1

 

THE PARABLE OF THE CHAIR AND

THE SPORRAN OF THE DEVIL

 

MY FATHER WAS A DEVOUT MAN AND SO THE BEDTIME STORIES HE told us often came in the form of parables. He was also a carpenter and so most of these parables concerned wood and furniture.

It had always puzzled my father that, if the Good Lord had been a carpenter, how come none of His parables ever concerned wood and furniture. They were always about sowing seeds or fishing or things of that nature. All right, so He did tell the one about the foolish man who built his house upon the sand, but that was really all about a stone mason, as the carpenters would never have had a chance to get in and do the second fixings before the house got washed away.

My father, therefore, sought to make up the deficit in the Good Lord’s woodwork parable account. And although, for the most part, the actual meaning of the parables was totally lost upon us, we being young and foolish and all, they were never without interest.

I recall, in particular, the parable of the chair, because it, in turn, recalls to me the tale of my great great great granddaddy’s sporran.

So I shall narrate both here.

Oh, I should just mention that when my father used to tell us these parables, he would do so in his ‘Laurence Olivier, Richard-the-Third, now-is-the-winter-of-our-discontent’ voice.

 

 

THE PARABLE OF THE CHAIR

A moral tale in seven parts

 

1

The chair was old

Which is to say that the chair had age upon its side, not as antagonist, but as companion.

Like wine, good wine, the chair had improved, grown mellow, matured with age.

Not that age is any friend of chairs! Nay! Age has no respect for furniture. No cabriole leg, no varnished surface, no lacquered frame is inviolate to its sinister attentions.

Age is no lover of chairs.

 

2

The chair was brown

Which is to say that the chair had been newly painted.

Not by some professional with no love for his work, but by an amateur, who did it because it needed doing and he wanted to be the one who did it.

Not that a professional could not have done a better job.

He could.

But for all the drips and runs and missed bits, the paint which had been put upon that chair, had been put there with concern.

And concern is ever the friend of good furniture.

 

3

The chair had three legs

Which is not to say that it had not once possessed four.

It had.

But now, alas, there were but three.

Fine and well-turned fellows they, but for all their brown gloss glory, most sadly did they miss their wayward brother.

Whither he?

Perhaps now timber-toe to some pirate captain sailing on the Spanish Main?

Perhaps in some celestial chair-leg kingdom yet unknown to man?

Or, mayhap now a leg upon the throne of a cannibal chief?

Or mayhap not!

But sorely did those three remaining legs pine[1] for the fourth.

For upon those three, though loyal legs, that brown chair could not stand.

And being unable so to do, fell over.

And being of no further use, Sid burned it!

 

4

Regarding Sid

When Sid had burned the chair, he laughed.

‘That,’ laughed Sid, ‘is a chair well burned.’

For of that once proud brown chair very little remained, save for a pile of smouldering ashes and a few charred nails.

‘That chair is no more,’ laughed Sid.

And Sid turned away from his fireplace and sought a place to sit. But none there was, for he had burned his only chair. ‘Damn!’ cried Sid, not laughing, ‘I have burned my only chair.’ ‘But,’ he continued, ‘it had just the three legs and was no use for sitting on anyway.

And happily this was the case. Or, unhappily, depending on your point of view.

As Sid turned away from the fireplace, he tripped upon a length of wood which lay upon the rug and falling backwards, struck his head on the mantelpiece and fell into the fire, dying instantly.

And was not that length of wood on which he had tripped a chair leg?

I’ll say it was!

 

5

The quietness of Sid

Sid, now being dead, said nothing more.

And when, at last, he too had all burned away, a gentle breeze, coming through the open window, turned his ashes amongst those of the brown three-legged chair, until one was indistinguishable from the other.

There was something almost poetic about it.

And it didn’t go unnoticed.

‘There is something almost poetic about that,’ said Sid’s brother Norman, who stood watching from a corner.

‘I agree with you there,’ said Jack (Sid’s other brother) who stood nearby.

‘Our Sid has never been quieter,’ said Tony (brother to Norman, Jack and the late Sid).

