Knees Up Mother Earth

32

Big Bob Charker hummed an Old Testament ditty. It was the one about Moses riding his motorbike.[35] He steered the big open-topped bus on to the Great West Road and took to the putting down of his foot.

Above Big Bob, Jim Pooley stomped his feet – but lightly.

“I feel a winner coming on,” said Jim to John Omally.

“I’ll bet Bob the Bookie didn’t give you good odds.”

“The man refuses to take any bets from me now, which I’m sure can’t be legal.”

“I’m impressed that he has not dispatched a hit man to rub you out and relieve your body of the betting slip that will shortly be bringing us fortune.”

Jim Pooley shivered. “Not even in jest, John, not even in jest. But he has offered to buy the ticket back from me for a thousand pounds.”

“You told him into which part of his anatomy he could insert his offer?”

“In the politest possible manner. I lay my bets in Chiswick now – but well away from the Consortium building.”

It was John’s turn now to shiver. “That creature we saw there still gives me nightmares. And the thought that Lord Cthulhu’s dark and scaly minions might at any time put in an appearance does little to ease my concerns.”

“I’m sure the professor’s on the case,” said Jim.

“Let’s hope so.”

Jim Pooley stretched out his arms and let wind slip through his fingers. “It can’t go on like this,” he said.

“Like what?” Omally asked.

“With one of our star players absconding before each and every game. I see we have Humphrey Hampton, the half-man, half-hamburger, on board today. And no Morris Catafelto.”

“He’s having a nose job, I understand.”[36]

“It can’t go on,” said Jim.

“I think their nerve just goes, Jim. It’s the stress of all the winning – they’re not used to it. It’s too much for them.”

“But we can’t end up with a team solely composed of circus performers. It’s not professional.”

“They’re professional performers. And the circus hasn’t objected to them taking the time off.”

“It won’t do,” said Jim. “You must buy us more players.”

“With what, my friend? With what?”

Jim sighed. “Why does everything have to be so complicated?” he asked.

Omally shrugged. “Good question,” he said.

Big Bob turned on to the motorway: today the team were playing in the North. London suburbs fell astern and countryside appeared all around. Jim looked fearfully at this countryside because, as has been said, no traveller was Jim. “This is a very large park,” said he.

“Do you want to sit downstairs?” John asked.

“I do, please. I think I’m getting a nosebleed.”

The team were already in their kaftans, kaftans that now weighed heavily with all manner of advertising logos.

Jim viewed these with interest. Many of them were new to him. “What’s an Arab strap, John?” he asked.

“It’s for sport,” said Omally, which had a basic accuracy.

“And a Klismaphilia Specialist?”

“Enjoy the view, Jim.”

“It’s more park. And surely it’s getting darker.”

“We’re travelling north, Jim – the nights are longer here.”

“Burnley,” said Jim. “Where exactly on the map is Burnley?”

John Omally shook his head. “A little to the left of Leeds, I believe,” he said.

Charlie Boxx[37] touched the hem of Jim’s raiment. “Boss,” he said, “the lads are wondering about the language problem.”

“The what?” Jim asked.

“Well, the Northerners, Boss. They don’t speak the Queen’s English, do they?”

“Do they, John?” Jim asked.

“In a manner of speaking. I have a phrase book.” John took it from his pocket and handed it to Jim. Jim leafed through it.

“It’s all about flat caps and whippets and going-to-the-foot-of-our-stairs,” said he.

“Sorry,” said John, reacquiring the phrase book and repocketting same. “That’s the Yorkshire one. This is what you need.” He handed yet another book to Jim.

“Surely this is Klingon,” said Jim.

“It’s basically the same. Trust me, I’m a PA.”

Jim now shook his head and addressed the team over the tour-bus microphone. “Gentlemen,” said he, “we are travelling north into terra incognita, into realms hitherto untravelled by Brentonians. We are pioneers, trailblazers, a bit like the Pilgrim Fathers. We will bring the Gospel of Brentford unto these heathen hoards.”

