The Sprouts of Wrath

35

A beaming face beamed out across the nation. “This is the London Olympics.”

“London Olympics?” muttered Neville. “What happened to the Brentford Olympics?”

“Sssssh!” went the patrons gathered about the large television set, which had been supplied by the brewery and bolted firmly to the bar counter “for the sake of security”.

“A miracle of modern technology, a wonder of the age, the great Star Stadium straddles an anonymous West London borough.”

“I think we’ll have this off now,” said Neville.

“Sssssh!” went the patrons.

The camera dipped low over the seemingly endless spread of the stadium, a mind-boggling panorama. It swivelled about, following the running tracks, the jumps and throwing areas and then swept down into the subterranean world beneath the arena. Here it found the squash courts, rifle ranges, swimming pools and further a myriad of sports complexes. Then out it went towards the five star points which housed the Olympic villages, each like a five star hotel, rising towards the heavens. “The world of tomorrow today.” Throughout the camera’s wondrous journey the announcer’s voice-over continued to pour forth a never-ending stream of minutiae, seating capacities, dimensions, miracles, miracles, miracles.

“Oooooh!” and “Aahhh!” went the patrons, well hooked.

Old Pete entered the portal of the newly named Ye Flying Swan Inn. “The whole bloody lot will be down about our ears, you mark my words,” muttered the old reprobate shuffling up to the bar counter, his dog Chips as ever upon his down-at-heels. Neville nodded in profound agreement and drew the kindred spirit a freeman’s from the rum optic. “Your very good health.” said the ancient. “I see that idiot sign is up outside, but a small price to pay, I suppose. No signs of any wall bars creeping in here, I’m pleased to say.”

Neville smoothed down the folds of his apron and straightened his bow-tie. “That has been dealt with for good, I hope. Although I see no sign of Omally creeping in here either.”

“Lying in his drunken pit I should think.”

Neville made a thoughtful face. “If he doesn’t show up by twelve, I may be forced to ‘let him go’, if you will pardon the euphemism.”

“I will pardon almost anything of the man who buys me a drink. A man’s religious persuasions are his own affair.”

Neville slicked down his brilliantined scalp, he’d need some time to work that one out. But where was Omally? His work record so far was flawless. Neville had tried every trick in the publican’s book to catch him out, but his behaviour was above reproach. His timekeeping was impeccable, his helpfulness a legend, his politeness in the face of drunken insult another legend, his honesty a thing to fear. So now why suddenly go and ruin it all by taking time off and not calling in with an excuse, however lame? It was very strange indeed. A terrible thought crossed Neville’s mind: perhaps there had been an accident, perhaps Omally was lying ill in his bed? The part-time barman felt suddenly wretched, how shallow he was, how pitifully shallow, and him a budding psychologist. What did he really know of human nature, sweet bugger all, that was what. Neville hung his head. He’d go round to Omally’s come closing-time and see how he was. “At times I think that this profession has ruined me,” Neville told Old Pete. “I have become an uncompromising, untrusting, single-minded pedagogue.”

“There’s no shame in that,” said the old one. “Many of my best pals lost a limb or two back in the first lot. A man with one leg can hop as easily as a man with two.”

“And the lion never roars until after he’s eaten,” Norman chimed in as he jogged up to the bar. “What’s to do then, Pete?”

“Neville has joined a religious order and has had one of his legs amputated,” the other replied. “What do you look like, Norman?”

“Good, eh?” said the shopkeeper, giving a twirl. “Designed it myself, pretty natty, eh?”

Old Pete scrutinized the shopkeeper’s apparel and Neville leant forward across the bar counter to get a better look. Norman was sporting, and that was definitely the word, a confection which, even given his penchant for eccentricity, was extreme to say the very least. Ancient plimsolls dyed a dayglo orange, football socks in the Brentford colours, knee-length shorts cut from mattress ticking and a baggy T-shirt with the Olympic rings and the legend “Hartnell Goes For Gold” emblazoned across the chest in felt-tip pen. A pink towelling headband and matching wristlets completed the ensemble to a pleasing effect. “The official Brentford Olympic kit,” said Norman proudly. “I designed it and Father Moity is fitting out the whole team.”

