Sex and Drugs and Sausage Rolls

13

“Wake up, Jim. Wake up there.”

Smack.

“Wake up, Jim. Wake up.”

Shake, shake.

“Loosen his collar,” said Neville.

“I’ll loosen his wallet instead,” said John. “I think the weight has pulled him over.”

Smack, smack, shake and loosen.

“Get off me. Get off me. Oh.” And Jim returned to consciousness.

Omally helped him onto a stool. “Whatever happened?” he asked.

Jim took his pint in a shaky hand and sucked upon his ale. “Don’t ever mention that again, John,” he said. “Don’t ever mention The Pooley.”

“The Pooley?” asked Neville. “What is The Pooley?”

“It’s nothing.” Pooley flapped with his pintless paw. “It’s nothing and it isn’t what I’ve done and it isn’t what I’m going to do ever.”

“Well, I’m glad we’ve cleared that up,” said Neville. “Now kindly get out of my pub. You’re barred.”

“Excuse me, please?” Jim spluttered into his pint.

“Coming into my bar last night, buying a round of drinks for twelve young louts in shorts—”

“A round for twelve?” and John did splutterings too.

“He did,” said Neville. “And now ‘Have a pint yourself, Neville.’ What are you trying to do, Pooley? Push me over the edge?”

“But—” said Jim.

“But me no buts. I’ve heard about bars where the patrons offer to buy the barman a drink. ‘Have one yourself, barlord,’ they say. But twenty long years I’ve run this establishment and not once, not once, mind, have any one of you tight-fisted bastards ever offered to buy me a drink.”

“Not once?” said Jim. “I’m sure I—”

“Not once. And now you’ve ruined it. I was hoping to get into the Guinness Book of Records.”

“Were you?” John asked.

“No, of course I bloody wasn’t. But I’m warning you, Jim. One more. One more of anything and you are out of this pub for good.”

Omally raised his ever-calming palms towards the barman. “I’ll see that he behaves,” he said, steering Jim away from the bar and off to a quiet corner table.

John sat down and Jim sat down and John stared hard at Jim. “You bought a round for twelve?” he whispered. “You, a round for twelve?”

“I don’t wish to talk about it, John.” Jim took another pull on his pint. “It was a very trying evening. I’d rather just forget all about it, if you don’t mind. But you must promise me this. Never, ever, speak of The Pooley again. Do you promise?”

“I promise,” said John. “If it means so much to you.”

“It does and I thank you. And so.”

“And so?” asked John.

“And so down to business. I have arranged for the band to meet us here at seven o’clock. To celebrate the founding of Brentford Records. Which gives us a bit of time before they arrive, to work out our business plan.”

“Business plan.” Omally gave approving nods. “Very professional, Jim.”

“Thank you, John. Now the first thing we’re going to need is a recording studio. There are some vacant units on the old industrial estate down by Cider Island. There’s one called Hangar Eighteen that I like the look of. We’ll rent that and fit it out and—”

“Have to stop you there,” said John.

“Oh yes, and why?”

“Why? Do you know how much it costs to fit out a recording studio? All the equipment you need?”

“Haven’t a clue,” said Jim. “Which is why I’ll leave that side of it to you. Ducking and diving and wheeling and dealing is what you’re all about.”

“Yes I know, but—”

“Come on now, John. Pull your weight.”

“It’s not a matter of pulling my weight. It could cost at least half a million quid to fit out a recording studio. Probably much more than that.”

“Fortune favours the brave,” said Jim. “Now, regarding the look of Hangar Eighteen. I think we should go for something really distinctive. Something eye-catching. I have a vision of a huge hairdryer up on the roof. Or, even better, a dirigible shaped like a hairdryer, moored to the roof and floating in the sky and—”

“Stop!” said Omally. “Stop stop stop.”

“You’re not keen on the dirigible?”

“I’m not keen on any of it. We don’t need a recording studio, Jim. It isn’t necessary.”

“It isn’t?” said Jim. “But how can we make records if we don’t have a recording studio?”

“We’ll record the band when they play live. On a portable mixing desk.”

Pooley gave this a moment’s thought. “That’s brilliant,” he said.

“And we’ll get Norman to turn out as many copies of the tapes as we want. We’ll pay him a retainer, or two bob a tape, or something.”

“That is also brilliant,” Pooley said.

“And then we’ll distribute them to the record shops.”

“That is not so brilliant,” Pooley said.

“Not so brilliant? Why is that?”

