6

 

A NIGHT TO REMEMBER

 

IT WAS SPROUTS FOR BREAKFAST. BUT THEN IT WAS ALWAYS SPROUTS for breakfast. I arranged those on my plate into a V formation to balance the eight o’clock news on the wireless set. Wars and rumours of wars, three sprouts to the left and two to the right. A mail train had been held up and many pounds stolen, I angled my fork towards the north to compensate for that. Sonic Energy Authority were still at number one. I might have to wear a blue shirt this morning.

Although I had played the tape many times I still did not fully understand its implications. I would have to find out more about this chaos theory business, find out how it really worked, if it really worked. It all seemed very unlikely, something tiny happening somewhere, causing something huge to happen somewhere else. That defied Newtonian Laws, didn’t it? And the idea that I was doing the reverse, how could any of that really be? I had to know more. I knew just who I should ask about it.

And it wasn’t my brother.

It was my Uncle Brian.

I would go round and see him after breakfast, play him the tape, ask his advice, decide what to do next.

Of course I did have some ideas of my own about that, based in part on a certain event I had recently witnessed in a local drinking house called The Flying Swan.

Although still only a lad of fifteen, I looked far older than I actually was, a gift that I still possess today, and I had been a regular drinker at The Swan for at least five years.

It was there that I met Jim Pooley and John Omally, who would later find fame in several world-wide best-selling novels and numerous Hollywood musicals.

I usually went to The Flying Swan on Thursday night, which was talent night.

The certain event occurred on one of these. You really should have been there.

It began in this fashion.

‘Anyone else? Come up and give us a song?’ Thursday night at The Flying Swan.

‘Come on now, don’t be shy.’

Talent night. Live music. Come and try.

 

Hector would get up and do ‘Green Green Grass of Home’ and ‘I Did It My Way’.

John Omally would do a recitation, rumoured to be the same one every week, but notable for its infinitely variable and often controversial last line.

Pooley would sing ‘Orange Claw Hammer’ when pushed, with particular emphasis on the cherry phosphate line.

And then there was Small Dave.

Small Dave was the local postman and he was also a dwarf. And Small Dave hated Thursday nights.

He never missed one though, because, as he said, it was his right as a regular to use the facilities of the saloon bar on Thursday nights if he wanted to. Young aspiring talents were sometimes brought sobbing to their knees, vowing to abandon the bright lights for ever after falling prey to his manic stare and blistering comments.

Small Dave considered himself something of an authority on show business, having once unsuccessfully auditioned for The Time Bandits, and was always ready to voice his opinion, welcome or not.

For the most part, not.

Certainly, what he lacked in inches he made up for in belligerence and out-spokenness He was indeed what P. P. Penrose, author of the ever popular Lazlo Woodbine novels, would have referred to as ‘a vindictive grudge-bearing wee bastard’.

I rather liked him though.

 

One night it became known to us that Small Dave had fallen under the spell of the aforementioned bright lights. How or why, no-one could say for sure. It was a bizarre transformation and by no means a welcome one.

‘Why are you wearing a tricom, Small Dave?’ someone asked.

‘Silver. Long John.’ He raised one leg and rolled his eyes about.

‘And the dancing pumps?’

‘A bit of the old Fred and Gingers.’ Small Dave did a kind of a skip.

‘The white gloves? No, don’t tell me.’

‘Jolson.’ Down on one knee, arms spread wide.

‘And the pillow stuffed up the back of your shirt?’

‘Laughton. The now legendary Charles in the role he made his own. Small Dave began to lurch about the bar, muttering such phrases as, ‘the bells, the bells,’ and ‘father, I’m ugly,’ and ‘Sanctuary! Sanctuary!’ This accompanied by a beating upon the door of the Gents. A frightened patron within made his escape through the window.

‘A bit of an all-rounder then?’ said Omally, affecting what is known as ‘The Po Face’.

Small Dave grinned and nodded.

Glances were, passed about the bar, thoughts exchanged. Small Dave was a bad man to cross.

‘You just wait until Thursday,’ he said.

But none of us was keen.

‘This is quite a change that’s come over you,’ said Jim Pooley. ‘I mean, wishing to participate, rather than…’Jim chose his words carefully, ‘er, offer constructive criticism. For which, I may say, you are greatly admired.’

‘Greatly,’ chorused the rest of us.

‘Greatly,’ said Jim. ‘Greatly indeed.’