“Yea, verily,” enjoined Big Bob.

“Steady on,” said John.

“What I say unto you,” Jim continued, “is be not afraid. We have practised our tactics – well, all of us but for Mr Hampton here who is replacing Alan Berkshire, who we didn’t know had gone missing until I did a headcount.”

Omally groaned. Another one had lost his bottle.

“So please help Humphrey out and give him a round of applause for stepping in at such short notice.”

The team gave Humphrey a round of applause.

“Thanks very much, I’ll do my best,” said the human half of the half-man, half-hamburger.

The other half said nothing.

“What I am saying to you,” Jim continued, “is that you have nothing to fear but fear itself.”

“I hear you, Boss,” said Dave Quimsby. “But then I’d hear you if you were a mile away. What is your point, exactly?”

“I am saying,” said Jim, “that we have nothing to fear.”

“But we’re not afraid,” said Sundip Mahingay (the Indian of the group). “I follow Guru Maharugo Rune. I do not even fear fear itself.”

“Quite so,” said Jim.

“And I’m not afraid,” said Charlie Boxx. “I fear only the radiator that comes on before six in the morning.”

“Yes,” said Jim. “But—”

“Jim,” said John, putting his hand over Jim’s microphone, “they’re not afraid. Only you are afraid.”

“I’m not afraid,” said Jim. “The sky’s growing very dark, though, don’t you think?”

“It’s smoke,” said John. “From the mills. Or the mines, or suchlike.”

“I’m just trying to encourage the team.”

“You’re putting the wind up them. Stop now.”

Jim made a pouting face. “Carry on, lads,” he called. “There’s nothing to be terrified of, really.”

“Stop it now.” John put his other hand over Jim’s mouth. “Have a little pick-me-up. I’ve brought a hip flask.”

The sky continued to darken as the bus moved on up the M something-or-other, through wild moorlands now where the plaintive howls of feral whippets reached the ears of Dave Quimsby.

John perused his wristlet watch and urged Bob Charker onwards.

“What time starteth the match?” enquired the big one through his little panel.

“Seven-thirty,” said John. “Evening game. We have plenty of time.”

“The bus needs diesel and the team the bread of life.”

“Lunch, do you mean?”

“I doeth,” quoth Big Bob.

“Well, when you see one of those motorway service station jobbies, pull in.”

“Three-sixteen,” said Big Bob.

“You mean ten-four,” said John. “Like ‘it’s a big ten-four’ in those American trucker movies.”

“I mean, John, three-sixteen,” said Big Bob, “as on those cards that members of the audience hold up during American wrestling matches.”

“So,” said Barry Bustard to Alf Snatcher, “this duck goes into the Jobcentre.”

“Duck?” said Alf.

“Duck,” said Barry. “And he’s looking for a job, but the bloke behind the counter says that there aren’t many jobs for ducks. But if the duck fills in a form, then he’ll let him know if anything comes up. So the duck fills in the form—”

“How?” asked Alf.

“Doesn’t matter,” said Barry. “Let’s say that the Jobcentre bloke fills in the form for him.”

“Fair enough, then, go on.”

“So the duck goes home. And the very next day the Jobcentre bloke answers the phone and it’s Count Otto Black’s Circus Fantastique and they’re looking for a duck. Six-week tour, three shows a day, two hundred quid a week and all found.”

“All what?” asked Alf.

“Food and board,” said Barry.

“Fair enough, go on.”

“So the Jobcentre bloke phones up the duck and says—”

“How did the duck pick up the phone?” asked Alf.

“He had a friend,” said Barry. “A monkey. The monkey answered the phone for him.”

“Fair enough, go on.”

“So the Jobcentre bloke says, ‘You’ll never guess what. I’ve just had a call from Count Otto Black’s Circus Fantastique and they need a duck. Six-week tour, three shows a day, two hundred quid a week and all found—’”

“And the duck says, ‘That’s no good for me, I’m an interior designer!’” said Alf.

