“Burn them all. Or by the God of gardeners,
I’ll
do it for you.”
And with that said, Old Pete left The Flying Swan, his loyal Chips hard upon his down-at-heels.
The door swung shut upon the decrepit departer and Norman’s eyes turned away from it and returned once more to the bar.
Just in time to see Neville striking down the wandering bishop with his knobkerrie.
“I think I’ll head off home now,” said Norman to himself. “Under a ragged coat lies wisdom and there’s no peace for the wicked.”
9
Jim Pooley felt decidedly strange. He sat in his bed at the Cottage Hospital and viewed tiny stars and sailing ships and sausages and sprouts.
“I can’t imagine why I’m seeing sprouts,” said Jim. “I’m sure it’s the wrong time of year for sprouts.” Jim gingerly fingered his aching head. Jim’s aching head was swathed in bandages. To the casual observer it would have appeared that Jim had taken up Sikhism.
“What would I know?” asked the casual observer in the bed next to Jim. “I only came in here to deliver a parcel and they’ve taken out my appendix.”
“My head hurts,” said Jim Pooley.
“You’re always complaining.” This voice belonged to John Omally, who lay in the bed to Jim’s right, the casual observer being in the bed to Jim’s left (looking in from the door, of course).
“I am unfailingly cheerful,” said Jim. “And I never complain,” he complained.
“Then I’ll complain for you,” said Omally. “Even though neither of us is little more than bruised, I’ll have that Neville for this. He will pay for the unwarranted violence that he visited upon us.”
“It wasn’t his fault, John,” said Jim, who, even on his bed of pain, was still a caring fellow. “He’d had a rough day. The professor’s choice of me as team manager came as just as much of a shock to him as it did to me. I think I’ll quit the job now before anything else happens. Will I get redundancy money, do you think?”
“I think you’ll get a smack from me if you don’t shut up.”
“It’s all your fault,” said Jim, sulkily. “You got me into this mess.”
“I had a dog once,” said the casual observer. “Used to chase cars.”
“Fascinating,” said Jim.
“Used to catch them, too,” said the casual observer. “Big dog, it was, the size of a small barn. Or Switzerland.”
“Which ward are we in?” Jim asked John.
“Which one do you think?” John made circular finger motions against the side of his bandaged head.
“Ah,” said Jim. “
That
ward.”
“So, are you a Sikh, too?” the casual observer asked John. “I see you’re wearing the same turban as this bloke.”
“No,” said John. “I’m a berserker. I suffer from a rare syndrome that manifests itself in bursts of uncontrollable violence when I’m questioned about anything.”
“How did you catch that?” asked the casual observer. “No, let me put that another way. Very nice to meet you. Good night.” And he turned upon his right-hand side (when looking from the door, of course) and feigned snorings.
“We have to get out of here,” said Jim. “I dearly need a drink. And a fag, actually.”
“I don’t think we’ll be drinking in The Flying Swan tonight.”
Jim shook his aching head. “This is a terrible business, John,” he said. “To be barred from The Flying Swan – that is as bad as it is possible for things to be.”
“There are many other bars in Brentford, Jim.”
“Take that back,” said Jim. “There is no other bar like The Flying Swan.”
“You are, of course, right.” John Omally leaned back upon his comfy pillows. “I think we’d do best to rest up here for the night. Gather our senses. Regain our vitality.” John reached out and pressed the little button on the wall beside his bed.
“What are you doing?” Pooley enquired.
“Summonsing the nurse,” said John. “Did you get a look at her through your stars and sprouts? She’s a rare beauty. I thought I’d
I’ll
do it for you.”
And with that said, Old Pete left The Flying Swan, his loyal Chips hard upon his down-at-heels.
The door swung shut upon the decrepit departer and Norman’s eyes turned away from it and returned once more to the bar.
Just in time to see Neville striking down the wandering bishop with his knobkerrie.
“I think I’ll head off home now,” said Norman to himself. “Under a ragged coat lies wisdom and there’s no peace for the wicked.”
9
Jim Pooley felt decidedly strange. He sat in his bed at the Cottage Hospital and viewed tiny stars and sailing ships and sausages and sprouts.
“I can’t imagine why I’m seeing sprouts,” said Jim. “I’m sure it’s the wrong time of year for sprouts.” Jim gingerly fingered his aching head. Jim’s aching head was swathed in bandages. To the casual observer it would have appeared that Jim had taken up Sikhism.
“What would I know?” asked the casual observer in the bed next to Jim. “I only came in here to deliver a parcel and they’ve taken out my appendix.”
“My head hurts,” said Jim Pooley.
“You’re always complaining.” This voice belonged to John Omally, who lay in the bed to Jim’s right, the casual observer being in the bed to Jim’s left (looking in from the door, of course).
“I am unfailingly cheerful,” said Jim. “And I never complain,” he complained.
“Then I’ll complain for you,” said Omally. “Even though neither of us is little more than bruised, I’ll have that Neville for this. He will pay for the unwarranted violence that he visited upon us.”
“It wasn’t his fault, John,” said Jim, who, even on his bed of pain, was still a caring fellow. “He’d had a rough day. The professor’s choice of me as team manager came as just as much of a shock to him as it did to me. I think I’ll quit the job now before anything else happens. Will I get redundancy money, do you think?”
“I think you’ll get a smack from me if you don’t shut up.”
“It’s all your fault,” said Jim, sulkily. “You got me into this mess.”
“I had a dog once,” said the casual observer. “Used to chase cars.”
“Fascinating,” said Jim.
“Used to catch them, too,” said the casual observer. “Big dog, it was, the size of a small barn. Or Switzerland.”
“Which ward are we in?” Jim asked John.
“Which one do you think?” John made circular finger motions against the side of his bandaged head.
“Ah,” said Jim. “
That
ward.”
“So, are you a Sikh, too?” the casual observer asked John. “I see you’re wearing the same turban as this bloke.”
“No,” said John. “I’m a berserker. I suffer from a rare syndrome that manifests itself in bursts of uncontrollable violence when I’m questioned about anything.”
“How did you catch that?” asked the casual observer. “No, let me put that another way. Very nice to meet you. Good night.” And he turned upon his right-hand side (when looking from the door, of course) and feigned snorings.
“We have to get out of here,” said Jim. “I dearly need a drink. And a fag, actually.”
“I don’t think we’ll be drinking in The Flying Swan tonight.”
Jim shook his aching head. “This is a terrible business, John,” he said. “To be barred from The Flying Swan – that is as bad as it is possible for things to be.”
“There are many other bars in Brentford, Jim.”
“Take that back,” said Jim. “There is no other bar like The Flying Swan.”
“You are, of course, right.” John Omally leaned back upon his comfy pillows. “I think we’d do best to rest up here for the night. Gather our senses. Regain our vitality.” John reached out and pressed the little button on the wall beside his bed.
“What are you doing?” Pooley enquired.
“Summonsing the nurse,” said John. “Did you get a look at her through your stars and sprouts? She’s a rare beauty. I thought I’d
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