Robert Rankin - The Antipope

Neville nodded thoughtfully. The tramp had been pretty much the sole topic of conversation in the borough for nearly a month although his last sighting was more than a fortnight ago.

“I know that you all understand to whom I refer,” said Soap.

Those who did nodded. Those who did, but had no wish to listen to yet another of Soap’s endless diatribes upon the denizens of the inner world took a sudden interest in the bottoms of their pint glasses.

“Speculation has been rife,” Soap continued, “and up until now I have kept my counsel whilst the false prophets among you have battled one another to a standstill. Now and only now I am ready to impart to you the sole and unimpeachably cosmic truth.”

Omally groaned. “I had an uncle once,” said he, hoping to change the subject, “who swallowed a golf ball thinking it to be a plover’s egg.”

“Really,” said old Pete, who hated Soap Distant and his “bloody silly notions”. “And what happened to your uncle, how was he?”

“A little under par,” said the Irishman.

“There are none so deaf as those who will not hear,” said Soap.

“Here, steady on,” said Norman.

“How many times have I propounded my theories regarding the lands beneath and their interterrestrial occupants, and how many times have I offered irrefutable proof as to their existence, only to be scoffed at and ridiculed by those pseudo-intellectuals who nestle in seats of authority having sprung up like mildewed fungi upon the rotting corpse of this present society?”

“Many times,” said Omally. “A great many times.”

“Listen.” Soap rattled his pint glass upon the bar top in agitation. “I know all about your views on the subject, you are a Philistine.”

“I resent that,” said John, “I am from the South.”

“Beneath the surface of the globe,” said Soap in a reverent tone, “is the vast and beautiful land of Agharta, and in that sunken realm at the very centre of the planet, Shamballah, capital city of Earth. Here in unimaginable splendour dwells Rigdenjyepo, King of the World, whose emissaries, the subterranean monks of black habit, weave their ways through the endless network of ink-dark corridors which link the capital cities of the ancient world.”

“Such is the popular Buddhist doctrine,” said Omally.

“Rigdenjyepo is in constant contact with the Dalai Lama,” said Soap.

“The Dalai rarely drinks in these parts,” said John.

Soap threw up his arms in dismay. “When the great day comes and the portals are opened then the smile will flee your face like a rat from a sinking ship.”

Omally brought his smile into full prominence. “I have always found it to be the case,” said he ingeniously, “that most ships, especially those sailing under the colours of the Esoteric Line, generally sink due to a surfeit of rats weighing heavily upon the bows.”

“Holes in the Poles,” said Soap, thrusting the Irishman aside and stalking away to the gents.

“I think you may have offended him,” said Neville.

Omally shrugged. “He’ll be back. Give me another of the same please, Neville. And pray take one for yourself. And what is the explanation of that poster in your window?”

Neville, somewhat taken aback at the Irishman’s generosity, reddened about the cheeks upon the mention of the poster. He pulled two pints in silence. “Poster?” he said, finally. Omally accepted his pint.

“The poster displayed upon your window which reads, and I quote from memory, ‘Thursday Night is Cowboy Night at the Flying Swan, Yahoo, Barbeque Country Music Best-Dressed Cowboy Comp, Big Prizes, Fancy Dress Optional.’”

Neville hung his head in shame. “The brewery,” he said. “After the Channel wading business the brewery seem to have been taking an indecent interest in the Swan’s affairs.”

Omally drew deeply upon his pint. “A sad business,” said he.

“I have been issued with an outfit,” said Neville in a hushed tone.

“Outfit?”

“Cowboy, chaps and all that.”

“Good God.”

“There are prizes for the best dressed cowboy, a bottle of scotch, two hundred cigarettes and a voucher which enables you to dine at one of the brewery’s licensed eating-houses.”

Omally raised his bristling eyebrows. “A bottle of scotch, eh?” His voice was one of casual unconcern. “Has Pooley been in today?”

Neville shook his head. Omally gestured to Neville with a motion which counselled secrecy and discretion. “It is better,” said he, “that we do not cause any great rumpus over this cowboy thing. The regulars might become somewhat incensed, the Swan being an establishment renowned for its conservatism.” Omally pulled at his lower eye-lid suggestively.

Neville nodded thoughtfully. “I can sympathize with your feelings, John,” said he, “but you must understand that the brewery pull the strings as it were and I must comply with their wishes, no matter how unseemly they might appear.”

“Unseemly is hardly the word. And what’s all this about a barbecue?”

“I’ve had one built on the patio of the beer garden.”

“Beer garden?” Omally leant forward across the bar and fixed Neville with a baleful stare. “I have partaken of alcoholic beverage in this establishment man and boy these fifteen years. Possibly I suffer from some strange aberration of the optical apparatus which deprives my sight of beer gardens and patios thereupon, but if you might be referring to the tiny strip of back yard behind the Gents where you stack the empties then I might suggest that you reconsider your terminology.”

“The brewery have done a conversion,” said Neville.

“Oh, a conversion is it? Would this conversion by any chance have been carried out by those two master builders known locally as Jungle John and Hairy Dave?” The part-time barman nodded. “And this patio has been built with the bricks and mortar we were led to believe were to be used in the restructuring of the bog roof?”

Neville hung his head in shame. He had led the deception, it was true. “It was meant to be a nice surprise,” said he in a wounded tone.

“Might we view this nice surprise?” the Irishman asked.

“Not until Thursday,” said the barman, “and Omally, I might beg you not to cause anything in the way of a scandal over this patio. A representative from the brewery will be present for the occasion and any controversy might reflect badly upon my position here.”

Omally sipped thoughtfully at his pint. “How many are you expecting then?”

“About two hundred.”

Omally spluttered into his beer, sending a stream of froth up his nose. “Two hundred?”

“The brewery say that such a turn-out is average, they have put some adverts in the local papers.”

“Regarding these two hundred cowboys who will shortly be descending upon the Flying Swan for a hoe-down in the ten-foot-square backyard,” said Omally. “Can you expect to hear the crack of the mule whip, the roaring of Colt forty-fives, the rattle of wooden wheel and flap of canvas as the mighty covered wagons roll over the prairie bound for Brentford, the thunder of pony hoof upon tarmac and the lusty vocal renderings of ‘Mule Skinner Blues’ and ‘Do Not Forsake Me, Oh My Darling’?”

“There will be cheap drinking and an extension until eleven-thirty,” said Neville.

“Do Not Forsake Me, Oh My Darling,” sang John Omally, flinging an imaginary stetson into the air.

Soap Distant, who had finally returned from the gents, said, “With a bottle of scotch as a prize, cut-price drink and an eleven-thirty extension we can expect to see at least one Irish John Wayne impersonator swaggering through the Saloon Bar door toting a six-gun and asking for two fingers of redeye.”