And no-one chose to disagree with that.

 

6

A question of laying-to-rest

Norman’s thoughtful expression prompted Jack to ask, ‘What is on your mind, Norman?’

Norman scratched at his nose. ‘There is the question of laying-to-rest,’ he said.

‘That is a question requiring careful consideration,’ replied Jack.

Tony asked why.

Jack said he didn’t know.

‘Because,’ Norman scratched at his nose once more, ‘the ashes of Sid and the ashes of the brown three-legged chair are now thoroughly mixed. I, for one, would not care an attempt at separating them.’

‘Nor me,’ said Jack.

And Tony shook his head.

‘So,’ Norman continued, ‘if we were to gather up all the ashes and pass them to a cleric for a laying-to-rest with a Christian service, we might well be committing heresy or blasphemy or something similar.’

Jack asked how so.

Tony shook his head once more.

‘Because,’ Norman explained, ‘I have never heard of a chair being given a Christian burial. It does not seem proper to dignify a three—legged chair with a service essentially reserved for man.’

Tony observed that it wasn’t the chair’s fault that it only had three legs. In fact, if Norman would care to remember, it was he, Norman, who had broken off the fourth leg earlier in the day.

Norman coughed nervously. ‘Well,’ said he, ‘that is my opinion. Although I might well be micturating windward.’

Tony turned to Jack. ‘He has a point,’ Tony said. ‘After all, we don’t even know if the chair was a Christian.’

‘Come to think about it,’ Jack replied, ‘we don’t even know if Sid was a Christian.’

‘We do,’ said Norman. ‘He wasn’t.’

 

7

The four winds have it

‘If we were to scatter all the ashes to the four winds,’ said Norman, ‘then we could feel reasonably assured that Sid, even if mixed with a lot of three-legged chair, would get some sort of decent send-off. And we would not incur the wrath of God or the Church.’

‘I worry for the chair,’ said Tony.

‘I worry about that fourth leg,’ said Jack.

‘Oh, I worry a lot about that,’ said Tony. ‘But with Sid all burned away and everything, I don’t think we should complicate the issue.’

‘Do you think my four-winds suggestion a worthy one?’ asked Norman.

Jack now scratched his nose.

Tony looked doubtful.

‘Only I think we should hurry, because if we don’t sweep Sid up quite soon, the breeze coming in through the open window is likely to blow him all away.

‘I think the four winds have it then,’ said Jack.

‘I think the breeze has done its work,’ said Tony, pointing to the spot where Sid’s ashes had so recently lain.

‘I think you’re right,’ said Norman.

And through the open window, and borne upon the breeze that had now blown Sid all away, there came the cry of a tradesman plying for hire.

‘Old chairs to mend,’ he called. ‘Old chairs to mend.’

 

 

THE SPORRAN OF THE DEVIL

 

It seems strange now to think that as children we didn’t understand the meaning of that parable. Still, we were young and foolish and all, which probably accounts for it.

And so bearing the meaning in mind, let us now consider the tale of my great great great granddaddy’s sporran. This piece of prose perfectly parallels the parable.

Oh yes.

The great³ granddaddy died at The Battle of the Little Bighorn. He wasn’t with Custer though. He was holding a sprout-bake and tent meeting in the field next door and went over to complain about the noise.

With regard to the question of his laying-to-rest, it was decided that what remained of his mortal remains should be shipped back home for a Christian burial. The family being ‘careful with money and considering that the great³ granddaddy was probably not in too much of a hurry, the actual shipping home was done in dribs and drabs over a number of months. Great³ granddaddy eventually turned up at Tilbury aboard a whaling vessel mastered by the infamous Captain Leonard ‘Legless’ Lemon (of whom more later).

After further weeks of travel, the coffin finally arrived in Brent-ford, carried on the back of a coalman’s cart, but still, remarkably, in the company of the great³ granddaddy’s tartan portmanteau. This gaily coloured chest contained the old boy’s personal effects: his sprout catalogues, grower’s manuals, bell cloches, dibbers, hoes and the like, along with his Highland Regiment full ceremonial uniform.[2]

The family had moved south many years before to escape the Great Haggis Famine, which explains why they lived in Brentford rather than Scotland, in case anyone was wondering.