“Because the record shops won’t take them. I’ve discussed all this with Ricky. The shops are all owned by the big record corporations. They won’t sell tapes that are independently produced.”

“They’re bastards,” said Omally.

“I agree, and that’s why we’ll beat them. Brentford Records are going to have their own retail outlets. A chain of independent record shops.”

“What?” went John. “What?”

“A chain of small shops up and down the country.”

John Omally shook his head in a weary kind of a way. “Jim, Jim, Jim,” he said to Jim. “And where will the money come from?”

Pooley smiled a broad and cheery smile. “Ah,” he said. “I was wondering about that myself. But as you’ve just saved us half a million quid on the recording studio, we can use that money.”

Omally buried his head in his hands and Jim got another round in.

The arrival of the Gandhis at precisely seven o’clock came as a bit of a surprise. And if their punctuality glared into the face of rock ’n’ roll, their appearance positively gobbed in its eye.

The Gandhis looked—

Respectable.

The four male members wore matching dark grey business suits. Their big hair had been slicked back and tucked down the collars of their white shirts. White shirts! And these white shirts were buttoned at the neck. And these white shirts had ties!

Litany, grey moustached but make-up free, favoured a demure beige two-piece number over a white cotton blouse. She wore sensible shoes on her feet and she looked like a lady librarian. She even had a briefcase!

“Jesus Jones!” said John Omally.

“By the prophet’s beard!” said Jim.

“Good evening, madam, good evening, gents,” said Neville the part-time barman.

Litany smiled upon Neville and Neville pinked up at the cheeks. “I’ve heard you draw the finest pints of Large in Brentford,” she said.

Neville’s pigeon chest came swelling up his shirt front.

“Then five pints, please,” said Litany. “The gentleman there will be paying.”

Neville glanced at the gentleman there. The gentleman there was Jim.

“Hmm,” went Neville, his pigeon chest falling. “The gentleman there. I see.”

The gentleman there had his mouth hanging open. The gentleman with him had too.

“Is that really them?” whispered John.

“It is,” Jim whispered. “It is.”

“But why are they—”

“Dressed like that? Because I asked them to, John. I didn’t want Neville getting all upset, so I asked them to dress down a bit.”

Omally shook his head. “Well, we can’t just sit here staring. Let’s give them the big hello.”

Pooley made the introductions. John shook hands all round, lingering somewhat longer than was perhaps necessary on the shaking of Litany’s.

Litany smiled up at John.

And John smiled down at Litany.

And whatever thoughts were now going through John’s head, he kept very much to himself. But had these thoughts been set to music and brought out on a CD, it is a certainty that the CD would have needed one of those labels that says PARENTAL GUIDANCE: EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT.

“Can I have my hand back, please?” asked Litany.

“Oh yes,” said John. “Won’t you all come over and join us at our table? Jim will take care of the drinks. Won’t you, Jim?”

“I will,” said Pooley. “I will.”

Neville brought a tray out and loaded up the pints. “Now that’s more like it, Jim,” he said. “A bit of class in the bar. Estate agents, are they? Or accountants?”

“Something like that,” said Jim, fishing out his wad and peeling off a ten-spot.

Neville held it up to the light. “This better be kosher,” he said.

“But it’s the change you gave me from the last round.”

“Exactly,” said Neville. “So watch it.”

Pooley struggled across with the tray and set it down on the table. “Don’t I get a seat?” he asked.

“Bring one over, Jim,” said John, who was sitting next to Litany. “I’d give you my seat, but I’m sitting here.”

Pooley dragged a chair across and squeezed himself in between Gandhis.

A description of the Gandhi men might be useful here. But sadly there is little to be said. In their suits and with their hair dragged back, they all looked much of a muchness. Tall and lean, with sticky-out cheekbones, big on sunken eyes. Very much like brothers, they looked. But not at all like the Osmonds.

There was Ricky Zed, on lead guitar. Dead Boy Doveston on bass. Matchbox Finial on rhythm guitar and occasional keyboards, and Pigarse Peter Westlake on drums. There would no doubt have also been Adolf Hitler on vibes and Val Doonican as himself had this been the Bonzos’ Intro and the Outro. But it wasn’t, so there wasn’t.

So to speak.

Jim pushed pints around the table, smiling all round and about.

“Now, before we begin,” said Litany, “there is something that Pigarse wants to say. Isn’t there, Pigarse?”

“I have a morbid fear of identical twins,” said Pigarse.

“No, not that,” said Litany.

“My father once pushed a Barbie doll up his bottom for art,” said Pigarse.

