And here was the perfect opportunity to be a part of something. To engage in something. To get right down into the midst of the doings and give it all you had.
Omally purchased a Bengali Breakfast Burger™ and munched upon it as he steered Marchant down the lane beside the town hall to the wonders of The Butts Estate.
For wonders there were to be seen.
This historic quarter of Brentford had paid host to many goings-on. Originally, as its name suggests it was the location for archery practise. Later the famous goose fairs were held there. One of note being that visited by Dr Johnson, as recorded by his biographer, Boswell.
“Johnson dragged me down to
the Brentford Goose Fair today,
for as he put it “a bit
of slap and tickle with the
local girlies”. Together we
consumed copious amounts of
Quasimodo before being lured
into a sideshow which claimed
the exhibition of a live griffin.
Griffin indeed it proved to be,
but a young and somewhat portly
specimen. We picked up
a pair of well-tasty
birds later, although I did
not like the look of
Johnson’s one much”.
Local legend suggests that this was the griffin that escaped from the showman’s booth and later took up residence on the Brentford Ait, still known locally as Griffin Island.
It is also to be noted that Brentford retains to this day its reputation as the haunt of healthy womankind.
Sir George Reresby Sitwell (1860-1945) wrote of the borough’s sporting females
“There’s nothing a man likes so much
as a girl who is good on the parallel bars”
Times may change but good taste never dates.
The Butts Estate had been cleared of the usual parked cars and the area, approximately the size of a Sunday league football pitch, thronged with Brentonians laughing gaily and giving it all that they had.
A stage had been raised in front of the Seaman’s Mission and upon this a rock band was playing.
Omally recognised at once the lead singer of this band. It was none other than *****, the postman that dared not speak his name. The band’s name was embellished on the bass drum’s face. The band’s name was Merkin Holocaust.
*****, although daring not to speak his own name, did spend a great deal of his free time writing lyrics.
There had been some talk lately that Brentford, being, through an old charter discovered by Professor Slocombe, an independent state, might choose to enter the Eurovision Song Contest. There was much talk that if it did so, Merkin Holocaust should represent Brentford with a song penned by Mr *****.
John paused now to listen to his singing.
And what John heard is printed here below.
SOME OF THE COWS
Some of the cows are standing up
And some are sitting down.
Some of the cows are chewing the cud
And others are walking around.
Some of the cows are looking at me
And others show distain
But I like to look at the cows
Again and again and again
Some of the cows are black and white
And some of the cows are brown.
Some of the cows are suicidal
They jump into the river and drown.
Some of the cows have smiling faces.
Some of the cows are mental cases.
Some of the cows wear pearl neck-laces
When they go to town.
Some of the cows live in bungalows,
But how they bought them nobody knows.
None of the cows smell as sweet as a rose
And none of them favour a clown.
Had Pooley been there he would probably have been brought to tears by the poignancy of these lyrics. But John was made of sterner stuff and sighting a stall that was selling beer eased his way through the crowd.
‘Look at the crowds,’ said Mr Knobbly bobbing up and down.
Prince Charles peeped and said ‘Hobble-de-hoys, I’d rather be in Bradford.’
‘To misquote your many-times great-granddad,’ Gimlet said. ‘Bugger Bradford.’
‘One can’t use one’s speech,’ said Charles. ‘What is one to do?’
‘Extemporise,’ said Mr Knobbly. ‘Just let it flow. Give it one of your stream of semi-consciousness orations.’
‘Yes, they do like those,’ said the Prince of Wales.
The pilot glanced over his shoulder at the man who would be king. An absolute stone bonker, thought the pilot.
‘An absolute stone bunker,’ said Mr Stephen Pocklington, somewhat surprising the council members who sat about the circular table wishing they were dancing with the crowd.
‘Not quite pickin’ up on yo’ dere,’ said Councillor Felix. ‘What a stone bunker got to do with anything?’
‘All will become most clear in time,’ said the town clerk, twiddling his fingers and diddling his thumbs. ‘You must understand that the ring road and the pedestrianisation of the town centre merely represents phase one of a far grander scheme.’
‘And are we to be informed of what this scheme might be?’ asked Jennifer Naylor.
‘All in due course,’ said Mr Pocklington. ‘Many many years of thought and careful planning have gone into this. You must surely feel that change for the better has come this day to Brentford.’
‘I am sure we all feel it,’ said Councillor Naylor. ‘I am at a loss to explain it, but something has happened.’
‘Something dread,’ muttered Councillor Felix.
The town clerk said, ‘pardon me?’
‘I say no ting, sir, Mr Pocklington. Only tink we be better out smoking ganga. ‘magine how dat gonna feel on a day like today. Jah. Et cetera.’
‘Allow me to explain to you how things will be done today,’ said the town clerk. ‘It is now eight-thirty, most of Brentford’s population have been up since six attuning themselves to the day.’ The town clerk paused, but no-one questioned his choice of words. ‘Thus attuned they are approaching the correct state of mind to participate in the ceremony, wherein the Boy King will set his seal to open the ring. Which by opening, means the closing of the circle, are we all clear about this?’
Shoulders shrugged and heads shook slowly.