The family sold off the horticultural bits and bobs and raised enough money to employ the local undertaker to take care of the necessaries. This fellow upped the coffin lid and very hastily dressed the great³ granddaddy in the full Highland Regimental finery (for as you can imagine, the great³ granddaddy was pretty niffy by now). But the undertaker couldn’t get the coffin lid back on, due to the size of the great³ granddaddy’s sporran, it being one of those magnificent hairy affairs with lots of silver twiddly bits and tassels and Celtic knick-knackery and so forth.

So the undertaker did the most logical thing. He removed the sporran, nailed down the coffin lid and arranged the sporran on the top, where it looked very imposing and pretty damn proud and most splendid.

Or so he thought.

The trouble began as the coffin was being borne through the streets of Brentford. At this time, 1877, Brentford was but a small farming community and superstitious with it.

None of the locals had ever seen a sporran before, and in particular they had never seen one so large and magnificent as that of the great³ granddaddy.

As the coffin passed upon its final journey, the peasants looked on and took to muttering and the crossing of themselves.

‘Surely,’ they whispered, one unto another, ‘that is nothing other than a devil’s familiar that rides upon the Rankin’s coffin.’ And the old ones made protective finger-signs and spat into the wind and wiped down their lowly smocks and hustled their children into their rude huts.

The undertaker, being also a local, but of relatively sound mind, endeavoured to explain that they had nothing to fear, that the thing was but an article of dress called a sporran. This did nothing to ease the situation, for word now passed from rustic mouth to rustic ear that the Rankin was being buried in a dress and the thing on top of the coffin was (and here local accent came into its own) a ‘spawn’.

Spawn of the Devil!

Naturally.

The officiating vicar, the infamous Victor ‘Vaseline’ Vez (of whom more later), was also a local man, but one of unsound mind, and he refused point-blanket to bury the sporran.

He would bury the remains in the coffin, but would not incur the wrath of God or the Church by giving a Christian burial to the ‘foul issue of Satan’s botty-parts’. And he too crossed himself, then folded his arms in a huff.

The great³ grandmummy, who had more soundness of mind than the lot of them put together, agreed to the vicar’s demands, took the sporran home after the service, but returned late that night to lay it on the grave.

And there it lay. No-one dared to venture close to it, not even the Reverend Vez. The years passed, grass grew up around it, ivy entwined about it. A robin built a nest in it.

But that was all a very long time ago.

You see, the graveyard is no longer there. The council pulled it down, or rather up, and built a gymnasium on the spot. The Sir John Doveston[3] Memorial Gymnasium, or Johnny Gym as it was locally known.

And it was to this very gym, that, upon a bright spring morning in the year of 1977, the hopeful, agile, fighting-fit form of eighteen-year-old plater’s mate Billy ‘The Whirlwind’ Bennet came jogging, Adidas sports bag in one hand and borrowed training gloves in the other.

The gym had never proved, a success. Some claimed that the ghost of a sporran haunted its midnight corridors. But others, who were more accurately informed, put the gym’s failure down to the ineptitude and almost permanent drunkenness of its resident caretaker/manager/trainer, Mr Ernest Potts, who had lived there for almost thirty years as a virtual recluse.

Potts was an ex-pugilist of the cauliflower-ear persuasion, given to such lines as ‘I could have been a contender, Charlie,’ and ‘I’ll moider da bum.’ And on the bright spring morning in question, he was draped over the corner stool of the barely used ring, reliving former glories.

‘And it was in with the left. Then in with the right. Then slam slam slam slam.’ Ernie took another slug from the corner bottle and there was more than just a hint of gin-stink evident in that early morning air. ‘Up and across and slam slam slam. And then,’ he gestured to the canvas, ‘eight, nine, ten, OUT!’