“No, not that either.”

“I’m very sorry for punching you last night in the Shrunken Head, Mr Omally,” said Pigarse. “It was rock ’n’ roll madness and it won’t happen again.”

“Yes, that’s it,” said Litany.

John, whose eyes had hardly left her for a single moment, said, “That’s all right, Pigarse, forget it.”

“Stone me,” said Jim.

“Forget it,” said Omally. “I thought I’d wait until the band got really big before terminating Pigarse’s contract and chucking him out on his ear.”

“Most amusing,” said Pigarse.

“Glad you think so,” said John.

Litany took a sip at her Large and drained an even half-pint. “This is very good stuff,” said she. “So shall we get right down to business?”

John, who had never actually seen beer vanish quite as fast as that, even when it was going down his own throat, said, “Yes, that would be fine.”

Litany opened her briefcase and took from it papers which she laid on a spare bit of table. “It is imperative,” she said, “that from the word go we all know where we stand, legally. We have signed a contract with Jim, giving Brentford Records exclusive rights to our music and we have each put up five hundred pounds to make us shareholders in the company. This is to ensure that we have absolute artistic control over our music and an equal share in all profits.”

“Absolutely,” said John.

“Absolutely,” said Litany. “Jim and I discussed this during the afternoon and I have had these legally binding contracts drawn up to ensure your commitment to us. That you will fulfil your side of the bargain. Do what is expected of you. So forth and suchlike. Do you understand?”

“Absolutely,” said John once again.

Litany took up the contracts and passed them over the table. One to Jim and one to John. “Please read them carefully,” she said. “We must get this right from the start. I don’t want us all fighting later. I have no wish to get screwed by a bunch of solicitors and end up coughing into their pockets.”

Omally tried to picture that, but his thoughts took a deviant sexual turn so he set to reading the contract.

“This part here,” he said.

“Which part is that?” asked Litany.

“The party in the first part of this contract will be known as the party in the first part.”

“What about it?” asked Litany.

“I don’t like it,” said John.

“Nor do I,” said Jim. “It’s out of an old Marx Brothers movie.”

“Ignore that bit, then,” Litany said. “And just read through the rest.”

Jim read and John read and Jim turned pages.

John turned pages too and Jim read some more.

John turned a page then and Jim turned another one.

And then they turned some pages back. They weren’t entirely sure.

“Happy with it?” Litany asked.

“It has a certain poetry,” said John. “But what it says, in essence, is that Jim and I are entirely liable to all expenses incurred by the band. That we finance it ourselves, but all costs are defrayed against record sales and all profits split seven ways.”

“That’s it,” said Litany.

“Well, I’m happy,” said John. “What about you, Jim?”

“The sanity clause worries me,” said Jim. But as few around the table were big Marx Brothers fans, the remark received the contempt it deserved.

“All right,” said John. “We’ll sign.”

“Does someone have a pen, please?” asked Jim. “I lent mine to Pigarse and he never gave it back.”

“I’ve lent it to my dad,” said Pigarse. “He’s using it for art.”

“I’ll buy another tomorrow,” said Jim.

Litany took from her briefcase a slim black leather box. In this was an elegant silver stylus. “You may use this,” she said. “But there is just one thing.”

“And that is?” John asked.

“You have to sign it in blood.”

“Blood”, said Norman of the corner shop, “is what it’s all about.”

He didn’t say this in the Flying Swan, however, because he wasn’t in the Flying Swan. Norman said it in his kitchen workshop, where he was working on his horse.

Now it might have been a coincidence that he said the word “blood” at the very same moment as had Litany. Or it might have been a synchronicity, or even a fateful foreshadowing.

But say it he did and he said it again. “It’s all in the blood,” said Norman.

As this was Wednesday half-closing, Norman had had the entire afternoon to work on his horse. And he had been putting considerable effort into it. Unaware that Pooley had given up the horses, Norman continued with his project, determined to have it finished by Friday, in keeping with his life-in-little-movies principle and looking forward to turning up on Jim’s doorstep on the Saturday to give him his big surprise.

But it had been a difficult afternoon for Norman. What with all the magnifying glass work and the tweezer work and the splicing the genes together with really small bits of sellotape work. But the saucepan was back on the stove now and the contents were bubbling nicely.

Norman had also done some splicing with his copy of the Gandhis’ tape. He’d spliced it into a loop, so he could play it continuously while he worked. The magical music just made him feel so well, so alive, so healthy. It made him feel ready to take up any challenge and win win win win win.