“You’ve heard it,” said Barry.

“I know the duck,” said Alf. “He redesigned my sitting room.”

Barry Bustard sighed.

“Are there any jobs going in the circus for tailed men?” asked Alf.

The bus turned on to a slip road leading off the motorway.

“Are we nearly there yet?” Jim asked.

“He’s stopping for diesel,” John told Jim. “And lunch. And beer. Northern beer, which many speak of highly.”

“Ah,” said Jim.

The sign said “Services One Mile” and Big Bob took this sign at face value. The big bus found its big wheels upon country road and as it was now three-thirty in the afternoon, and they were in the North and night was beginning to fall, Big Bob switched on the headlights.

“What is that?” Jim asked, pointing out and upwards through a window.

“The aurora borealis,” said John. “Don’t let it bother you, Jim.”

“It’s very pretty,” said Jim. “Are we nearly there yet?”

“Soon.”

Bib Bob squinted through the windscreen and set the wipers working. “It groweth somewhat foggy,” said he.

What merry converse there had been on the bus, and there hadn’t been much since Pooley’s pep talk, now ceased altogether and the team peered out through the windows at little other than darkness and fog.

“I think we should go back to the motorway,” Jim Pooley called through Big Bob’s little hatch.

“These lanes be too narrow,” the big one called back. “I canst not turn the bus around.”

Jim affected a gloomier countenance. “I wish the professor had come this time,” said he.

“Perk up, Jim,” John told him. “A couple of pints of Northern brew will raise your spirits.”

“We’re lost,” said Jim. “I know we are. The bus will run out of diesel and we will be stranded and we’ll miss the match and we won’t win the FA Cup and the Consortium will acquire the ground and loose the old serpent and the world as we know it will come to an end.” Jim’s hands began to flap and he made to rise from his seat to begin turning around in small circles, with hands all a-flapping, as was his way when caught in moments of terror.

“Sssh,” said John. “Calm down and be quiet, or I will be forced to give you a smack.”

“We’re doomed,” whispered Jim, hands flapping faster, his bum gaining liftoff.

Omally raised a fist.

“Aha,” cried Big Bob. “Yonder shineth lights. I behold a diesel pump and a pub thereto.”

“Nobody panic,” cried Jim. “Everything is going to be all right.”

“Buffoon,” said John Omally.

Big Bob drew the big bus to a halt and viewed through the fog the pub sign that swung in a creaky kind of fashion. “The Slaughtered Lamb,” said he. “I’ll fill the tank whilst thou drink not only water, but take a little wine, for thy stomach’s sake.”

“Three-sixteen,” said John Omally.

The team climbed down from the bus, hugging themselves for warmth, and Jim Pooley led them to the alehouse. He pushed upon a rugged door of panelled oak, and this door opened before him. Beyond lay the interior of a tavern that surely had not changed for several centuries. It was all oak beams and benches. Sawdust carpeted the floor and ancient fellows in cloth caps tugged upon tankards of ale and offered crisps to their whippets. Behind a rugged bar counter stood the lord of this domain: a barkeep who wore a soiled leather apron and bore an uncanny resemblance to the late, great Michael Ripper.

Jim Pooley whistled. “Good grief,” said he.

And then Jim stepped aside to avoid being trampled in the rush to the bar.

Many pints were ordered but the barkeep stood resolutely behind his counter, regarding all with a quizzical expression.

“Allow me,” said Jim, elbowing his way into the crush and consulting his Klingon phrasebook.

“Zoot a roony gabba gabba hey,” declared Jim.[38]

“Fourteen pints of Old Dog-Gobbler, then, is it?” said the barkeep.

“Zipperdee do dah,” said Jim.[39]

“And a packet of pork-scratchings.”

“Kree-gah, Bundolo!”[40]

“And a handbag full of cheese?”

“Yes, please,” said Charlie Boxx.

The beer came in pewter tankards, the pork-scratchings in plastic packets and the handbag in a basket with a side salad. The team descended to the benches and took sup with relish.[41]

John and Jim did leanings at the bar.