Ernie sighed and squared his sagging shoulders. ‘I remember that night as if it were only yesterday. They had to scrape me off the floor. Took two of them to carry me back to the dressing-room. Old Fudger Marteene, my manager, and Dave ‘Boy’ Botticelli. I wonder whatever happened to them.’

The could-have-been-a-contender of yesteryear wiped a ragged shirtcuff across his chin and squinted down in some surprise at the boyish figure who had appeared, as if through magic, at the ringside.

For a terrorsome moment Ernie thought, perhaps, that this was some mental manifestation caused by the gin, or even the phantom sporran itself. But no, it was but a ruddy-faced lad.

‘What do you want here, boy?’ The voice of Ernie echoed round the hall.

‘Is this the Sir John Doveston Memorial Gymnasium? And are you Mr Ernest Potts, its trainer in residence, sir?’ asked a small clear voice.

‘Mr Ernest Potts?’ Ernie raked at the stubble on his chin. ‘Sir?’ He made an attempt to square his shoulders once more, but twice in a single day was pushing it a bit and he collapsed in a fit of coughing.

‘You were a fighter, sir, weren’t you?’ asked Billy ‘The Whirlwind’ Bennet. ‘My father said he saw you spar at The Thomas Becket.’

Ernie leaned heavily upon the top rope and stared hard at the lad. ‘That was a long time ago,’ he managed, between what had now become wheezings. ‘What did your daddy say of me?’

‘He said you were a stiff, sir,’ answered Billy.

‘Then your daddy knows his stuff,’ said Ernie, much to the surprise of young Bill, who had calculated that this remark would get the old bloke’s rag up. ‘What do you do, sonny?’

‘I box a bit,’ said Billy. ‘I was hoping I might join your gym.

‘Box a bit?’ Ernie chuckled, then coughed, then chuckled again. ‘I used to box a bit. But I used to get knocked down, a lot!’ He beckoned to the young intruder. ‘Come up here and let’s have a look at you.’

Billy jogged up the steps, set down his bag and gloves and, with a jaunty skip, vaulted clean over the top rope.

We’ve a live one here, thought Ernie. ‘Go on then,’ he said. ‘Do your stuff.’

Billy ‘The Whirlwind’ Bennet stripped down to his singlet and shorts, put on his training gloves and began to shadow-box about the ring. Ernie slouched upon the corner stool and viewed this with a professional, if somewhat bloodshot, eye.

Billy thundered around the mat, making with the dazzling footwork. Twisting and dipping and weaving, he brought into play astonishing combinations of punches. ‘Fish!’ he went as he hammered his imaginary opponent from eye to solar plexus. ‘Fish! Fish! Fish!’

‘Why do you keep going, fish?’ enquired Ernie, as he lit up a Woodbine.

‘I hate fish,’ snarled Billy. ‘Hate ‘em.’

Ernie nodded and sucked upon his fag. ‘I used to know a fighter called Sam ‘Sprout-hater’ Slingsby. He used to imagine his opponent was a giant sprout.’

‘Was he any good?’ asked Billy, as he made sushi out of his shadow-spar.

‘A complete stiff,’ came the not-unexpected reply. ‘Never had the sense to think that, unlike a sprout, a man might kick the shit out of him.’

‘That’s why I chose fish,’ said Billy, bobbing and feinting and blasting away. ‘Fish are slippery and fast and sly. Like boxers, I think.’

Ernie nodded. This boy is not the fool I have yet to give him the credit for being, he thought. ‘Have you had any experience?’ he asked, as he rang the bell and examined the lad who stood before him, as fit and full of breath as if he had yet to throw a punch.

‘None,’ said Billy. ‘That’s why I came here. My father said that although he thought you were a stiff, he considered you one of the dirtiest fighters he’d ever seen and could think of no-one better to give me the benefit of your years of experience.’

Ernie was most impressed by this. ‘You have some potential,’ sniffed the old blighter, who had, to his own mind, just witnessed possibly the most stunning display of pugilistic skill ever seen in his entire life and who, for all his drunkenness and dead-lossery, knew genius when he saw it.

