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Authors: Robert Rankin
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impossible at their every opportunity, we have runic ideograms appearing magically upon the ground and camels working their way through the season’s produce. I don’t like any of it, it smacks to me of some great conspiracy to confound honest golfers and put them off their game.”
“I suspect that it goes a little deeper than that,” said Jim, “but I agree that it does nothing to enhance the play. Perhaps we should quit the allotment now. Move on to pastures new. There are several large bombsites down near the docks surrounded by high walls. I know of a secret entrance or two.”
“Never,” said Omally boldly. “I have had enough of running. If we do not make our stand now, the bastards will eventually drive us into the sea and I care little for the prospect of underwater golf.”
“Cork balls,” said Pooley.
“I beg your pardon?”
Bitow Bitow Bitow Bitow Bitow Whap…
“What?” Nicholas Roger Raffles Rathbone turned a full circle upon his heel and drove his reddening fists down on to the console of the Captain Laser Alien Attack Machine. “You bastard!” he said earnestly. “You bloody sneaked an extra saucer in there.” He turned towards the bar where Neville stood, his ears protected by cotton-wool balls and his hands feverishly at work with the polishing cloth. “Have you altered this machine?” he cried.
“Get stuffed,” said Neville.
“I know the sequences,” Nick continued unabashed, “thirty shots, then a big saucer, thirty-eight, then a mother ship. Somebody has tampered with this machine.”
Neville laid down his polishing cloth, plucked the ineffective cotton plugs from his ears and glowered across the bar. “No-one has touched it,” he said, his words forming between two rows of teeth which were showing some signs of wear. “No-one has touched, tampered or tinkered with it. No official brewery representative has ever called to service it. No engineers came to polish its paintwork, change its bulbs or fondle its inner workings, nor even to empty it of the king’s ransom it must by now contain. It seemingly never breaks down, nor needs any maintenance, it runs from its own power supply and is a law unto itself. If you have any complaints I suggest that you address them directly to the machine. With any luck it will take exception to your manner and electrocute you!”
“Someone’s been tampering,” said Nick, delving into his pockets for more two-bob bits, “I know the sequences.”
The part-time barman turned away in disgust. “Jim,” he said, beckoning across the counter towards Pooley, “might I have a word or two in your ear?”
Pooley hastened from his chair, favouring the possibility of a free drink. “Your servant, bar lord,” said he.
“Jim,” said Neville, gesturing towards the hunched back of the green-haired youth, “Jim, has Omally come up with anything yet regarding this abomination? I am at my wits’ end. My letter of resignation is folded into the envelope and the stamp is on.”
Jim chewed upon his lip. It was obvious that Neville was speaking with great sincerity. It would be a tragedy indeed if Brentford lost the best part-time barman it ever had. Especially over so trivial a thing as a gambling machine.
“In truth,” lied Jim with great conviction, “Omally and I have spent the entirety of the afternoon discussing this very matter. We were doing so even when you called me across. We are, I think, nearing a solution.”
“Ah,” said Neville, brightening, “it is good to know that there are still friends in the camp. Have this one on the house.”
Pooley sank it at a single draught and strolled back to his seated companion.
“I saw that,” said Omally. “What have you just talked me into?”
“Nothing much,” said Jim nonchalantly. “It is just that Neville would prefer it if you would break the space machine now rather than later.”
Omally controlled himself quite remarkably. “But I was of the impression that the thing is
“I suspect that it goes a little deeper than that,” said Jim, “but I agree that it does nothing to enhance the play. Perhaps we should quit the allotment now. Move on to pastures new. There are several large bombsites down near the docks surrounded by high walls. I know of a secret entrance or two.”
“Never,” said Omally boldly. “I have had enough of running. If we do not make our stand now, the bastards will eventually drive us into the sea and I care little for the prospect of underwater golf.”
“Cork balls,” said Pooley.
“I beg your pardon?”
Bitow Bitow Bitow Bitow Bitow Whap…
“What?” Nicholas Roger Raffles Rathbone turned a full circle upon his heel and drove his reddening fists down on to the console of the Captain Laser Alien Attack Machine. “You bastard!” he said earnestly. “You bloody sneaked an extra saucer in there.” He turned towards the bar where Neville stood, his ears protected by cotton-wool balls and his hands feverishly at work with the polishing cloth. “Have you altered this machine?” he cried.
“Get stuffed,” said Neville.
“I know the sequences,” Nick continued unabashed, “thirty shots, then a big saucer, thirty-eight, then a mother ship. Somebody has tampered with this machine.”
Neville laid down his polishing cloth, plucked the ineffective cotton plugs from his ears and glowered across the bar. “No-one has touched it,” he said, his words forming between two rows of teeth which were showing some signs of wear. “No-one has touched, tampered or tinkered with it. No official brewery representative has ever called to service it. No engineers came to polish its paintwork, change its bulbs or fondle its inner workings, nor even to empty it of the king’s ransom it must by now contain. It seemingly never breaks down, nor needs any maintenance, it runs from its own power supply and is a law unto itself. If you have any complaints I suggest that you address them directly to the machine. With any luck it will take exception to your manner and electrocute you!”
“Someone’s been tampering,” said Nick, delving into his pockets for more two-bob bits, “I know the sequences.”
The part-time barman turned away in disgust. “Jim,” he said, beckoning across the counter towards Pooley, “might I have a word or two in your ear?”
Pooley hastened from his chair, favouring the possibility of a free drink. “Your servant, bar lord,” said he.
“Jim,” said Neville, gesturing towards the hunched back of the green-haired youth, “Jim, has Omally come up with anything yet regarding this abomination? I am at my wits’ end. My letter of resignation is folded into the envelope and the stamp is on.”
Jim chewed upon his lip. It was obvious that Neville was speaking with great sincerity. It would be a tragedy indeed if Brentford lost the best part-time barman it ever had. Especially over so trivial a thing as a gambling machine.
“In truth,” lied Jim with great conviction, “Omally and I have spent the entirety of the afternoon discussing this very matter. We were doing so even when you called me across. We are, I think, nearing a solution.”
“Ah,” said Neville, brightening, “it is good to know that there are still friends in the camp. Have this one on the house.”
Pooley sank it at a single draught and strolled back to his seated companion.
“I saw that,” said Omally. “What have you just talked me into?”
“Nothing much,” said Jim nonchalantly. “It is just that Neville would prefer it if you would break the space machine now rather than later.”
Omally controlled himself quite remarkably. “But I was of the impression that the thing is
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