, enlivened by drink and celebratory bonhomie, joined Norman in his second countdown.

“Three … two … one …”

And Norman flicked the switch.

There was a moment of absolute silence. But this moment was too short to be truly registered by those present, especially because what happened next caught them somewhat unawares and unprepared.

There was a flash, as of lightning, and a sort of a blue arc. It travelled through the base of the Meccano tower, which Norman had neglected to insulate with rubber feet, and it travelled to the brass rail that ran along the edge of the mahogany bar counter. The brass rail that Norman was holding on to. And it travelled to Jim Pooley who was leaning upon Norman’s shoulder and from there to John who was leaning upon Jim’s and from there it travelled every which way, with the exception, so it seemed, of the other tower, to which was connected the light bulb.

And electricity travels fast.

And it travels, also, with vigour.

There is a story, the authenticity of which has yet to be verified, that some years ago a group of Russian scientists drilled a five-mile-deep bore hole in Siberia during a study of plate tectonics. According to this story, their drill bit broke through the ceiling of some underground cavern and a microphone (upon a very long cable) was lowered into the void.

The scientists claim that what they heard, relayed to them from this microphone, was the sound of millions of souls screaming in torment.

The scientists had unwittingly drilled into Hell.

No recording of this hideous cacophony of the damned has ever been played to the general public.

But if it were, then it is odds-on that the sound would be all but identical (although somewhat louder, due to the greater numbers involved) to that which was now to be heard within the saloon bar of The Flying Swan.

It was one Hell of a collective scream.

Bodies shook and quivered, eyeballs rolled back into heads, teeth chattered and hair rose upon craniums to such effect that had another casual observer entered the bar at that very moment, he (or she) would have been convinced that he (or she) had entered the Don King lookalike convention.

And sparks flew.

Let us not forget the sparks.

They flew from fingertips and earlobes and privy members, too. And pints of ale bubbled on the bar top and optics shattered and …

Norman found himself barred from The Flying Swan.