Robert Rankin - Web Site Story

'My old infantry uniform,' said Old Pete. 'I fought at Rorke's Drift. Michael Caine wasn't there though, that was only in the movie.'

'And the hairstyles were all wrong in that.' Old Vic struggled with a crate marked dynamite. He was wearing his pow kit. Very Colditz. Very, whoever was in the movie of Colditz.

'Off for a day out?' Derek grinned painfully.

'Stopping off at the post office first,' said Old Pete. 'Have to cash our shares in. While there's still a Mute Corp to pay us out.'

'This really isn't a good idea,' said Derek. 'You really should reconsider.'

'Vic,' said Pete. 'Where is that barrel of tar?'

'I've got it here, with the bag of feathers.'

'Enjoy your day out,' said Derek, making away at the hurry up.

'Good morning, Derek,' said Mr Speedy. 'On time this morning. I'm very impressed.'

'I'm not,' said Mr Shadow. 'He smells and look at the state of him, unshaven, clothes all crumpled up.'

'And some paint on the sleeve,' said Mr Speedy. 'That would be from the letter box at the police station.'

'You're very good at continuity,' said Derek. 'So tell me, what exactly is going to happen?'

'The official opening is at nine o'clock,' said Mr Speedy. 'Mr Doveston himself will be cutting the tape. What do you think of the daisy roots?' Mr Speedy pointed down to his feet. He wore a pair of Doveston holistic mega-brogues, with flute-tail high-rise imploding obfusticators and triple-bivalve bypass modifiers.

'Nice laces,' said Derek. 'I like the way they flash on and off. And are those real toads hopping about in the transparent heels?'

Mr Speedy nodded enthusiastically.

Mr Shadow said, 'Look at mine.'

Derek looked. 'They're very nice too,' he said. 'I particularly like the way the difference engines are cunningly inset beneath the pig's-bladder motifs.' -

'Cost me an arm and a leg,' said Mr Shadow. 'Well only an arm, actually,' and he pointed to his empty sleeve. 'No, only joking,' he said, producing his hand.

Derek didn't laugh.

'The things we do for fashion,' said Mr Speedy. 'And to look our very best. You look like a vagrant, Derek, I think we'll just sack you here and now.'

Derek sighed. It was a heartfelt sigh, a real deep down and hopeless sigh. A sigh that said, 'Go on and do your worst, I just don't care any more.'

'Well, if you feel that way,' said Mr Speedy. 'You're sacked.'

'I don't feel that way,' said Derek. 'I was only sighing. I'll have a wash and a shave in the staff cloakroom and I think I have a change of shirt in my desk. I'll smarten myself up.'

'Just you do,' said Mr Speedy. 'And get a move on. Pacey pacey, up and at 'em. All that kind of rot.'

Derek slunk away to the staff cloakroom.

And the Brentford sun rose higher.

The Brentford sky grew bluer still and the birdies that chorused in the treetops really put their hearts and souls into it. Well, the treetops were very clean, they'd been nicely vacuumed and given a coat of paint.

At a little before nine of this joyous Monday morning, the guard on the main gates swung them wide and a charabanc rolled out of Brentford. At a little after nine of this same joyous Monday morning, the same guard, who had closed the main gates behind the departing charabanc, opened them up once more to admit the entrance of a motor cavalcade.

Ticket sellers in their numerous booths saluted. The guards in their armoured watchtowers saluted. The guard dogs that patrolled the inner perimeter area, behind the electrified fences, didn't salute. Their heavily armed handlers did though.

Mr Doveston's motor cavalcade rolled in through the gates of Brentford.

The Prime Minister's car was a certain black open-topped Cadillac. It had once driven a certain JFK through the streets of Dallas. It was a rare collector's item now. It was the pride and joy of its driver, the Prime Minister's Rastafarian chauffeur. A certain Mr Winston Felix, brother of a certain supplier of certain previously owned vehicles, and resident of Brentford.

Mr Speedy saluted the Prime Minister. Mr Shadow saluted the Prime Minister. Mr Pokey, who was present to do some saluting, saluted the Prime Minister. A whole bunch of Mute Corp employees all saluted the Prime Minister.

Strangely no Brentonians saluted. Possibly they might have done had they bothered to turn out for the occasion, but as none except for Derek had, they didn't.

So there.

'Where is the band?' Mr Speedy elbowed Derek in the ribs.

'I didn't have a band on my list.'

'Poor show,' said Mr Shadow. 'You should have used your initiative.'

The chauffeur drew the Cadillac to a halt, swung open his door, stepped from it and opened the rear door to assist the Prime Minister.

Mr Doveston required considerable assistance.

'Now that's what I call a pair of shoes,' said Mr Speedy.

Mr Doveston struggled from the Cadillac. They really were what you would call a pair of shoes. A big pair. A high pair. An elevated pair. They certainly uplifted the Prime Minister. He struck his head on the floor of one of the watchtowers.

'Ouch,' he said.

Mr Speedy stepped forward. 'Good morning Prime Minister,' he said.

'Pardon?' the Prime Minister called down. 'You'll have to speak up, I can't hear you too well up here.'

'Spiffing shoes, Prime Minister,' called Mr Speedy.

'Thank you very much,' the PM shouted down. 'Multifaceted love-tunnels and five-core cantilevered tremolo-armed Spiedel honey-wrists. And those are real bare naked ladies sealed inside the transparent heels, my Aunty Ajax and my cousin Domestos.'

'Magnificent,' called Mr Speedy. 'Hello Aunty Ajax. Hello cousin Domestos.'

The aunty and the cousin mouthed hellos.

'So, if you'd like to follow me,' said Mr Speedy, 'I will conduct you on a walking tour of Suburbia World Plc, before we get on with the tape-cutting.'

'You have to be joking,' said Mr Doveston. 'You don't think I can actually walk in these shoes, do you? Tell me all about it. And tell me about it in Runese please. It makes everything so much nicer.'

'It's Fandabbydozy,' Mr Speedy began. 'And Supercali

'Fragile,' said Old Vic, as the charabanc bumped over a speed ramp at considerable speed. 'Very fragilistic. Very delicate.'

'What is?' asked Old Pete, who -was driving.

'These fuses,' said Old Vic. 'They're nitroglycerine. Or pretty much the same as. A combination of mucus and certain other personal bodily secretions.'

'Why are you telling me this?' Old Pete asked, as the charabanc took a corner on two wheels and on-board Brentonians cheered wildly.

'Only because if you don't drive carefully, we'll all have our bottom parts blown to kingdom come.'

Old Pete slowed to a respectable fifty.

Old Vic said, 'That's nice.'

'Nice,' said the Prime Minister, gazing about at all and sundry. 'Very nice indeed.'

Derek squinted. Past the towering swaying Prime Minister, past the infamous Cadillac, past the other limousines containing the Prime Minister's retinue, through the open main gates and up the road that led to Kew.

'Excuse me,' said Derek to Mr Speedy, who was wringing his hands and fawning at the Prime Minister's feet. 'But where are all the visitors? I thought we were expecting ten thousand at the very least.'

Mr Speedy turned his face to Derek. It was a face that suddenly wore a troubled look. 'Where are the visitors?' he asked.

'Don't ask me' said Derek. 'How would I know?'

'Because you were supposed to be arranging the transportation.'

'Me?' said Derek. 'Me?'

'It's all on your list. Show me your list.'

Derek fumbled in his pockets. Did he still have his list or had he given it to Leo? 'I don't have my list any more,' said Derek. 'But there was nothing mentioned about transportation on my list. Just Morris Minors and a steam train and crad barges and…'