Sprout Mask Replica (13 page)

Jack
considered himself to be a master of comic timing. Most of his audience
considered him to be a prize prat, but a possible means by which to gain a free
bottle of Scotch.

‘All
joking aside,’ Jack continued, ‘tonight we have a
big
line-up. And a mystery
guest star. That’s right. Oh yes.’ He tapped his nose and winked a knowing eye.

‘That
man is a prize prat,’ said Omally. ‘And would you look at that jacket of his.’

That
jacket
was Laughing Jack’s pride and joy.

He had
explained it once to Omally.

‘Some
people,’ Jack named Liberace, ‘have teeth.’

‘Others,’
he let slip Maurice Chevalier, ‘straw boaters.’

‘But I,’
he made an expansive gesture, ‘have my Laughing Jack Jacket.’

Omally
had drawn the laughing one’s attention to the fact that Liberace was not a man
known for his conservatism when it came to the matter of jackets.

‘A mere
sham,’ said Laughing Jack, turning to reveal the sequinned wonder of it all and
the words LARFING JOCK VERMOUTH embroidered in rhinestones by his inebriated
mother.

‘A
mystery guest star,’ said Jim. ‘I’ll bet we can all guess who that’s going to
be.’

Omally
cast his eye over the night’s contestants who were now milling around Jack, few
in number as they were and looking nervous with it.

‘I
wonder where the fat boy who sings ‘Danny Boy’ has got to tonight,’ wondered Pooley.

‘And
what of Old Pete and his performing dog?’ asked Omally. ‘And the rabbi
ventriloquist who won twice last month.’

First up on the tiny stage
was a grey-bearded Scot in antique highland dress, who juggled sprouts, whilst
regaling the audience with humorous anecdotes concerning Custer’s Last Stand.

The
only one I can remember went as follows.

It
seems that a sculptor was commissioned to create a suitable monument to the
general’s final encounter with the red Indians. And when this was unveiled
before the crowds of attending dignitaries, casual onlookers and members of the
press it was revealed to be a monolith of the
2001
persuasion.

On the
top half of this were carved a number of fish with haloes above their heads, on
the lower portion, red Indians enthusiastically making love.

The
fellow who had commissioned the sculpture took its creator to one side and
demanded an explanation.

‘It
represents the last words Custer ever spoke,’ explained the sculptor. ‘These
were,
Holy Mackerel, look at all those fucking Indians!’

Well,
it made me laugh at the time. But then
I
hadn’t heard it before.

Few in
the audience clapped and the two members of the local council, who claimed to
be the twin reincarnation of Geronimo, walked out in disgust.

Next up
was a poet called Johnny. I have never had a lot of truck with poetry myself,
but on this occasion I must say that I was truly moved.

I trust
that you will also be. For I include his poem here.

UNCLE FUGGER
CLAUDE ROE (AT HOME)

Taking a suck at his old cherry wood

(His Briars numbered three in the rack),

The crackling fire as it danced in the grate,

The frost-bitten dane at his back.

Old Uncle Claude Roe, please tell us a tale,

Asked Arthur and Willy and Moon.

Tell us conundrums and rose carberundems,

And shanties to sing out of tune.

Tell us of airmen who ride in the clouds

And pirates who see through one eye.

But Uncle Claude Roe did not want to know,

He sat there and played with his tie.

Tell us of Liszt and Marcova

And how Einstein learned counting off you.

But old Uncle Claude looked thoroughly bored,

He had fallen asleep in his shoe.

And while Fugger slept like a baby

The children went outside to play.

And his cherry wood Briar set the whole house on fire

And nobody cares to this day.

I wept
real tears at the end of that one, I can tell you. But disguised them as a
touch of hay fever for fear of looking like a big Jessie.

A very large woman called
Jessie was next up on the stage. She stripped down to her Liberty bodice and
cami-knickers to display an ample selection of Magic Eye 3D tattoos. Again, I
was favourably impressed, particularly with the red Indian display, but not so
the rest of the audience, who hadn’t clapped once as yet.

I will
pass on the one-legged seafarer who sang about a recent whaling voyage.

‘Sounds
a little too much like “Orange Claw Hammer”,’ Pooley observed.

I must
also pass on Norman the sword swallower, who did not receive a standing
ovation.

‘Any
more?’ asked Laughing Jack, but the biscuit tin was empty and the crowd wore
vacant stares.

And
then it happened. And it happened in a big way and one not easily forgotten.
The saloon bar door burst open.

There
was a mighty drum roll and then in marched the world famous Brentford Secondary
School drum majorettes.

They
didn’t march far due to the density of the crowd, but they forced their way in
bravely. Tassels twirling, baton whirling, young knees high and painted smiles.

In came
the drummers, thrashing away upon snares and tom-toms, halting to march upon
the spot.

Then
part.

Then in
He
came.

A
diminutive figure in a gold lamé mask and matching jump-suit. He cart-wheeled
into the bar, did an impossible triple flip over cowering heads and landed on
his feet upon the stage.

Mouths
fell open, breath became a thing to hold.

The
tiny figure bowed and then began.

He
knelt, threw wide his arms, sang Jolson.

And he
was
Jolson.