He wiggled his bum in time to the tune and gave the saucepan a stir. “I think I’ll just pop up and have a bath,” said he, “while this lot comes to the boil.”

Norman went over to switch off the tape and then thought better of it. It would be nice to hear the music while he bathed. He turned up the Gandhis full blast and danced out of the kitchen.

“This time,” he said, “I’ll make me a winner. This time I’ll go for the big one.”

“We’re going for the big one this time,” said Litany. “And it’s a rock ’n’ roll statement.”

“Ozzy Osbourne did it,” said Pigarse.

“War Pigs,” said John.

“War Pigarse,” said Pigarse.

“Yes,” said Jim, “but blood. Real blood. My blood.”

“Only enough to sign your name,” said Pigarse. “My dad once squeezed blood out of his piles and onto a canvas for art. Saatchi bought it for his collection.”

“Your dad has an enterprising bottom,” said Jim, “but I don’t know much about art.”

“Do it for me,” said Litany, smiling at Jim. “You’re not afraid to, are you?”

Jim took the stylus. “I’m not scared,” said he.

The actual thumb-pricking and the wincing and the fussing and the coming all over faint and the dipping the stylus into the blood and the puffing, the blowing and the gulping at pints afterwards wasn’t all that rock ’n’ roll. But eventually the task was completed. The contracts were signed and Litany tucked them away in her briefcase.

And then she raised her glass. “To success,” she said.

“To rock ’n’ roll,” said John.

“To Apocalypso music,” said Jim.

“To art,” said Pigarse.

“To Jim,” said Ricky.

And so on and so forth.

“And now,” said Litany. “Let’s talk business.”

“Yes,” said John. “Let’s do.”

“Oh, just one thing before we start,” said Ricky. “I have to give you this.” He handed John a folded piece of paper.

“What is this?” John asked, unfolding it.

“It’s the bill for these clothes. Jim told us to dress down a bit. No leather strides and so forth. So we all went out and bought these God-awful suits. If you could let us have the money back out of petty cash it would be helpful.”

“Oh,” said John and, “Ah.”

“And I’m going to need a new amp,” said Ricky. “Mine’s really fucked.”

“And a whole new wardrobe of stage clothes,” said Pigarse. “And designer stuff, not rubbish. And I need a new set of skins for my drums.”

“And I need a new mic,” said Litany. “And our van’s knackered too.”

“A proper tour bus is what we need,” said Matchbox Finial. “Mercedes do a great one. I’ve got a catalogue here.”

“Right,” said John and, “Yes, indeed.”

Litany smiled once more upon John. “I know that we’re going to work really well together,” she said. “I’m sure we’ll grow very close. It’s such a relief to be signed up with professionals. You wouldn’t believe the idiots who’ve offered to manage us in the past.”

“You’re right there,” said Pigarse. “Remember that moron who thought he’d get away with recording us live on a mixing desk and knocking tapes out in his mate’s back kitchen?”

Litany laughed and Ricky laughed and Dead Boy laughed as well.

“Whatever happened to that bloke?” Matchbox Finial asked.

“I took him for a little drive into the country,” said Pigarse. “They haven’t found all of him yet.”

Gandhi members laughed some more.

“Most amusing,” said John Omally.

“Glad you think so,” said Pigarse.

Gladness was the rage in Norman’s bathroom. Kit was off, the tub was full, the bubbles overflowed. Norman had his own personal brand of bubble bath. He had created it himself.

The bubbles smelled great and they really got the dirt off, though it didn’t do to soak in them too long. Norman had once forgotten to pull the plug out after bathing and the next morning he had discovered that the bubbles had eaten through the enamel of the bath and right down to the iron.

But, with the bubbles gnawing him clean and the music belting up the stairs and filling the room with good vibrations, Norman sank into the scented water and felt most glad all over.

Down in the kitchen workshop the brew made bubbles of its own. Great big bubbles heaved and popped in time to the Gandhis’ music. Really beautiful bubbles, they were. Really really beautiful.

“Really beautiful strings,” said Ricky, back in the Swan. “I saw them in Minn’s Music Mine the other day, but I couldn’t afford to buy them then. I think you should get me three sets, John. Just to be on the safe side.”

“And I need to get my roots dyed,” said Pigarse. “And my dad needs a new seat for his Honda. Perhaps we could make that tax deductible.”

Jim looked at John.

And John looked back at Jim.

“I have to go to the toilet,” said John.

“And so do I,” said Jim.