And who knew that he must own this lad or die.

‘I’ll train you, if you want,’ he said in an off-hand tone. Billy ‘The Whirlwind’ Bennet grinned a toothy grin. ‘I would be honoured, sir,’ he lied.

There was to be deception and chicanery on both sides of this partnership. And although Ernie’s motives were blatant and obvious, exactly what Billy was up to was anyone’s guess.

 

The Whirlwind’s training began the next day. There were five-mile runs, which Ernie supervised from the gym, by means of a two-way radio; press-ups and chin-ups and plenty of work-outs on the speedball and heavy bag.

‘We must find you a partner to spar with,’ said Ernie. ‘One who can give you a real taste of ring action.’

‘Fish! Fish!’ went Billy, as he beat the speedball to shreds.

 

Lightweight Jimmy Netley arrived at the gym that very evening in response to Ernie’s telephone call. For a man of twenty-three years, Jimmy wasn’t wearing well. His eyes bespoke him a late-nighter and his sallow complexion gave added eloquence to this bespeaking. Jimmy’s hands toyed nervously with his copy of The Boxing News and these hands were never very far from the glass handle of a pint pot.

He had been a promising youngster, but had become too susceptible to the pleasures of the pump room. Jimmy dug about in Ernie’s ring-corner ashtray in search of a serviceable dog-end, as the manager of Billy The Whirlwind (the inverted commas had now been dropped) Bennet swaggered in, wearing a very dapper lime-green suit.

‘Good evening to you, Jimmy me bucko,’ called Ernie, affecting an Irish brogue to go with his attire.

‘Good evening to you,’ called Jimmy, who favoured an Italian sling-back himself, but only when home alone with the blinds drawn. ‘Would you have a spare fag about your person?’

‘No ciggies for you, you’re in training.’ ‘I’m bloody well not.’

‘You bloody well are.’

And bloody well he was.

 

One week turned into another and this one into a further one still. Jimmy and The Whirlwind sparred and jogged and did the inevitable work-outs on the speedball and heavy bag.

Ernie watched the young men train. He watched The Whirlwind pour forward with a gathering storm of punches, rain down upon Jimmy with a gale force of blows. Everything about this boy was meteorological. Except for the fish.

He watched as Jimmy ‘I’d-rather-be-home-with-my-footwear-collection’ Netley stumbled about the ring, catching every punch and making heavy weather of it all.

‘This will give our boy the confidence he needs,’ Ernie whispered to the storm-damaged Jimmy, whom he had cut in for 1 per cent of the action.

‘Gawd bless you, boss,’ mumbled Jimmy from the canvas.

 

Friday night was fight night. Billy would have his first professional bout. Even for a loser like Ernie Potts certain things could be achieved through discreet phone calls to the right people and veiled threats regarding doubtful decisions, mysterious fixtures and vanishing purses… and the cutting in of powerful gangland figures for 33 per cent of the action.

Billy The Whirlwind Bennet had even gone to the trouble of fly-posting the entire borough with broadsheets, printed at his own expense, announcing the event. He would be boxing AT WEMBLEY! three fights up from the bottom of the card on a bill topped by the British Heavyweight Championship.

Some showcase.

For some fighter.

This had to be seen.

Now, the atmosphere at fight night is really like no other. Electric it is and it crackles. The crowd is composed of the very rich and the very poor and all in between, drawn together as one through their love and appreciation for the noble art.

 

There are captains of industry,

Men of the cloth,

Sailors at home from the sea.

There are three jolly butchers

And two bally bakers

And Eric and Derek and me.

 

There’s a gutter of fish

And a breeder of snails

And a chap who takes whippets for walks.

There’s a bloke from the zoo

And he walks whippets too,

But he’s also a monkey that talks.

 

There are doctors and dentists

And Seventh Adventists

And pop stars and patrons of arts.

There’s that guy off the telly

Who isn’t George Melly,

The one who wrote Naming of Parts[4].

 

There are chaps with cigars

Who have bloody great cars

And bracelets as gold as can be.

