“Ah. But don’t I recall you saying that there isn’t enough time left for anything like that?”
“Aha.” Jim tapped his nose.
“You tapped your nose, Jim,” said John. “This is a new development.”
Jim tapped it again. “I have decided to enlist the services of our two local builders, Hairy Dave and Jungle John. They are going to construct the Jim Pooley in the traditional style of a rude hut. A couple of weeks and it will be up.”
“One light breeze and it will be down again.”
“I shall oversee the building work myself.”
“Neville isn’t going to like it.”
“I don’t think I’ll mention it to Neville.”
Omally shrugged. “Well, please yourself, Jim. If you think this bit of self-indulgence is more important than helping the Professor.”
“I didn’t say that. It’s my personal contribution to the celebrations.”
“You are, as ever, altruism personified. But regrettably, as I am the managing director of the Brentford Millennium Committee, and so one up the chain of command from your good self, I hereby inform you that you can’t have the time off.”
“What?”
“And you’d be wasting it anyway. Hairy Dave and Jungle John are already at work on Omally’s. Arse-ends and everything.”
AND EVERYTHING
Now there is much that might have been written of what occurred during the months that led up to December. Of the many and various projects which were put into operation and the many and various plain folk of Brentford who absconded with large quantities of cash and now live on an island in the Caribbean. Of Fred’s doomed attempts to recover his money, of more hair-raising life and death struggles, of how the Flying Swan was restored to its former glory, and then converted once more to the Road to Calvary and then restored yet again, converted yet again, restored yet again and so on and so forth.
And some tender passages might have been included regarding Jim’s relationship with Suzy and how the old business was finally conducted. And how the old business was not the old business at all when it came to Jim and Suzy. But how it was making love.
And of just how special making love can be.
But time does not allow. And so let us move forward to Monday, December the twenty-ninth 1997. To early evening, a new moon rising in the sky, a considerable nip in the air and words being spoken in the Flying Swan.
No, excuse me, the Road to Calvary.
28
“And I’m telling you,” said Neville, “if it wasn’t for this,” he held up a bottle of Hartnell’s Millennial Ale: the beer that tastes the way beer used to taste, “you would be roasting in that grate instead of my yule log.”
Omally gave a sickly grin. “I will get it sorted, I promise. You are serving the ale strictly in rotation, as I told you?”
“Yes, yes, yes. Numbered crates, red bottle top last week, amber bottle top this week, green bottle top next week. I know all that. The beer has to be served fresh, it doesn’t keep. You’ve told me again and again, and so has Norman. I’m a professional, you know.”
“I know, I know. It’s just very very important that you use each batch within a week. It will go off otherwise.”
Jim, who had been drinking at the bar, coughed into his ale, sending much of it up his nose. “Go off. Oh my God.”
John steered him away to a side table.
“Do try to control yourself, Jim,” he said.
“Control myself? John, what if he overlooks a crate, or something? The whole pub will go up. People will die, John. Supplying him with that beer is such a bad bad idea.”
“I only supply him with just enough. It’s the most popular beer in the borough – there’s never any left over the following week. And it’s the only reason we’re allowed to drink here.”
“It’s no fun to drink here any more, with it done up like this.” Jim cast an eye over the religious trappings. They were getting pretty knackered from all the constant moving in and out and in again, but actually they didn’t look all that bad, what with the Christmas decorations and everything.
“I’ll get it sorted.”
“Of course you won’t. You won’t get it sorted, the same way Norman will never get the beer sorted.”
“And is the free rock concert in the football ground sorted, Jim?”
“Well.” Jim made the now legendary so-so gesture. The one that means, “No, actually.”
“No,” said John, “I thought not.”
“I’ve had a definite yes from the Chocolate Bunnies, and Sonic Energy Authority are coming, and the Lost T-Shirts of Atlantis.”
“I don’t wish to be sceptical, and these are very fine bands. But it’s not exactly your all-star Wembley line-up, is it?”
“We would have had the Spice Girls.”
“Ah,” said John.
“Yes, ‘Ah’. If you hadn’t had the Spice Girls, we would have had the Spice Girls.”
“I didn’t have all of them, Jim. I only had one.”
“And which one was that?”
“The vacant-looking one.”
“That’s not a particularly specific answer, is it?”
“Look, never mind about that. They split up because of artistic differences.”
“You’re only making it worse for yourself. And how is Omally’s by the way? I’ve been expecting my invite to the grand opening.”
Omally made the so-so gesture.
Jim shook his head. “Guggy,” he said.
“But look on the bright side. The entire borough will be celebrating, just as the Professor wanted.”
“The few remaining who aren’t already in the Caribbean.”
“We only lost a couple of hundred, don’t exaggerate. And if you’d spent a little less time at your girlfriend’s experimenting with the contents of her fridge…”
“Stop that!”
“All right. But if you had spent more time concentrating on the job, a lot more would have been done.”
“Shall we consult our list, just to clarify exactly what has been done?”
Omally took a very small piece of paper from his pocket. “There’s the concert in the football ground,” said he.
“Which I have been organizing.”
“There’s the beer festival.”
“Oh yes. One of yours. The one that will probably end in a nuclear holocaust.”
“The beauty pageant. Ah, no, not the beauty pageant.”
“Not the beauty pageant?”
“I don’t wish to talk about it. There was some unpleasantness regarding my interview techniques… husbands, boyfriends… let’s not discuss the beauty pageant.”
Jim gave his head another shake.
“The street party,” said John.
“Oh yes, the street party named desire. Or should that be the street party named it’s-too-bloody-cold-at-this-time-of-year-for-a-street-party?”
“The beer festival.”
“We’ve done that.”
“The synchronized paragliding.”
“Oh yes, the synchronized paragliding. Half a dozen grannies plummeting to their deaths from the top of the gasometer. That should draw a big crowd.”
“There’s the fireworks.”
“Fireworks?”
“Ha, you didn’t know about the fireworks, did you?”
“No, I confess that I did not. And who is putting on the display?”
“Mmmmph,” mumbled Omally.
“Sorry? I didn’t quite catch that.”
“Norman.”
“Norman. Oh, perfect. Fireworks the way fireworks used to be, I suppose.”
“Something along those lines.”
“So we can expect to see the word GUGGY lighting up the sky.”
“Norman will be fine. He’s constructed a mobile de-entropizer that will reconstitute the fireworks again and again. Until the car battery runs down, anyway. It will be a spectacular event. Trust me on this.”
“Well, with that and the paragliding grannies, I think we have the situation firmly under control. What a night to remember, eh? I only hope I can contain myself and not simply die from an overload of sheer enjoyment.”
“You’ll be giving your girlfriend’s kitchen a miss, then?”
“I’m warning you, John.”
“It’s fun though, isn’t it?”