Read Online Knees Up Mother Earth by Robert Rankin - Free Book Online
Authors: Robert Rankin
Ads: Link
Jim fought with hilarity. “It isn’t funny, Neville. You really did do your best. But Brentford win the FA Cup?” And Jim fell once more into mirth.
“You rotten lot,” said Neville, turning away to seek more Scotch. “I won’t bother to ask you now.”
Jim raised a head from his chucklings. “Ask what?” he asked.
“Whether you knew of anyone. I was going to, but I shan’t now.”
“What are you on about, Neville?” said John.
“The manager’s job.”
“What, for
here
? Are you going to quit and run before the tarring and feathering starts?”
“Not for here. And
I’m
not the manager here, as you know full well. Not that I’ve ever actually met the manager. I meant for the club. The manager of Brentford United quit last week. He absconded with the takings from the club’s bar.”
“I never knew that,” said John.
“Well, I did and Gavin Shufty did. And Shufty, who was laughing just like you are, even said that
I
could appoint a new manager for the team’s final season. I was going to ask whether any of you might know of someone who—”
“Could take on the job and take the club on to win the FA Cup?” Old Pete all but wet himself with further laughter.
“But I won’t now,” said Neville, tossing back more Scotch than was strictly good for him.
“Hold on there,” said Omally. “Let us all slow down and think here for a moment.”
“Forget it,” said Neville. “I’m not offering the job to you.”
“Not me.” John shook his curly-haired head. “But possibly someone. Surely I’ve read of eccentric millionaire pop star types who buy up failing football clubs and lead the teams to glory. Wasn’t there that fat pianist who wears the improbable wigs?”
“Ben Elton,” said Jim.
“Not Ben Elton, you buffoon,” said Old Pete. “He was the bloke with the beard on the Treasure Island.”
“That was Ben Gunn,” said Omally.
“So which club did he buy?” Old Pete scratched at his flat cap.
“He didn’t buy any club, Pete, he just rolled his eyes about. Had a great deal of hair, if I recall correctly.”
“I thought you said he wore a wig.”
“Bing Crosby wore a wig,” said Jim, “but I don’t think he ever played the piano.”
“Liberace played the piano,” said Old Pete, “and I’m pretty sure that he wore a wig. He was a poof, of course – do you think it’s the same fellow?”
“Bound to be,” said Jim. “How many wig-wearing poofs do you know who can play the piano and buy football clubs?”
Old Pete counted on his fingers. “Three,” said he. “So, do we call in this Liberace to save Brentford or what?”
Neville made groaning sounds and buried his face in his hands once more.
Omally took to grinning. “You know what,” he said, “there might be a way.”
“To save the club?” said Neville. “I’ve had quite enough for one day. Enough for one lifetime, in fact.”
“It might just be possible,” said John.
“Do you know the Liberace chap, then, John?” Jim asked.
“No,” said John, “I don’t. Forget about Liberace. Strike Liberace from your mind.”
Jim did so. “That’s a relief,” he said.
“What I’m saying,” said John, “is that it might be possible to save the club. It might actually be possible for Brentford, under the right management, to win the FA Cup.”
“And you know how?” Neville asked.
“No,” said Omally, “but I know of a man who will.”
6
Professor Slocombe dwelt in a large and stately Georgian house upon Brentford’s historic Butts Estate. The Estate proper consisted of a broad tree-lined thoroughfare bordered by proud habitations of the Regency persuasion, which led to The Butts itself, a square acre of land once reserved for the statutory Sunday afternoon longbow practice in those long-ago days known as “yore”. Here stood The Seaman’s Mission, a hostel run by that charitable foundation to provide temporary accommodation for seafaring types who were down upon their luck.
“You rotten lot,” said Neville, turning away to seek more Scotch. “I won’t bother to ask you now.”
Jim raised a head from his chucklings. “Ask what?” he asked.
“Whether you knew of anyone. I was going to, but I shan’t now.”
“What are you on about, Neville?” said John.
“The manager’s job.”
“What, for
here
? Are you going to quit and run before the tarring and feathering starts?”
“Not for here. And
I’m
not the manager here, as you know full well. Not that I’ve ever actually met the manager. I meant for the club. The manager of Brentford United quit last week. He absconded with the takings from the club’s bar.”
“I never knew that,” said John.
“Well, I did and Gavin Shufty did. And Shufty, who was laughing just like you are, even said that
I
could appoint a new manager for the team’s final season. I was going to ask whether any of you might know of someone who—”
“Could take on the job and take the club on to win the FA Cup?” Old Pete all but wet himself with further laughter.
“But I won’t now,” said Neville, tossing back more Scotch than was strictly good for him.
“Hold on there,” said Omally. “Let us all slow down and think here for a moment.”
“Forget it,” said Neville. “I’m not offering the job to you.”
“Not me.” John shook his curly-haired head. “But possibly someone. Surely I’ve read of eccentric millionaire pop star types who buy up failing football clubs and lead the teams to glory. Wasn’t there that fat pianist who wears the improbable wigs?”
“Ben Elton,” said Jim.
“Not Ben Elton, you buffoon,” said Old Pete. “He was the bloke with the beard on the Treasure Island.”
“That was Ben Gunn,” said Omally.
“So which club did he buy?” Old Pete scratched at his flat cap.
“He didn’t buy any club, Pete, he just rolled his eyes about. Had a great deal of hair, if I recall correctly.”
“I thought you said he wore a wig.”
“Bing Crosby wore a wig,” said Jim, “but I don’t think he ever played the piano.”
“Liberace played the piano,” said Old Pete, “and I’m pretty sure that he wore a wig. He was a poof, of course – do you think it’s the same fellow?”
“Bound to be,” said Jim. “How many wig-wearing poofs do you know who can play the piano and buy football clubs?”
Old Pete counted on his fingers. “Three,” said he. “So, do we call in this Liberace to save Brentford or what?”
Neville made groaning sounds and buried his face in his hands once more.
Omally took to grinning. “You know what,” he said, “there might be a way.”
“To save the club?” said Neville. “I’ve had quite enough for one day. Enough for one lifetime, in fact.”
“It might just be possible,” said John.
“Do you know the Liberace chap, then, John?” Jim asked.
“No,” said John, “I don’t. Forget about Liberace. Strike Liberace from your mind.”
Jim did so. “That’s a relief,” he said.
“What I’m saying,” said John, “is that it might be possible to save the club. It might actually be possible for Brentford, under the right management, to win the FA Cup.”
“And you know how?” Neville asked.
“No,” said Omally, “but I know of a man who will.”
6
Professor Slocombe dwelt in a large and stately Georgian house upon Brentford’s historic Butts Estate. The Estate proper consisted of a broad tree-lined thoroughfare bordered by proud habitations of the Regency persuasion, which led to The Butts itself, a square acre of land once reserved for the statutory Sunday afternoon longbow practice in those long-ago days known as “yore”. Here stood The Seaman’s Mission, a hostel run by that charitable foundation to provide temporary accommodation for seafaring types who were down upon their luck.
Similar Books