‘I think I speak for all here,’ said Ms Naylor. ‘When I say that although we love the way you say it, we have absolutely no idea at all as to what you are talking about.’
‘Not even the foggiest, so to speak?’ asked Mr P.
‘Your every utterance holds sweet mystery,’ said Samantha Sterne and she typed the words monstrous and mysterious manhood into her iPad. ‘Is there another word for foof?’ she asked Ms Naylor.
‘Today,’ said Stephen Pocklington. ‘Something will come to pass that will change this town forever. No more stumbling blindly into the future, when one can stride with confidence into the past. The circle closes, the sacrifice is made.’
Leo Felix shook his dreads. ‘Sacrifice?’ said he. ‘What dis?’
The town clerk fluttered his fingers. ‘I have said too much,’ he said. ‘I must go now and welcome the prince. Go, join the celebrations. History begins today. The present yields at last to the past.’
And upon that enigmatic note he left the council chamber.
Craving the first cigarette of the day, Pooley entered Norman’s shop to purchase five Wild Woodbine.
The entering itself however proved no easy matter. Norman’s shop was crammed with customers.
Jim waited patiently, observing that the curly-cornered greetings cards looked wonderfully card-y in the limited light and just how customer-y were the customers.
At last it came to be Jim’s turn and Norman greeted him with a hearty welcome.
‘And what can I do for you, my friend?’ asked Norman.
‘Five Woodbine and a bo
x of matches,’ said Jim.
‘So happy to oblige.’ Norman rooted about on his shelves, turned up a packet of Passing Clouds and waggled it at Pooley.
‘They’ll do,’ said Jim. ‘How much?’
‘On the house,’ said Norman. ‘It has been a most profitable day and I am closing up shortly to join in the celebrations.’
‘Bravo,’ said Jim. ‘Has Neville unbarred you from the Swan?’
Norman shook his head. ‘Sadly no, but I’ll buy him a present or something. I’ll win him round.’
‘I am sure that you will. So what are you selling that’s drawing in all these customers, then?’
‘Lottery tickets,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘There’s a fortune to be made in this game.’
‘Jolly good show,’ said Jim and he peered at his packet of Passing Clouds. ‘You do know that they stopped making these fags about twenty years ago?’ he said.
‘Well that’s where you’re wrong,’ said Norman. ‘Because a sales rep came in this very morning and gave those to me. And he’s coming back tomorrow to deliver a van load of sweeties. Old-fashioned ones. Old-fashioned sweets and old-fashioned cigarettes. It’s a retro thing apparently. I shall be restocking Passing Clouds, Kensitas, Balkan Sobranie, Spanish Shawl, Sweet Afton—’
‘Stop it,’ said Jim. ‘So many memories.’
‘And wait until you see the sweeties. Flying saucers, rhubarb and custard, proper sherbet lemons, blackjacks and fruit salads and even pharaoh jars –’
‘Pharaoh jars?’ said Jim. ‘Surely not.’
‘Apparently so. I always thought there was something creepy about those, didn’t you?’
Jim nodded. ‘Well,’ said he. ‘I will pop in tomorrow and view this wonder.’
‘I’ll look forward to it,’ said Norman. ‘In the meantime, would you care for a lottery ticket?’
From the flat roof atop the town hall Stephen Pocklington gazed down upon the festivities below.
‘Life is a lottery,’ said Stephen Pocklington. ‘And happy is the fellow who holds the winning ticket.’
Chub-chub-chub-chub-chub went the blades as the helicopter settled onto the roof. The pilot stepped out and opened the door for Prince Charles.
The royal son climbed down with some difficulty. For after all he was getting on and his legs were not what they were.
The pilot glanced at the dancing folk beneath, made the face of not-for-me and returned with haste to his cockpit. The helicopter rose from the roof, swept away and was gone.
‘Good morning your royal highness,’ said the town clerk. ‘It is an absolute pleasure and an immeasurable honour to meet you.’ He put out his hand for a hearty shake.
The prince seemed disinclined.
‘One wonders why one is here,’ said Prince Charles. ‘A motorway or some such one is told.’
‘A ring road, sir. Most important to the borough.’
‘Named after one?’ asked Charles.
The town clerk hesitated. The ring road certainly had a name, but one only known to himself.
‘But of course, sir,’ said Mr Pocklington. ‘Please do step this way.’
‘Are there cakes?’ asked Prince Charles. ‘One loves cakes.’
‘Many cakes,’ said Mr Pocklington. ‘Just down the stairs there, sir.’
The prince set off briskly down the steps, leaving the town clerk standing on the roof.
The town clerk turned, ‘Good morning Mr Knobbly,’ said he. ‘And Dandy Den and Gimlet too, good morning.’
‘Morning Dundledots,’ said these three.
‘Where’s the cake?’ called Prince Charles from within.
‘So you can’t have your cake and eat it too,’ said Norman Hartnell. ‘Although the answer is blowing in the wind.’
Jim’s head nodded up and down. ‘So let me get this absolutely straight,’ said he. ‘You never received any legitimate lottery tickets, in fact to your knowledge no-one received any legitimate lottery tickets?’