He
impersonated Laughton.

And he
was
Laughton.

He
lifted a leg and Robert Newton was reborn to play his finest role.

The
superstitious crossed themselves.

Omally
whispered, ‘Witchcraft.’

It was
a spectacle unlike any other that The Swan had witnessed during its long and
colourful history. Strong men wept into their beer and mothers covered the eyes
of their teenage daughters.

To gasps and then wild
applause, the tiny gold-clad figure concluded with a fire-eating, unicycling,
beer-bottle-juggling, reworking of ‘Singin’ in the Rain’ that would have had
Sam Goldwyn reaching for his cheque-book.

Laughing
Jack came forward with the bottle of Scotch.

‘Sir,’
was all he could manage to say.

As
suddenly as he had appeared the tiny man was gone, cartwheeling, somersaulting,
spinning through the saloon bar door. The drummers and majorettes followed,
along with the Scotsman who told the General Custer yarns, who had taken up his
pipes to play ‘Amazing Grace’.

And
then The Swan fell into silence.

And
might well still be doing it to this day if Neville hadn’t managed to speak.

‘Never
in my long years as a barman,’ he said in a quavery voice, ‘have I seen
anything
to rival that.’

‘It is
truly the wonder of the age,’ said Jim Pooley.

‘There
are more things in Heaven and Earth and so on,’ agreed John Omally.

‘It
leaves my ‘Green, Green, Grass of Home’ with egg on its face,’ said Hector, who
hadn’t had a mention for quite some time.

‘I must
say that I rather enjoyed that myself,’ said Small Dave, who had been standing
unnoticed by the ladies’ toilet.

All
heads present turned in his direction, all mouths that were not already open
now opened. Wide.

‘My
appearance in this book has been nothing more than a cameo,’ said Neville the
part-time barman, ‘but given the evidence of the previous chapters,
that
is
the kind of cop-out ending I would have expected.’

‘I’m
sorry,’ said Small Dave. ‘But my bottle went and I just couldn’t go through
with it. Damn fine show though. Who
was
that masked man?’

SONG
WITH NO WORDS

He’d been out on a busy Friday,

Singing that song with no words.

But the going had been as tough as could be,

He’d fallen twice and ricked his knee

And he was glad to get home at all,

Singing that song with no words.

He’d fallen in love with a check-out girl,

Singing that song with no words.

Though she had spots of a generous size

And something strange about one of her eyes,

He’d offered his heart and she’d punched out his lights,

Singing that song with no words.

He’d got in a fight with a hot dog man,

Singing that song with no words.

He’d only said to the fellow in fun

That he thought his hot dogs smelt like dun(g)

And just for that he’d been soundly thrashed,

Singing that song with no words.

He’d been for a boat trip round the bay,

Singing that song with no words.

He’d exposed himself to a party of Czechs

Who were making charts of sunken wrecks

So they’d tossed him off
[17]
and he’d gone down,
[18]

Singing that song with no words.

He’d finally fallen foul of the law,

Singing that song with no words.

He’d shouted abuse at a copper on point

Said he was a fairy and smoking a joint

So he’d
been dragged away to the Nick and given a right good truncheoning by several irate
constables who’d had a proper day of it chasing up reports of some limping loon
who’d been bothering check-out girls, getting into fights with hot dog men and
flashing his willy at foreigners.

And
enough was enough!

Singing
that song with no words.

Amen.

7

UNCLE
BRIAN EXPLAINS

EVERYTHING
(ALMOST)

I ARRIVED AT UNCLE BRIAN’S
HOUSE A LITTLE AFTER TEN.

The
walk took longer than usual as it looked like rain. I had to write the word ‘sun’
on the palm of my left hand to balance that out, then walk part of the way
backwards for peace in our time. When Uncle Brian didn’t answer the doorbell I
had to arrange five pieces of chalk on his window-sill.

It’s
better to be safe than sorry.

He
arrived home at sixteen minutes to eleven, which was also 10.44, which was all
right by me as my shirt cuffs were unbuttoned. Uncle Brian looked somewhat the
worse for wear. A police car dropped him off, well, flung him out. It didn’t
stop. Uncle Brian limped up the garden path singing that song with no words. It
didn’t look to me as if he wanted anything mentioned. So I didn’t mention
anything.

‘What’s
red and stands in the corner?’ I asked Uncle Brian.

He
shrugged.

‘A
naughty bus,’ I told him, as humour sometimes helps to break the ice at
parties.

‘You’d
better come inside,’ said Uncle Brian. ‘You clearly need a cup of hot sweet
tea.’

I
couldn’t have argued with that if I’d wanted to.

‘Not
your mates, though,’ said Uncle Brian, half turning as he turned the key. ‘They’ll
have to stay in the garden.’

‘Sorry,
lads,’ I said, dismissing the Kalahari bushmen who so often accompanied me upon
my ventures to the interior. ‘Go and play in the park, I’ll see you later!’ But
I never did.

Uncle
Brian made tea and served it. Then he settled himself onto the box ottoman in
the front room and sucked life into his briar. ‘So, son,’ he said, through
pale-blue plumes of smoke, ‘what is it you would like to know?’