They’ve got wives who wear diamonds

And coats made of mink

And they don’t give a toss for PC.

 

There’s a coach-load from Lewes

Of girls with tattoos

Who’ve all got pierced…

 

Well, you get the picture. They come from all walks of life, but they all share that love and appreciation for the noble art, for a classic sport that dates back thousands of years; to watch highly trained athletes, their bodies honed to physical perfection, exhibit their skills. The bravery, the competition, the artistry. The poetry.

The blood.

Electric it is and it crackles.

Minutes before the first fight, the house lights go down and the ring illuminates. The crowd dip and hover, form tight knots about the doorways and bars, wave programmes and cheer wildly. Many pounds change hands and many loyalties also.

Then a ring of the bell. The man in the tuxedo. The announcements of benefit nights and early retirements (as with disgraced politicians, broken boxers leave the arena to spend more time with their families).

There are bows from visiting ex-champs and then the game is afoot.

Billy The Whirlwind Bennet sat in his changing-room, his hands, neatly bandaged, resting in his black satin lap and his legs dangling down from the bench. Ernie, almost sober, was administering the last—minute advice.

‘Now this won’t be the doddle I was hoping it would be,’ said he. ‘The fellow I had lined up for you got walloped last night in a disco, they’ve substituted a rather hard case. But you’ll take him. If you just box clever, you’ll take him.’

‘I certainly will,’ agreed Bill. ‘Fish fish fish.’

There was a rapity-rap-rap at the door and a voice called, ‘Bennet.’

It was time to go.

The walk from the changing-room to the ring has been compared to that from the condemned cell to the electric chair. And there are some similarities, from that scrubbed and clinical room, along that darkened corridor and then out into the bright bright lights.

‘Roar!’ and ‘Cheer!’ went the crowd.

‘Fish fish fish,’ went Billy, as he jogged towards the ring, punching holes in the air.

As he neared the squared circle he spied out his opponent being uncaged and led forward on a chain.

‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ mumbled Ernie. ‘Just box clever,’ he told young Bill.

Billy The Whirlwind Bennet cart-wheeled over the top rope and did the old soft-shoe shuffle in the sand tray.

‘Will you be wearing any gloves?’ asked the referee, who had been following the story closely and had noted the omission.

The two fearless facilitators of fisticuffs faced each other. (Forcefully.)

Kevin ‘Mad Dog’ Smith, tattooed terror from Tottenham, glared down at Billy Bennet. ‘You’re dead,’ was all he had to say.

Billy just winked and spoke a single word.

And that single word was ‘fish’.

‘Seconds out. Round one.’ The bell went ding and Billy went to work.

He rushed across the ring like a human tornado. He battered Smith with a blizzard of body-blows. He tormented him with a tempest of trouncings.

‘Fish,’ went Billy. ‘Fish fish fish.’

Stormy weather though it was, Smith fought bravely back, but he couldn’t lay a glove on Billy.

The boy was a blur. A thunder storm. A buster.

A tornado. A typhoon. A cyclone. A simoon.

The fight lasted just the two rounds. The broken bloodstained ruin that had once been Kevin Smith was stretchered away to hospital and the fight scribes at the ringside abandoned the rest of their evening of boxing to rush to their offices and file reports on this sensational discovery.

The crowd rose as the one it was and the applause reached ninety-eight on the clapometer.

Billy The Whirlwind Bennet had found his way into the people’s hearts. He was borne, shoulder-high, to the changing-room.

He would never box again.

 

The plot was an old one and owed much to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle who had used it twice in his Sherlock Holmes stories. The object of the exercise had not been to create a boxing legend. It had been to keep Ernie Potts away from his gym for one full evening, Potts, as has been stated, being a virtual recluse.

The full evening in question being this very one. 16 August 1977. Because this very one was the hundredth anniversary of the burial of my great³ granddaddy.

For while Billy fought bravely and scored great points in the annals of boxing, his brother Nigel packed thirty pounds of dynamite into the basement of the Sir John Doveston Memorial Gymnasium and blew the whole caboodle to oblivion.