Once out of the bar and in the bog, Jim Pooley closed the door.

“Window,” said John.

“Window?” said Jim.

“We can climb out of the window and then I suggest we just run for it.”

“You are for doing a runner, then, are you?”

“What other choice do we have? We’re in this over our heads, Jim. We’ve made ourselves liable and we signed in our blood.”

“Perhaps we could just ask for the contracts back,” said Jim. “Explain that we’ve had a think about it and we’ve changed our minds.”

“I can’t see that going down too well. That Pigarse is a psychopath. I don’t want the police search teams only finding bits of me.”

“I wonder what he did with the parts they couldn’t find. Do you think his dad used them for art?”

“Window,” said Omally. “Much as I fancy that Litany and much as I’d love to—” He paused. “But it can’t be done. Let’s run while we still have legs.”

“No.” And Pooley shook his head. “We can’t just run away. All right, we’ve got ourselves in big trouble here. But I’m sure we can find a way round it.”

“Well, you have a go, Jim. I’m off.”

“Oh, perfect,” said Jim. “That’s your answer to the problem. Run away. Listen, John. We have a chance to make something of ourselves here. A chance to do something wonderful. We could manage this band if we worked hard at it. We could do it. We really could. You’ve heard Litany sing. You’ve felt what happens. You’ve experienced it. The major record companies won’t touch the Gandhis, but we could bring their music to the world. Bring their magic to the world, John.”

“All right,” said John. “I hear what you’re saying. But we don’t have the money.”

“Then we’ll have to find it.”

“But where, Jim? Where could we possibly find it?”

“I don’t know,” and Pooley shrugged. “But I don’t think I’ll win it on the horses.”

Now, a winning horse, as Norman knew, is made from many parts. But what only a very few people know is, there’s more to a winner than that. It is not enough just to be a beautiful model or a talented filmstar or a brilliant musician. It is a lot, but it isn’t enough. You need that little bit more than that. You need the extra magic.

Some might call this charisma. But what does this word really mean?

Magic is what this word means. A special kind of magic.

Litany had it in her voice. A very special kind of magic. And, as the tape went round and round on Norman’s deck, the magic filled up Norman’s kitchen. It entered into the brew upon the stove and infused and enthused it. Assembled and improved it.

Did many magical things to it.

Things that were full of wonder.

Pooley returned to the Swan’s saloon bar, leaving Omally to wonder. His hand was on the window catch, his mind was all over the place.

“Shit,” said John. “I don’t know what to do. I can’t let Jim take all the responsibility. It was me who really got him into all this. But there’s no way we can raise the money. What am I going to do?”

“Omally,” came a voice from above. “This is the voice of God.”

“Sod off, Dave,” said Omally. “I’m trying to have a think here.”

Pooley sat back down between a pair of Gandhis.

“All right, Jim?” asked Pigarse. “You look a bit pale in the face.”

“I’m fine,” said Jim. “All the better for a good piddle.”

“Are you coming on the tour with us, Jim?” asked Ricky.

“Tour?” said Jim. “What tour?”

“The tour you’ll be lining up, of course. You are a joker, Jim. What kind of venues will we be playing?”

“Well …” said Jim, and, “Ooooooooh.”

“Big ones, I hope,” said Pigarse.

“Huge, I should think.” And Pooley hastily folded his arms. His hands were beginning to flap.

“This bloke is boss,” said Ricky. “We were just talking about your theory of the future, Jim. About THE END.”

“THE END,” said Jim, in an ominous tone.

“It’s a blinding theory,” said Ricky. “A theory like that should be taught to kids in schools. You should give it a name, Jim. The Pooley Theory. Or the Pooley Principle, that’s better. Or even just The Poole—”

“No!” shrieked Jim. “Not that!”

Neville raised an eyebrow at the bar.

Pigarse said, “Don’t shout like that. I nearly did art in my pants.”

“Are you feeling okay, Jim?” asked Litany. “You really do look rather ill. Would you like me to sing you better?”

Pooley sighed. “I’d love that,” he said. “But I’ve something I have to say. There’s been a bit of a misunderstanding and I feel we should all be honest with each other. No secrets.”

“Go on,” said Litany.

“It’s about the money.” Pooley took a deep breath and pulled his shoulders back. “About the money you need for the equipment and the stage clothes and the strings and the mic and, well, everything, really.”

“Yes?” said Litany.

“Well,” said Jim. “You see …”

“Go on,” said Pigarse. “What is it?”

