Read Online East of Ealing by Robert Rankin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert Rankin
Ads: Link
cheques the post office’s errant computer chose weekly to award him. “God bless the GPO,” the old reprobate had been heard to utter upon more than one occasion.
The ancient shuffled cheerfully along, rattling his stick noisily across Mrs Naylor’s front railings in a manner calculated to rudely awaken the insatiable lady librarian from her erotic dreams. Young Chips chuckled to himself and gave the lampposts a bit of first-thing nasal perusal. Norman’s new paperboy bustled out of the corner-shop, the heavy bag upon his shoulders, and mounted his bike. Chips momentarily bared his teeth, but it was early yet and he hardly felt up to making the effort.
Pete steered his way between the posts supporting Norman’s shopfront and thrust open the temporary door. “Morning Norman,” said he. The shopkeeper tucked away the copy of
Donkey Capers
he had been ogling and turned to seek out Pete’s weekly quota of tobacco.
“How’s the bed, Pete?” he asked. “To your satisfaction I trust?”
“Magic,” said Old Pete.
“I’m so glad. Two ounces of Ships is it?”
“And a copy of the
Mercury
.” Old Pete pushed a crisp fiver across the counter.
“Ever had a credit card, Pete?” Norman rang up the sale on his cash register.
Old Pete shook his head. “Don’t think so. I have a membership card for the British Legion, and a special doo-dad which lets me travel free on the buses, other than that…” Old Pete scratched his snow-capped head. “Had a pack of nudie playing-cards I bought in Cairo during the last lot. What does it do then?”
Norman did his best to explain.
“Oh no,” said Pete. “Never had one of those. Mind you, I’ve never had a bank account. You selling them now, then?”
Norman shook his head. “I was just reading this article. It seems that they are now obsolete. The Government are taking to stamping the numbers on people’s heads.”
“Don’t talk rubbish,” said Old Pete. “Here now, what is this?” He pointed to his tin of tobacco.
“What is what?”
“This.” Old Pete indicated a series of little lines imprinted upon the lid. “They weren’t there last week. What are they?”
Norman took the tin and examined it. “That’s the lads,” said he. “Computer bar coding, it’s called. That’s what I was trying to explain. All commodities are now being printed with them. They tell you the price and the date you purchased the item and all that sort of thing. You pass a light-pen over them and it logs all the information straight into some master computer. The Government are simply taking the process a logical step further.”
“I don’t like the smell of that,” said Old Pete. “After all, you know when you purchased it and how much it costs, what do you need the lines for?”
Norman shrugged. “Progress,” he said. “We must all move with the times you know.”
“You must.” Old Pete snatched back his tobacco. “For myself, I say a pox on the times. Now don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against computers, one in particular there is which I hold in the highest esteem. But for progress in general…” Old Pete made the appropriate two-fingered gesture, snatched up his paper, which unbeknown to him bore a not dissimilar set of lines upon it, and shuffled from the shop.
“Daft old fogey,” said Norman to himself; but squinting around it did occur to him that every item he had ordered during the last few weeks possessed similar markings. No doubt it was all for the common good. There could not possibly be anything sinister at the back of it, surely? No, it was all part of a great masterplan to free society of crime and bring prosperity to all. Norman went off about his business, whistling, “The Rock Island line is a mighty fine line”.
*
Jim Pooley was already upon his favourite bench. He had accosted Norman’s paperboy and wrung from his clammy grip a copy of the
Sporting Life
. Yesterday had been a total disaster. His life savings, in
The ancient shuffled cheerfully along, rattling his stick noisily across Mrs Naylor’s front railings in a manner calculated to rudely awaken the insatiable lady librarian from her erotic dreams. Young Chips chuckled to himself and gave the lampposts a bit of first-thing nasal perusal. Norman’s new paperboy bustled out of the corner-shop, the heavy bag upon his shoulders, and mounted his bike. Chips momentarily bared his teeth, but it was early yet and he hardly felt up to making the effort.
Pete steered his way between the posts supporting Norman’s shopfront and thrust open the temporary door. “Morning Norman,” said he. The shopkeeper tucked away the copy of
Donkey Capers
he had been ogling and turned to seek out Pete’s weekly quota of tobacco.
“How’s the bed, Pete?” he asked. “To your satisfaction I trust?”
“Magic,” said Old Pete.
“I’m so glad. Two ounces of Ships is it?”
“And a copy of the
Mercury
.” Old Pete pushed a crisp fiver across the counter.
“Ever had a credit card, Pete?” Norman rang up the sale on his cash register.
Old Pete shook his head. “Don’t think so. I have a membership card for the British Legion, and a special doo-dad which lets me travel free on the buses, other than that…” Old Pete scratched his snow-capped head. “Had a pack of nudie playing-cards I bought in Cairo during the last lot. What does it do then?”
Norman did his best to explain.
“Oh no,” said Pete. “Never had one of those. Mind you, I’ve never had a bank account. You selling them now, then?”
Norman shook his head. “I was just reading this article. It seems that they are now obsolete. The Government are taking to stamping the numbers on people’s heads.”
“Don’t talk rubbish,” said Old Pete. “Here now, what is this?” He pointed to his tin of tobacco.
“What is what?”
“This.” Old Pete indicated a series of little lines imprinted upon the lid. “They weren’t there last week. What are they?”
Norman took the tin and examined it. “That’s the lads,” said he. “Computer bar coding, it’s called. That’s what I was trying to explain. All commodities are now being printed with them. They tell you the price and the date you purchased the item and all that sort of thing. You pass a light-pen over them and it logs all the information straight into some master computer. The Government are simply taking the process a logical step further.”
“I don’t like the smell of that,” said Old Pete. “After all, you know when you purchased it and how much it costs, what do you need the lines for?”
Norman shrugged. “Progress,” he said. “We must all move with the times you know.”
“You must.” Old Pete snatched back his tobacco. “For myself, I say a pox on the times. Now don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against computers, one in particular there is which I hold in the highest esteem. But for progress in general…” Old Pete made the appropriate two-fingered gesture, snatched up his paper, which unbeknown to him bore a not dissimilar set of lines upon it, and shuffled from the shop.
“Daft old fogey,” said Norman to himself; but squinting around it did occur to him that every item he had ordered during the last few weeks possessed similar markings. No doubt it was all for the common good. There could not possibly be anything sinister at the back of it, surely? No, it was all part of a great masterplan to free society of crime and bring prosperity to all. Norman went off about his business, whistling, “The Rock Island line is a mighty fine line”.
*
Jim Pooley was already upon his favourite bench. He had accosted Norman’s paperboy and wrung from his clammy grip a copy of the
Sporting Life
. Yesterday had been a total disaster. His life savings, in
Similar Books