“We don’t have many sand-dancers calling in this way,” the barkeep observed as he viewed the team’s kaftans. “Are you a fan-club party bound for the Wilson, Kepple and Betty convention in Huddersfield?”

“It’s a football team,” said Jim. “Brentford United.”

“The Brentford United?” The barkeep eyed the team. “By the Gods, ’tis true. And you, yourself, my son has your picture on his wall and has taken to the wearing of the green tweeds. You’re Bertie.”

“Jim,” said Jim. “The name’s Jim.”

“Well, ’tis a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Jim. I’m so sorry that I didn’t recognise the team at once, but it is beyond belief that you should be here, in my pub. I can’t believe it.” The barkeep stuck out his hand for a shaking and Jim took this hand and shook it. It was a cold and clammy hand, and when Jim had done with the shaking of it, Jim wiped his hand upon a tweedy plus-foured trouser leg.

“You’re up against Burnley tonight,” said the barkeep. “Do you fancy your chances?”

Jim made an “O” with his right thumb and forefinger.

“You’ll score no goals,” said the barkeep. “Shame.”

“No,” said Jim. “We’ll win.”

“And you deserve to – you are the greatest, up from nothing and heading for glory. Might I ask you a favour?”

“You might,” said Jim.

“Would it please you if I treated the team to a round of drinks? It would be my honour.”

“Would that include the manager?” Jim asked.

“And his PA?” John Omally added.

“I would be doubly honoured.”

Another round was served. And packets of pork-scratchings liberally distributed. And Charlie Boxx received a holdall full of crabsticks as a main course.

Jim soon warmed to Old Dog-Gobbler, which, although lacking the subtle nuances of Large, embodied the richer qualities of medical alcohol and poteen, and had a decent head on it, too.

“We mustn’t drink too much,” he told the barkeep. “We have a match to play.”

“And to win,” said the barkeep, raising a pewter tankard of his own and draining its contents to the dregs. “But you’re only round the corner – the ground is but two miles on, so you can have another round, on the house.”

“Really?” said Jim.

“Might I come with you?” asked the barkeep. “I’ll close the pub for the evening.”

“Absolutely,” said Jim, raising his tankard.

Big Bob sauntered in. “All filled,” said he, “and the pump man refused my offer to render unto Caesar – he said that he supporteth Brentford.”

“God is on our side,” said Jim.

“Same again?” said the barkeep. “And one for yourself, driver?”

“Adam’s ale for me,” said Big Bob, ever the professional.

The barkeep drew John and Jim two more pints, waved the potboy to replenish the team’s drinks and served up a glass of mineral water (drawn from a healthy Northern spring) for Big Bob.

“I could not but notice that you favour the biblical idiom,” he said to the big one.

“Thou speaketh truly.”

“I myself have an interest in the New Testament. In fact, I am presently writing a book on the subject.”

“Art thou?” said Big Bob, tasting the water of life and finding it wholesome.

“Yes indeed. Might I beg that you indulge me for a moment?”

Big Bob inclined his head. John Omally rolled his eyes, but tasted further ale and found it wholesome.

“Yes,” said the barkeep. “You see, I’ve always had a problem with the accuracy of the New Testament. The trial of Jesus, for instance. You see, nothing that is written in the New Testament explains why he was crucified. Crucifixion was a punishment reserved for only the most heinous crimes. Jesus might have been considered a bit of a troublemaker, but he wasn’t a revolutionary proper and so he shouldn’t have been crucified.”

“He had to fulfil prophecy,” said Big Bob, “that the Son of Man would come and that man would put him to death. And then he would rise again, of course.”

“Of course, but I have this theory that it happened differently. My book is fiction, of course, because I can’t be certain, but in my version of events, Jesus gets off. He has this clever lawyer, see, Saint Matthew.”

“The tax collector?” said Big Bob.