Pooley paused and glanced around the table. All eyes were upon him. Expectant eyes, they were. Eyes that seemed to look into his very soul.

“I …” said Pooley. “I …” And then his face lit up. It shone. It glowed. It veritably radiated. Glow and shine and glisten, went Jim’s face.

“I have a plan,” said Pooley. “And I will take care of everything.”

“Yo,” said Ricky. “The man with the plan. Is this guy boss, or what?”

The man with the plan stared into space. But the man with the plan had a plan.

And it was a blinder of a plan and it had come upon Jim in his moment of need, as if from God upon high.

It was also a terrifying plan and Jim knew that when he pulled it off it would doom his name for ever. But the cause was just, and the cause was good and Pooley’s plan was this.

Pooley would pull off The Pooley. And he would do it in this fashion. He would borrow money. Much money. All the money that was needed to finance the Gandhis for one enormous gig. One legendary gig, at Wembley, say. One that everyone would want to come to. Everyone who was a Gandhis fan would be there. Everyone. And that everyone would surely include the time-hopping Geraldo, who wouldn’t want to miss a gig like that.

Jim would track down Geraldo at the gig and force him to tell him the names of the following day’s racing winners. Geraldo could easily find these out, but, as Jim knew, he wouldn’t want to. But Jim would make him do it, because Jim would explain that if he, Jim, didn’t pull off The Pooley he wouldn’t have the money to pay off the debts and make the Gandhis world famous. And they had to get world famous. Because if they hadn’t, Geraldo would never have heard of them and come back through time to hear them play. Future history recorded that the Gandhis were world famous and future history also recorded that Jim had pulled off The Pooley. And so, if Geraldo didn’t want to mess around with future history, he would have to give Jim the names of the winners.

He would have to. He would. He just would.

It was a blinder of a plan, and as Jim stared into space, going over it all once again in his head, just to make sure he could understand it himself, he felt certain that it was the way things had to be. He couldn’t escape from his fate, and only he could make the Gandhis famous.

It was a blinder of a plan. It was truly dynamite.

Norman heard the explosion and ducked for cover in his bath. It wasn’t Pooley’s dynamite plan, but something down in the kitchen.

Norman sheltered beneath his hands, in fear of falling plaster. He was no stranger to explosions. They went with the territory, when you were an inventor. In fact they were part of the fun of it all. If you didn’t have at least one decent explosion in the course of each experiment, you didn’t qualify for the right to wear the inventor’s white coat, in Norman’s opinion.

Norman raised his head from his hands. The ceiling hadn’t fallen and down below the tape played on. It was just a minor explosion. Not the full gas mains job.

“Phew,” went Norman. “I wonder what that might have been. I think I’d better go downstairs and find out.”

And Norman was just on the point of climbing from his bath when it happened.

It happened fast and it happened hard and it didn’t give Norman a chance. It came up through the floor and up through the bath and caught Norman right where Pigarse’s dad had stuck the Barbie for art.

Whatever it was, it was long, hard and white. Long, hard and white as a length of two by one. But this was not the carpenter’s friend of the well-loved music hall song. This long, white, hard thing was sharp at the end and more cylindrical in nature.

Norman went up in a foamy blur and came down again in slow motion.

Whatever it was had vanished now, but a bellowing came from below.

It was quite a remarkable bellowing. And although Norman’s thoughts were not particularly centred upon any bellowing other than his own at this precise moment, even he could have told that this was not the bellowing of a horse.

As such.

But the beast that did the bellowing had many horse-like features. The mane, the hooves, the flanks and fetlocks and the rest. But this beast that reared and bucked in Norman’s kitchen, beneath the flow of water from his punctured bath, was more than just a horse.

Much more.

For this beast had a single horn that rose in glory from its head.

A long, white, hard and pointed horn.

A wondrous and magical horn.

A horn, indeed, that is only to be found on the head of a unicorn.

I had words last week

With an uninspired Greek

Of the “Carry-your-bags?” variety.

Who insisted that I

Tip him low, wide and high.

As a fellow might do in society.

I informed this yob

That his only job

Was to tote all the trunks of his betters.

This he flatly denied

And in dialect cried

That he was a great man of letters.

And whilst argument flared

This brash ruffian dared

To summon the help of a Peeler.

And falsely accuse me

And roundly abuse me

And quote from the works of Cordelier.

But this was his downfall,

Illiterate scoundrel.

The Bobby was classically trained.

And he struck down the Greek

With his stick, so to speak.

Which was twelve inches long and close-grained.