Sprout Mask Replica (12 page)

And readings from Judges and Kings,

A sprinkling of farce

In a champagne glass

And a remake of
Lord of the Rings.

I pull bunnies out of my topper

And invoke ancient runes on a scroll.

I call up the shit

From the bottomless pit

And finish by swallowing coal.

The sailors throw pennies and halfpennies

And promise me trips round the bay.

I just bow to them all,

Take a quick curtain call

And then I am off on my way.

I’m in constant demand for bar mitzvahs

And weddings and stag nights to boot.

I charge very good rates

And supply my own plates (pyrex of course)

And an ample selection of fruit.
[16]

There’s no business like show business, is there, eh?

6

A NIGHT
TO REMEMBER

IT WAS SPROUTS FOR
BREAKFAST. BUT THEN IT WAS ALWAYS SPROUTS
for
breakfast. I arranged those on my plate into a V formation to balance the eight
o’clock news on the wireless set. Wars and rumours of wars, three sprouts to
the left and two to the right. A mail train had been held up and many pounds
stolen, I angled my fork towards the north to compensate for that. Sonic Energy
Authority were still at number one. I might have to wear a blue shirt this
morning.

Although
I had played the tape many times I still did not fully understand its
implications. I would have to find out more about this chaos theory business,
find out how it really worked,
if
it really worked. It all seemed very
unlikely, something tiny happening somewhere, causing something huge to happen
somewhere else. That defied Newtonian Laws, didn’t it? And the idea that I was
doing the reverse, how could any of that really be? I had to know more. I knew
just who I should ask about it.

And it
wasn’t my brother.

It was
my Uncle Brian.

I would
go round and see him after breakfast, play him the tape, ask his advice, decide
what to do next.

Of
course I did have
some
ideas of my own about
that,
based in part
on a certain event I had recently witnessed in a local drinking house called
The Flying Swan.

Although
still only a lad of fifteen, I looked far older than I actually was, a gift
that I still possess today, and I had been a regular drinker at The Swan for at
least five years.

It was
there that I met Jim Pooley and John Omally, who would later find fame in
several world-wide best-selling novels and numerous Hollywood musicals.

I
usually went to The Flying Swan on Thursday night, which was talent night.

The
certain event occurred on one of these. You really should have been there.

It
began in this fashion.

‘Anyone
else? Come up and give us a song?’ Thursday night at The Flying Swan.

‘Come
on now, don’t be shy.’

Talent
night. Live music. Come and try.

Hector would get up and do
‘Green Green Grass of Home’ and ‘I Did It My Way’.

John Omally
would do a recitation, rumoured to be the same one every week, but notable for
its infinitely variable and often controversial last line.

Pooley
would sing ‘Orange Claw Hammer’ when pushed, with particular emphasis on the
cherry phosphate line.

And then
there was Small Dave.

Small
Dave was the local postman and he was also a dwarf. And Small Dave hated
Thursday nights.

He
never missed one though, because, as he said, it was his right as a regular to
use the facilities of the saloon bar on Thursday nights if he wanted to. Young
aspiring talents were sometimes brought sobbing to their knees, vowing to
abandon the bright lights for ever after falling prey to his manic stare and
blistering comments.

Small
Dave considered himself something of an authority on show business, having once
unsuccessfully auditioned for
The Time Bandits,
and was always ready to
voice his opinion, welcome or not.

For the
most part,
not.

Certainly,
what he lacked in inches he made up for in belligerence and out-spokenness He
was indeed what P. P. Penrose, author of the ever popular Lazlo Woodbine
novels, would have referred to as ‘a vindictive grudge-bearing wee bastard’.

I
rather liked him though.

One night it became known
to us that Small Dave had fallen under the spell of the aforementioned bright
lights. How or why, no-one could say for sure. It was a bizarre transformation
and by no means a welcome one.

‘Why
are you wearing a tricom, Small Dave?’ someone asked.

‘Silver.
Long John.’ He raised one leg and rolled his eyes about.

‘And
the dancing pumps?’

‘A bit
of the old Fred and Gingers.’ Small Dave did a kind of a skip.

‘The
white gloves? No, don’t tell me.’

‘Jolson.’
Down on one knee, arms spread wide.

‘And
the pillow stuffed up the back of your shirt?’

‘Laughton.
The now legendary Charles in the role he made his own. Small Dave began to
lurch about the bar, muttering such phrases as, ‘the bells, the bells,’ and ‘father,
I’m ugly,’ and
‘Sanctuary! Sanctuary!’
This accompanied by a beating
upon the door of the Gents. A frightened patron within made his escape through
the window.

‘A bit
of an all-rounder then?’ said Omally, affecting what is known as ‘The Po Face’.

Small
Dave grinned and nodded.

Glances
were, passed about the bar, thoughts exchanged. Small Dave was a bad man to
cross.

‘You
just wait until Thursday,’ he said.

But
none of us was keen.

