Kavanagh and sent the outlaw to a two-thousand-dollar grave.
Old Pete rose unsteadily to address the assembled company. “My lords, ladies and gentlemen, most honoured guests, friends, Romans and countrymen.” His cronies enjoined in hearty hand-claps. Jennifer Naylor chewed upon her lower lip. The Mayor said nothing. “Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking-” beneath the table Young Chips gnawed upon a chicken-leg and broke wind meaningfully- “I should just like to offer a word of thanks to all those who have made this evening possible. And to say that, on behalf of myself and the senior citizens of Brentford, how very much we have enjoyed the splendid repast and how very much we look forward to the brandy and cigars which must now bring it to a successful conclusion.” Old Pete reseated himself amidst tumultuous geriatric applause, a line or two of “Tipperary” and a further barrage of flatulence from his dog. “I thank you.”
Jennifer Naylor stood up, this single action playing havoc with two dozen formerly defunct libidos, and putting as many pace-makers under considerable strain. A whistle of feedback, as the ancients turned their deaf-aids up full volume, piped her aboard.
“My Lord Mayor, Government Ministers, ladies and gentlemen-” she paused and nodded towards the old contemptibles “-members of the Olympic committee.” A score of turtle necks inclined in response to this unexpected elevation in status. “Today is a day that shall be writ big in the annals of Brentford. For today, official confirmation has been made that we are indeed to host the coming Olympiad.” She put up her hand to subdue the applause that wasn’t coming anyway. “It is my great pleasure to hand you over to our honoured guest, his worship the Mayor, to give the speech of acceptance.” She primly reseated herself.
The honoured guest rose to the occasion, arranged a sheaf of papers before him on the table and his reading glasses upon his nose. He smiled down the expanse of table towards the rows of ancient faces which regarded him with but a single expression. It was not one of solicitude.
“Dear friends,” he began, “my dear, dear friends.”
John Omally finished his pint and looked up towards the battered Guinness clock. Nearly eleven o’clock, Neville was calling last orders and Pooley was nowhere to be seen. This was not how he had planned things at all. In a perfect world Pooley would have been there an hour ago; leaving their drinks unfinished, the two of them would have slipped away from the Swan, picked up the explosives from the allotment, set the charges on the barge and been back in time to finish their pints and comment upon the possible causes of the loud explosion coming from the direction of the river. Surrounded by friends, they might even have taken a stroll down to see what all the hullaballoo was about. But this was not a perfect world and Jim Pooley was nowhere to be seen. Omally slid his empty glass across the bar counter. What was the lad up to? What had become of him? A sudden grim expression forced its way across John’s normally cheerful countenance. Jim had done a runner!
Pooley ran the video forward to the chiming watch gun-fight sequence at the end, his favourite bit. Without the sound, however, the tension lost much of its impact. Jim rose unsteadily and rooted about amongst the rack of video tapes. He had some crackers here and no mistake:
They Saved Hitler’s Brain, Plan Nine from Outer Space, Mars Needs Women
. Every one a classic, you couldn’t blow these up. There had to be another way.
Pooley almost scratched at his head, it was a close thing. “Perhaps we can refloat the barge,” he said drunkenly. “Drift downstream for a bit, that would be the business.” He rattled the neck of the champagne bottle into a Georgian rummer. Empty. “Time for a top-up,” said the lad, swaying over to the cocktail cabinet. “Now, eenie, meenie, my knee …” There was a
Old Pete rose unsteadily to address the assembled company. “My lords, ladies and gentlemen, most honoured guests, friends, Romans and countrymen.” His cronies enjoined in hearty hand-claps. Jennifer Naylor chewed upon her lower lip. The Mayor said nothing. “Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking-” beneath the table Young Chips gnawed upon a chicken-leg and broke wind meaningfully- “I should just like to offer a word of thanks to all those who have made this evening possible. And to say that, on behalf of myself and the senior citizens of Brentford, how very much we have enjoyed the splendid repast and how very much we look forward to the brandy and cigars which must now bring it to a successful conclusion.” Old Pete reseated himself amidst tumultuous geriatric applause, a line or two of “Tipperary” and a further barrage of flatulence from his dog. “I thank you.”
Jennifer Naylor stood up, this single action playing havoc with two dozen formerly defunct libidos, and putting as many pace-makers under considerable strain. A whistle of feedback, as the ancients turned their deaf-aids up full volume, piped her aboard.
“My Lord Mayor, Government Ministers, ladies and gentlemen-” she paused and nodded towards the old contemptibles “-members of the Olympic committee.” A score of turtle necks inclined in response to this unexpected elevation in status. “Today is a day that shall be writ big in the annals of Brentford. For today, official confirmation has been made that we are indeed to host the coming Olympiad.” She put up her hand to subdue the applause that wasn’t coming anyway. “It is my great pleasure to hand you over to our honoured guest, his worship the Mayor, to give the speech of acceptance.” She primly reseated herself.
The honoured guest rose to the occasion, arranged a sheaf of papers before him on the table and his reading glasses upon his nose. He smiled down the expanse of table towards the rows of ancient faces which regarded him with but a single expression. It was not one of solicitude.
“Dear friends,” he began, “my dear, dear friends.”
John Omally finished his pint and looked up towards the battered Guinness clock. Nearly eleven o’clock, Neville was calling last orders and Pooley was nowhere to be seen. This was not how he had planned things at all. In a perfect world Pooley would have been there an hour ago; leaving their drinks unfinished, the two of them would have slipped away from the Swan, picked up the explosives from the allotment, set the charges on the barge and been back in time to finish their pints and comment upon the possible causes of the loud explosion coming from the direction of the river. Surrounded by friends, they might even have taken a stroll down to see what all the hullaballoo was about. But this was not a perfect world and Jim Pooley was nowhere to be seen. Omally slid his empty glass across the bar counter. What was the lad up to? What had become of him? A sudden grim expression forced its way across John’s normally cheerful countenance. Jim had done a runner!
Pooley ran the video forward to the chiming watch gun-fight sequence at the end, his favourite bit. Without the sound, however, the tension lost much of its impact. Jim rose unsteadily and rooted about amongst the rack of video tapes. He had some crackers here and no mistake:
They Saved Hitler’s Brain, Plan Nine from Outer Space, Mars Needs Women
. Every one a classic, you couldn’t blow these up. There had to be another way.
Pooley almost scratched at his head, it was a close thing. “Perhaps we can refloat the barge,” he said drunkenly. “Drift downstream for a bit, that would be the business.” He rattled the neck of the champagne bottle into a Georgian rummer. Empty. “Time for a top-up,” said the lad, swaying over to the cocktail cabinet. “Now, eenie, meenie, my knee …” There was a
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