“The whole team?” queried Neville.

“Secret training sessions.” The shopkeeper tapped his nose. “Seems fitting that the home team take most of the gold medals.”

“Norman,” said Neville, “surely there is an official British team. Haven’t I heard such names as Daley Thompson and Sebastian Coe being bandied about?”

“They won’t let you in,” said Old Pete scornfully, “it’s the Olympic games not the bloody Notting Hill Carnival.” Chips stifled a titter.

“A prophet is without honour in his own land,” quoted Norman. “Just you wait and see.”

“And what’s your event then?” Old Pete asked. “Or are you just the frigging mascot?”

“Javelin.” Norman mimed a mighty throw. “Up and away and Hartnell takes the world record.”

“Sssssh!” went the patrons at the counter’s end.

“A pint of Large, please, Neville,” said Norman.

“Not while you’re in training, surely?”

“My … er … technique requires the minimum physical effort, a pint will be fine.”

“He means to cheat,” said Old Pete. “Some electronic hocus-pocus, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“Ssssh!” went Norman. “There’s nothing wrong with having the edge on the foreigners. That has always been the British way, hasn’t it?”

Neville pulled the gold medallist a pint of Large. “So how is it done?” he asked.

Norman accepted his pint, tapped once more at his nose and drew the two listeners close. “Gravitite,” he whispered.

“Gravitite? You mean you’ve nicked a bit of it?”

“Nothing of the sort. I concede that the idea is not my own, but I perfected the formula unaided. Took me almost two weeks to get it right; you see, the old chemistry set is a bit limited and I was right out of copper sulphate and pink litmus paper.”

“Are you confident that it will work?”

“Just watch this.” From a pocket in his voluminous shorts Norman withdrew a single dart. He rested it upon the palm of his hand and lined up at the dartboard, a good twenty feet beyond. With a casual flick of a right forefinger he sent the missile winging upon its way. It struck home in the double twenty with a resounding whack. “Double top,” said Norman, smiling proudly.

Neville shook his head in wonder. “My hat, if I wore one, would now be off to you,” he said. “The pint is on the house. May I hang your medal behind the bar for the world to gaze at?”

“Mine and all the rest. The applications are limitless, pole vault poles, plimsolls for the high jump, the shot-put, and one or two others I’ve got up my sleeve. ‘If gravity is holding tight, it’s just the job for “Normanite”’. Little jingle there, I’m already working on the advertising campaign. Save that until after the medals have been given out though, I think.”

“Bloody unsporting,” said Old Pete. “Cheats never prosper.” Norman and Neville stared at him in disbelief. “Sorry,” said Old Pete, “don’t know what came over me, just slipped out.”

“I should think so too,” said Neville. “Cheats never prosper indeed.”

“Well, it will be good for a laugh, whatever,” said Norman. “Worth it just to see the looks on the Yanks’ faces alone.”

“It certainly will,” Neville agreed. “Serve the buggers right, all the inconvenience. A Brentford team whopping the world’s finest, what a hoot. It is an inspired plan and one which I feel deserves yet another on the house.”

“Thanks,” said Norman, “I haven’t finished this one yet.”

Old Pete considered the empty bottom of his own glass. “Be all right as long as no one gets wind of it in advance,” he said meaningfully.

“Another for yourself?” Neville asked. “As an old Brentonian, you will no doubt wish to toast Norman’s bid to gain glory for the borough.”

“Indeed,” said Old Pete. “Nothing less than a double would be sufficient, don’t you agree?”

“It is all you will get.”

“My lips are sealed,” said Old Pete. “To the honour of the borough.”

“The honour of the borough.”

“Sssssh!” went the patrons.

“Oh, bugger off,” said Neville the part-time barman.