‘This
is quite a change that’s come over you,’ said Jim Pooley. ‘I mean, wishing to
participate, rather than…’Jim chose his words carefully, ‘er, offer
constructive criticism. For which, I may say, you are greatly admired.’

‘Greatly,’
chorused the rest of us.

‘Greatly,’
said Jim. ‘Greatly indeed.’

Talking
to Small Dave could be a perilous affair as strangers to The Flying Swan
sometimes discovered.

A
sample conversation might go as follows.

‘Care
for another?’ asks Neville, the part-time barman.

‘Suppose
so,’ says Small Dave.

Small Dave smiled the sort
of smile that helped make Chris Eubank so very popular. ‘I feel I have it in me
to make my name famous,’ he plagiarized loosely.

Pooley
bought Small Dave a drink and we all stood about trying to look enthusiastic,
as the wee postman ran through his repertoire.

‘You
have to imagine it with the music,’ he said.

‘Music?’
we said.

‘String
section,’ he said.

Small
Dave took to dancing, he waved a toy umbrella about and flicked beer over
himself. ‘Gene Kelly,’ he said, breathlessly.
‘Singing in the Rain.’

We all
nodded gravely. Next Thursday evening had suddenly lost its appeal.

Pooley
put a gentle hand upon the great entertainer’s small shoulder. ‘Dave,’ he said,
‘might I have a minute of your time?’

‘What
is it, Pooley?’

Eyes
were averted all about the bar. ‘Rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb,’ went the
conversation.

‘If you
wouldn’t mind stepping outside, I’d like to speak to you in private.’

Small Dave
followed Pooley outside.

We drew
deep breaths and listened. We heard muttered words and then Small Dave’s voice.

‘NOT
QUITE READY?’
it went.

Then
there was a hideous crunching whack of a sound and shortly after Pooley limped
into the saloon bar holding his right knee.

Neville
drew him a large free Scotch. ‘That was a very brave thing to do,’ he told the
damaged hero. ‘But has it done the trick?’

Pooley
shrugged and accepted his golden prize.

Omally
watched the following swallowing, and wondered whether Jim had, perchance,
planned the whole thing in the noble cause of a free drink.

He hadn’t.

Having
none of the sorceric powers of Nostradamus, the patrons of The Swan watched
Thursday night approach, as a dark and mysterious being wearing a cloak of
danger.

‘Although
I doubt that the word “sorceric” actually exists,’ said Jim Pooley, ‘the point
is well made and the night in question will soon be upon us.’ He crossed
himself and stroked his amulet.

‘Don’t
do that in here,’ said Neville, hoping for a cheap laugh.

Wednesday
followed Tuesday, then Thursday came along.

It was
raining. In fact it was pouring. There was thunder, there was lightning. It was
not a fit night out for man nor beast. If ever an excuse were needed for
spending the night in, catching up on the telly, then here was one falling in
bucket loads. But Small Dave
was
a bad man to cross. So to not attend an
event which promised, according to rumours in circulation, to be nothing short
of a Busby Berkeley Musical Extravaganza, might incur a certain social stigma
and ensure that the absentee never again saw the Queen’s mail coming through
his or her letter box.

‘I don’t
know what we’re all getting ourselves in such a state about,’ said Omally. ‘After
all, this is just a local talent competition with a bottle of Scotch for a
prize.’ Then shaking his head at what he had said, he vanished away to the
Gents muttering a strangely familiar recitation.

Neville
was looking horribly pale. ‘Suppose he doesn’t win,’ he murmured to Pooley.

‘Who?
Omally? He never wins.

‘Small
Dave,’ said Neville and those with a mind to crossed themselves. And Jim gave a
squeeze to his amulet.

At seven-thirty, ‘Laughing’
Jack Vermont, the self-styled Eric Morely of the small pub talent competition
circuit, stuck his toothy grin through the saloon bar door and doffed his sou’wester
and cycling cape. Within no time at all, or an interminable duration if you’re
nervous, he had set up his crumbling PA system, seated himself at The Swan’s
elderly piano, blown into his microphone, said ‘one-two, one-two’, and
distributed a sheath of entry forms.

‘Just
fill them in and pop them into the magic box,’ he called, indicating the
tin-foil-covered biscuit tin on the piano lid.

Pooley
watched the hopefuls as they took to their form-filling. There were not quite
so many as usual. And those that there were, were strangers.

‘I’ve a
very very bad feeling about this,’ Jim told Omally. ‘How
do
you spell,
recitation,’ the other replied. If I were you I wouldn’t even try,’ Jim drew
John’s attention to his still bruised kneecap.

Omally
bit his lip. ‘Yes, you’re right. No point in handing in a badly spelt form.’ He
crumpled up the paper and tossed it aside.

The
minute hand on the Guinness clock moved towards eight-thirty. Laughing Jack
sprung up from the piano, blew once more into the mic’ and said, ‘Well, well,
well, it’s Howdy Doody Time. And tonight it gives me enormous pleasure …’ He
paused and peered about the crowded bar wearing what he considered to be a
wickedly mischievous grin. ‘But then it always does.’