This act of vandalism would normally have raised a few eyebrows and caused a bit of a to-do. But not tonight. Tonight the locality was deserted. Tonight all the folk for a half-mile radius of the gym were packing Wembley, hoping to see a local boy make good.

It was a brilliantly conceived plan.

 

Nigel Bennet now stood in the tumbled ruins of the gum, an ancient map in his hands.

‘Twenty paces north and four west,’ he said, pacing appropriately and studying his compass. And then ‘aha,’ and he kicked amongst the fallen bricks. ‘This must be the spot.’

Nigel Bennet had come in search of my great³ granddaddy’s sporran which local legend (for local legend is a funny old fellow and tales grow with the telling) now foretold, would, upon the one hundredth anniversary of its laying-to-rest, pass on magical powers to whoever should unearth it.

Exactly what these powers might be, no-one seemed absolutely sure, but that they would be pretty awesome was the general opinion.

Oh what fools we mortals be. And such like.

Nigel stumbled around in the moonlit ruination. ‘Come on,’ he shouted. ‘I’m here. I’ve released you from your tomb. Pass on your powers to me.’

It wasn’t all that likely, was it?

Nigel kicked about. ‘Come on,’ he growled, ‘come on. I paid good money for that dynamite. I can’t hang around here all night.’

A sudden rustling at his feet caused him to jump backwards and he fell heavily, tearing the arse out of his trousers.

A rat scuttled by.

‘Bugger,’ swore Nigel. ‘Oh bugger me to Hell.’

Another rustling, this time beneath his bum, caused him to leap once more to his feet.

Something stirred.

Nigel stared down. Something seemed to be burrowing up through the dirt.

‘A bloody mole.’ Nigel raised a boot to stamp the beastie down. But it wasn’t a mole. Nigel’s foot hovered in the air. Something large heaved itself up from the earth, something large and hairy.

‘A beaver?’

Not a beaver! This was large and it was hairy. But it was also bright and silvery about the bright and silvery parts. And these bright and silvery parts were all engraved in a Celtic manner.

The sporran rose slowly into view.

‘Great Caesar’s ghost,’ whispered Nigel, who favoured an archaic comic book ejaculation during periods when he wasn’t sweating. ‘It isn’t, is it?’

But it was.

Now fully emerged from its hundred-year hibernation, the mighty sporran lay a-gleaming (about the silvery bits) by the light of the full moon. And as Nigel leaned forward, hands upon his knees, it creaked open (at the opening bit) to reveal what looked for all this wild and whacky world of ours to be nothing more nor less than emeralds of vast dimension.

‘Emeralds,’ Nigel’s lips went all a quiver. ‘Emeralds the size of tennis balls.’

Nigel dug in deep, plucked out an emerald and held it to a greedy eye. ‘This ain’t an emerald, it’s a bleeding sprou—’

But he never had time to finish the word. There was a ghastly gasp, a sickly snap and the sporran of the Devil swallowed Nigel in a single gulp.

 

The crowd at Wembley and the folk later packing the pubs of Brentford knew nothing of this. Billy, unaware of his brother’s hideous fate, but sure that a share of something awesome would soon be heading his way, drank champagne, posed for photographs with local publicans and made certain that Ernie was in no fit state to get back to the gym before morning.

And when morning finally came and Ernie staggered back to find his gym gone and Billy became aware that his brother had gone with it, rumour spread across the borough like a social disease.

‘Smith’s manager did it,’ claimed someone.

‘More like the council,’ claimed someone else.

And someone else again spoke of a natural disaster. ‘Look at that hole,’ this someone said. ‘Surely a meteor hit this place.’

Nigel Bennet was never seen again. Billy, who now considered that his brother had absconded, taking with him whatever awesome powers the magic sporran had seen fit to dish him out, joined Jimmy at the bar and took to drink.

Whether he would ever have made a champion, who can say, but Ernie still dines out on tales of his greatness.

And there is talk of the council building another gym.

Not on the site of the old graveyard though.