Robert Rankin - Knees Up Mother Earth

“Phew,” said Neville.

“It’s £1,650,689 – I forgot to take today’s interest on the debt into account.”

Neville groaned dismally.

“Only joking,” said Shufty.

Neville brightened.

“You don’t really owe all that money to the bank.”

“Blessed be,” said Neville.

“You owe it to the Consortium – which, in an act of supreme public spiritedness paid off the loan to the bank and took it on for you. So, to business, the contracts.”

“No, no, no,” said Neville and he shook his head once more.

“Does anybody else have anything to say?” asked Shufty. “I find this vagabond frankly annoying.”

“What?” went Neville.

“I have something to say,” said Gwynplaine Dhark.

“And that is?” said Shufty.

“Where would you like us to sign?”

“Now you’re talking my kind of language.”

“No,” said Neville. “This isn’t right. This isn’t how it should be.”

“No,” said David Berkshire. “I agree. It isn’t right.”

“Seems you’re all on your own, then,” said Shufty to Neville.

“No,” said David Berkshire. “I said no, too.”

“And I heard him,” said Neville.

“So,” said Gavin Shufty, “two dissenters. How about you, madam?” He addressed Doris Whimple. “Surely a beautiful and intelligent woman such as yourself does not wish the council to go into further endless debts to save a football team that has not won a single match so far this season and shows no hope of ever winning one. Not when the handsome sum the Consortium is prepared to pay could be spent on numerous community projects.”

“Well,” said Doris Whimple, “I did hear some talk of a community centre.”

“I have the plans here with me in my case. Your name is, madam?”

“Doris Whimple,” said Doris Whimple.

“What a pretty name. The new community centre lacks for one, perhaps you would care to honour it with your own?”

“Now, see here,” said Neville.

“Desist in your puerile protestations,” said Gwynplaine Dhark. “The cause is a lost one. Bow to progress.”

“Quite so.” Gavin Shufty beamed upon Gwynplaine Dhark. “And your name is, sir?”

“Dhark,” said Dhark, “Gwynplaine Dhark.”

“A noble name, and one that I feel should grace one of the roads of the new estate of executive homes. Dhark Crescent perhaps, or Dhark Street.”

“Dhark Alley more like,” said Neville.

“So, who else? You, sir?” Gavin Shufty addressed Vic Vanilla.

“Vanilla Way will do fine for me,” said Vic Vanilla. “That and all the other little matters we spoke about on the phone.” And Vic Vanilla tapped at his bulbous nose.

“Quite so,” said Gavin Shufty. “It’s all in the contracts.”

“No,” protested Neville once more. “It’s quite clear to me what’s going on here.”

“You’re the barman from The Flying Swan, aren’t you?” said Gavin Shufty. “I was warned about you.”

“This is disgraceful,” said Neville, rising from his seat. “This is bribery and corruption. I will have no part of this.”

“Sit down, Neville.” Vic Vanilla gave Neville’s jacket a tugging. “You’ll do all right out of this. You’ll make enough to buy The Flying Swan from the brewery, if you want.”

Neville looked down at Vic Vanilla. “What did you say?” he asked.

Vic gave his nose another tapping. “Shares,” said he. “We, as signatories on behalf of the council, are each to be awarded one thousand shares in the building project.”

“It’s all legal and above board,” said Gavin Shufty. “One thousand shares each, the same agreement that we have reached with all the other councils we’ve dealt with. The shares are without value until the new executive estate is built, at which point, when the new homes go on sale, they rocket to at least one hundred pounds a share. Perhaps more. You can sell them, should you so wish.”

“One hundred thousand smackers,” said Vic, now rubbing his greasy palms together. “That would buy you The Swan, wouldn’t it?”

“It would,” Neville whispered.

“And all strictly legal. Owner of your own pub. Ain’t that every part-time barman’s dream?”

Neville nodded thoughtfully. “It is,” he said in a wistfully whispery voice.

“Then go for it,” said Vic. “The team’s a dead’n. The Brentford Bees have had their glory days, way back in the nineteen-twenties. The ground’s never even a quarter full on Saturday afternoons. No one really cares any more. I’ll bet you’ve never even been to a game.”

“I’m always working.” Neville sighed.

“You could hire in some bar staff and support another side, buy a season ticket,” said Vic.

“We have executive boxes available at most stands,” said Gavin Shufty. “You’d be welcome at any, at no charge, of course. Shareholders are always welcome. All you have to do is hold on to one share in order to qualify.”

“Cheese,” said Neville and he stared into space. It was one of those thousand-yard stares, which are always into some kind of space. A thousand yards away, most likely.

“So,” said Gavin Shufty, “are we all done? How goes the vote?”

“You have mine,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark.

“And mine, too.” Vic Vanilla raised a thumb.

“And mine also, I suppose,” said Doris Whimple.

“You, sir?” Gavin Shufty turned his mirrored gaze upon David Berkshire.

“I don’t know,” said that man.

“Did he speak?” Shufty asked Gwynplaine Dhark.

“He said yes,” said Mr Dhark.

“No, I never did.”

Gwynplaine Dhark stared hard at David Berkshire. It was a penetrating stare. A very penetrating stare.

“Yes, all right, I suppose,” said David Berkshire.

“That would be four out of six,” declared Gavin Shufty. “Motion carried, I believe. I’ll just hand out these contracts, then,” and he proceeded to do so.

Neville slowly sat himself down. He still had a good old stare on him, of the thousand-yard variety rather than the penetrating. A contract was duly thrust before him.

Doris Whimple awoke Councillor Doveston. “There’s something for you to sign,” said she.

“Is it about bees?” asked the old duffer.

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“Then I’ll sign it.”

“That makes five out of six, then.” Gavin Shufty returned to the Mayoral Chair. “Democracy at work. Always a joy to behold.”

Pens were taken from breast pockets, tops were pulled from these pens, signatures were signed.

“You, sir, please,” Gavin Shufty said to Neville. “You appear to be in some sort of trance. Could someone give him a bit of a dig?”

Vic gave Neville a bit of a dig. “Bung on your moniker,” he said.

Neville took his pen from his breast pocket. It was a Parker. Neville unscrewed the cap.

“There’s a good boy,” said Mr Shufty in a patronising tone.

Neville turned his head and stared at Mr Shufty.

“No,” said Neville. “I won’t do it. It’s wrong. All wrong. I may never have seen Brentford play, but I support the club. You can’t just wipe it away with a stroke of a pen. It’s part of Brentford’s glorious heritage, part of the stuff of which Brentford is made.”

“You’re outvoted,” said Mr Shufty. “It doesn’t really matter whether you sign or not.”

“It’s wrong.” Neville turned towards his fellow councillors. Scanned their faces. Saw the greed.

“You don’t care, do you?” he said. “You were voted on to the council to care, but you don’t. You just think of yourselves.”

“That’s not entirely true.” Gavin Shufty had a smug face on. “They just know a lost cause when they see one. Brentford football club is finished. It’s history.”