“He was a learned fellow, well educated – he could write. He got Jesus off and Jesus then went on to have other adventures. Have you ever seen that film The Seven Samurai?”

“It was remade as The Magnificent Seven,” said Jim.

“Exactly,” said the barkeep. “So think about this: The Magnificent Thirteen, Jesus and his apostles going out, righting wrongs, getting into battles.”

“Battles?” said Jim. “They were fishermen, not Samurai.”

“They had swords,” said the barkeep.

“Of course they didn’t,” said Jim.

“They did,” said Omally. “They drew them to defend Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane when Judas kissed him. Well, at least one of them did. But I expect they were all tooled-up – they were dangerous days back then in Palestine.”

“They never were.” said Jim. “Swords?”

“Big ’uns,” said Big Bob.

“That’s not very apostley,” said Jim, “swords.”

“It’s in the Bible,” said the barkeep. “So after Jesus gets off, he and his apostles go and have these adventures with swords. They save villages, things like that.”

“Do you have a title for this book?” Big Bob asked.

“I do,” said the barkeep. “Remember the A Team?”

“I have the duvet cover,” said Jim.

“You do?” said John.

“Christmas present from my mum,” said Jim.

“Oh,” said John.

“Well,” said the barkeep, “forget the A Team. My book is called The J Team. After Jesus. Good, eh?”

“Put me down for a copy,” said Jim. “Where is the toilet, by the way? The Old Dog-Gobbler is beginning to take its toll on my bladder.”

“In the yard,” said the barkeep. “Out of the door and turn left.”

“Thank you,” said Jim and he left the bar counter and made his way unsteadily to the door.

“One more all round,” the barkeep called to the potboy.

Jim took himself outside, leaned upon the doorpost and lit up a Dadarillo. He blew smoke towards the full moon that now swam proudly amongst the scudding clouds, for most of the fog had lifted.

“Nice fella, that barkeep,” said Jim to himself. “The J Team, though, what nonsense. A Brentford supporter, though – the barkeep, I mean, not Jesus,” and Jim giggled foolishly.

It was very cold out now, but Jim felt warm inside. Old Dog-Gobbler was exceptional ale. He’d only had a couple of pints, well, three at most, and he felt, what was the word? Merry.

“Good word, merry,” said Jim. But the word was not “merry”. The word Jim was looking for was “drunk”. Actually, it was two words –“very drunk”.

“Now which way was the bog? Right or left? Right, I think.” And Jim staggered very drunkenly off towards the right.

A door presented itself to him and he turned the handle and pushed the door open and came upon a cosy kitchen room. Jim peered in, leaning on a new doorpost for support. He really did feel very drunk now.

Two folk stared at Jim from a kitchen table – a big, fat woman and a scrawny child. They were taking their tea. The scrawny child wore a football shirt. Jim grinned foolishly.

“I’m terribly sorry,” said he. “I was looking for the toilet.”

“It doesn’t matter, my dear,” said the big, fat woman. “It often happens to folk who have foolishly imbibed more than a half-pint of Dog.”

“Ah,” said Jim. “Yes.”

“Back out and to the left,” said the big, fat woman.

“Thank you,” said Jim, struggling to turn himself around. “Aha,” said Jim, espying the scrawny child’s football shirt. “You’re the young football supporter, I see.”

“Like my dad,” said the child.

“His dad’s the barkeep,” said the woman. “My husband.”

“Nice chap,” said Jim. “But that shirt, it’s not the Brentford strip.”

“Brentford?” said the child and he spat on to the floor. “We gob upon Brentford here. We’re Burnley Town supporters. Burnley Town for the Cup.” And he began a chant that Jim did not like the sound of at all.

“Burnley shupporters?” slurred Jim. “But the barkeep shaid …”

And then that light came unto Jim, that light which folk sometimes see – that illuminating light that St John got, which lit up the Road to Damascus.[42]

Jim suddenly got it now.

“Treachery!” cried Jim. “Duplicity! Sabotage!”

And Jim lurched from the cosy kitchen and staggered back to the bar.