Norman nodded, then shook his head, then nodded again.
‘No,’ he said.
‘So you improvised and sold raffle tickets instead?’
Norman nodded with great enthusiasm.
‘Any idea how many you sold?’
Norman shrugged. ‘Hundreds? Thousands? There were at least one hundred books of raffle tickets in each box. And I opened three boxes altogether. All sold out now though, so I cut up exercise books.’
‘Most enterprising,’ said Jim. ‘Still, I suppose it might work. After all everybody did get a different number.’
‘Sort of,’ said Norman.
‘Sort of?’ said Jim.
‘Well,’ said Norman, ‘the books of raffle tickets were all the same, each one went from number one to number one hundred.’
‘But the books are all different colours, aren’t they?’ said Jim.
‘You’d think so,’ said Norman. ‘But then under normal circumstances who would ever buy more than one book of raffle tickets?’
‘So all the books of tickets are the same? Same colour, same numbers?’
Norman nodded once more.
Jim took to counting on his fingers. But as his hands were beginning to flap, this proved to be rather difficult.
Prince Charles had popped off to the gents to give his hands a wash.
The town clerk stood in the council chamber, straightening his tie.
‘So, Dundledots,’ said Mr Knobbly. ‘We haven’t seen you for a very long while.’
‘So much to do in the service of Our Lady Gloriana,’ the town clerk gave his hair a slicking down.
‘And now the day is here. You will earn much praise in the court.’
‘All will be done as has been planned and you must play your parts.’
The prince’s special advisors bobbed up and down. ‘And not before time,’ said Mr Knobbly. ‘Pandering to this mooncalf never suited me at all.’
‘I’ll choose his shroud,’ said Dandy Den. ‘When the holy deed is done.’
‘And done it must be,’ said the town clerk. ‘Today the Magic Circle must be consecrated with the blood of the Boy King. Today Prince Charles must die.’
14
Neville the part-time barman stood in the doorway of the Flying Swan, flanked by the twin towers of Old Pete’s dubious topiary work.
In one hand Neville held a copy of today’s Brentford Mercury, in the other a tot of eighteen-year-old Islay double-malt whisky. Which, as was the way of things today, tasted far more double-malty than it ever ever had.
Neville took in the beautiful day. The very wonder of it all. The tower blocks in the morning sun today seemed almost tolerable, the empty road a highway to the heavens.
Words from Schiller’s Ode to Joy came unto Neville, for he had been classically trained.
All creatures drink of joy at nature’s breast.
Just and unjust alike taste of her gift.
As his classical training was a closely guarded secret, Neville glanced around and about to assure himself he had not been overhead.
Of the usual morning comers and goers the Ealing Road was empty. Although in the near distance Neville now spied Jim Pooley stumbling from Norman’s corner-shop. Jim’s hands were wildly flapping and he appeared to be doing some kind of foolish pirouette. Neville looked on as the unaccomplished Nijinsky toppled dizzily to the pavement, before crawling towards the High Street on his hands and knees.
‘Oh Brentford,’ said the part-time barman. ‘Will we ever understand you?’
This was, of course, a rhetorical question, as but for Professor Slocombe, no man knew Brentford better than Neville. All knowledge of all things local eventually found its way to the part-time barman. Through the whispered confidence, the drunken confession, the vainglorious braggadocio, the gossip of those who sought the barman’s favour. The indiscretion hinted at, confirmed by other parties. Not to mention the occasional overheard disclosure, which Neville never did. Such is the way of pub culture. A trusted barman holds more
secrets than the Illuminati.
And Neville was a trusted barman.
And so it vexed Neville that he had heard absolutely no inside skinny on this ring road. No quantity surveyors had popped into the Swan for a lunchtime sherry and bewailed the rising price of tarmac. No blokey road-builders (for are not all road-builders, blokey?) had taken up a stand before Neville’s establishment, to smoke cigarettes, drink pints and tell jokes of a questionable nature.
There had not even been a council member who shared the same lodge as Neville passing on sensitive confidential information.
There had been nothing.
And this vexed Neville.
As the part-time barman stood in the doorway of Brentford’s most noble drinking house strange sounds came to him, borne seemingly upon the wind and drifting over the rooftops. Sounds of singing.
Neville cocked his head on one side.
And now what was this?
A moment or two then Neville said, ‘Its bloody Merkin Holocaust,’ and returned at speed to the bar.
The noise was somewhat louder in Professor Slocombe’s garden. The ancient scholar bobbed his head and tapped his toe to the beat.
‘I like Merkin Holocaust,’ he told Julian Adams. ‘Although they are clearly influenced by Napalm Death and Deicide.’
‘I once played with Buszum,’ said the giant. ‘I was trying to persuade Varg Vikernes to give up burning churches.’
‘You did your best, I am sure,’ said the professor. ‘But the men of metal do get carried away at times.’
‘He certainly did, he went on to murder Euronymous out of Mayhem.’
‘A black day for black metal,’ Professor Slocombe dangled his legs over his hammock. ‘And it is best that we not dwell upon such matters on a day so glorious as this.’
‘Will you be taking your morning walk about the boundaries of the borough?’ asked the giant.