Read Online Sex and Drugs and Sausage Rolls by Robert Rankin - Free Book Online

told him.
    “It’s all right for you.” Jim shifted in his chair as another music-lover squeezed by him. “You have the seat against the wall.”
    “I have to keep watch on the door for the band. The place is filling up nicely, though, isn’t it?”
    Jim ducked another elbow. “I hate it!” he shouted. “It’s horrid and stinks. Don’t any of these blighters ever wash under their arms?”
    “Men who wear black T-shirts rarely wash under their arms. It’s a tradition, or an old charter or something.”
    “I want to go home,” wailed Jim.
    “Hold on,” said John. “Big-hair alert.”
    “What?”
    “Men with big hair. It must be the band.”
    Jim turned and caught an elbow in the gob. “Ouch,” he went again and, “Where?”
    “There.” Omally pointed and there indeed they were. Above the motley mob and moving through the fog of fag smoke, big-haired boys were entering the bar.
    “Big hair,” muttered Jim. “What an old cliché that is.”
    Omally was now on his feet and waving. “Chaps,” he called. “I say, chaps, over here.”
    “I say, chaps?”
    Omally hushed at him. “It’s an image thing,” he told Jim. “Think class. Think Brian Epstein.”
    “Ye gods,” Jim raised his beer can to his lips, thought better of it and set it down again.
    “Chaps, I say.” Omally coo-eed and waved a bit more. “I say, chaps. Hold on, come back.”
    But the big-haired chaps were paying no heed, they were humping their gear towards the entrance to the Cellar.
    “I’ll give them a hand with their guitars,” said Omally. “You hang onto this table.” He leaned low and spoke firm words into the ear of Pooley. “And don’t even think about slipping away,” he said.
    “I might have to go to the toilet.”
    “Hold it in.”
    “But it might be number twos.”
    Omally made fists. He showed one to Pooley. “I am not by nature a violent man,” he said, “but if you let me down on this—”
    “All right.” Pooley raised the palms of peace. “I’ll hold the table for you. But I’m not going downstairs to hear them play. Absolutely no way. No siree, by golly.”
    “All right, all right.” John struggled out of his chair and into the crowd. “Just don’t let me down, Jim. This really matters.”
    Pooley shrugged and Pooley sighed and Pooley wanted out.
    “Is anyone sitting there?” asked a voice at his ear.
    “Yes,” grumbled Jim and, looking up, “No. My friend’s gone home. You can sit in his chair if you want to.”
    “Thank you, I will,” she said and she did.
    Jim watched her as she settled onto Omally’s chair.
    She was beautiful. Simply beautiful.
    In fact it would be true to say that she was the most beautiful woman Jim had ever seen in his life. And considering that Brentford is noted for the beauty of its womenfolk, that is really going some.
    And then some more.
    She was the size known as petite. Which isn’t the size known as little or small. And there was a symmetry about her features and a delicacy about her entire being that made Jim do a double double-take. To Pooley she seemed perfect, and perfect can be just a little fearsome.
    With his jaw now hanging slack and his eyes glazing over, Jim took in the poetic wonder of her face.
    Her eyes were large and green and fringed with long dark lashes.
    Her nose was small and tilted at the tip.
    Her mouth was wide, and there, inside, her teeth were lightning flashes.
    A tiny blue moustache was glued above her upper lip.
    Jim’s face took on that drippy gormless expression that is so often worn by men who have fallen suddenly and hopelessly in love.
    “Are you all right?” asked the beauty.
    “Oh,” went Jim and, “Mmm.”
    “Pardon?”
    “I’m fine,” shouted Jim.
    “That’s good. I thought you were going to chuck up.”
    “No, I’m fine,” Jim shouted some more. “No, hang about. How do you do that?”
    “I usually put my fingers down my throat.”
    “No, I don’t mean that. I mean how do you do what