Knees Up Mother Earth (29 page)

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.”