Talking to Small Dave could be a perilous affair as strangers to The Flying Swan sometimes discovered.

A sample conversation might go as follows.

Stranger to Small Dave:	Nice weather.
Small Dave:	For what
Stranger:	For the time of year, I suppose.
Small Dave:	And what’s wrong with the weather the rest of the year, do you suppose
Stranger (becoming apprehensive):	Nothing. I suppose.
Small Dave:	You do a lot of supposing, don’t you, mate?
Stranger (the now traditional):	But I—
Small Dave:	I think you’d better push off don’t you, mate?
Stranger (picking up hat):	I suppose so. (Makes for door)
Small Dave:	Bloody suppose! (Drinks stranger’s beer)

 

‘Care for another?’ asks Neville, the part-time barman.

‘Suppose so,’ says Small Dave.

 

Small Dave smiled the sort of smile that helped make Chris Eubank so very popular. ‘I feel I have it in me to make my name famous,’ he plagiarized loosely.

Pooley bought Small Dave a drink and we all stood about trying to look enthusiastic, as the wee postman ran through his repertoire.

‘You have to imagine it with the music,’ he said.

‘Music?’ we said.

‘String section,’ he said.

Small Dave took to dancing, he waved a toy umbrella about and flicked beer over himself. ‘Gene Kelly,’ he said, breathlessly. ‘Singing in the Rain.’

We all nodded gravely. Next Thursday evening had suddenly lost its appeal.

Pooley put a gentle hand upon the great entertainer’s small shoulder. ‘Dave,’ he said, ‘might I have a minute of your time?’

‘What is it, Pooley?’

Eyes were averted all about the bar. ‘Rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb,’ went the conversation.

‘If you wouldn’t mind stepping outside, I’d like to speak to you in private.’

Small Dave followed Pooley outside.

We drew deep breaths and listened. We heard muttered words and then Small Dave’s voice.

‘NOT QUITE READY?’ it went.

Then there was a hideous crunching whack of a sound and shortly after Pooley limped into the saloon bar holding his right knee.

Neville drew him a large free Scotch. ‘That was a very brave thing to do,’ he told the damaged hero. ‘But has it done the trick?’

Pooley shrugged and accepted his golden prize.

Omally watched the following swallowing, and wondered whether Jim had, perchance, planned the whole thing in the noble cause of a free drink.

He hadn’t.

Having none of the sorceric powers of Nostradamus, the patrons of The Swan watched Thursday night approach, as a dark and mysterious being wearing a cloak of danger.

‘Although I doubt that the word “sorceric” actually exists,’ said Jim Pooley, ‘the point is well made and the night in question will soon be upon us.’ He crossed himself and stroked his amulet.

‘Don’t do that in here,’ said Neville, hoping for a cheap laugh.

Wednesday followed Tuesday, then Thursday came along.

It was raining. In fact it was pouring. There was thunder, there was lightning. It was not a fit night out for man nor beast. If ever an excuse were needed for spending the night in, catching up on the telly, then here was one falling in bucket loads. But Small Dave was a bad man to cross. So to not attend an event which promised, according to rumours in circulation, to be nothing short of a Busby Berkeley Musical Extravaganza, might incur a certain social stigma and ensure that the absentee never again saw the Queen’s mail coming through his or her letter box.

‘I don’t know what we’re all getting ourselves in such a state about,’ said Omally. ‘After all, this is just a local talent competition with a bottle of Scotch for a prize.’ Then shaking his head at what he had said, he vanished away to the Gents muttering a strangely familiar recitation.

Neville was looking horribly pale. ‘Suppose he doesn’t win,’ he murmured to Pooley.

‘Who? Omally? He never wins.

‘Small Dave,’ said Neville and those with a mind to crossed themselves. And Jim gave a squeeze to his amulet.

 

At seven-thirty, ‘Laughing’ Jack Vermont, the self-styled Eric Morely of the small pub talent competition circuit, stuck his toothy grin through the saloon bar door and doffed his sou’wester and cycling cape. Within no time at all, or an interminable duration if you’re nervous, he had set up his crumbling PA system, seated himself at The Swan’s elderly piano, blown into his microphone, said ‘one-two, one-two’, and distributed a sheath of entry forms.

‘Just fill them in and pop them into the magic box,’ he called, indicating the tin-foil-covered biscuit tin on the piano lid.

Pooley watched the hopefuls as they took to their form-filling. There were not quite so many as usual. And those that there were, were strangers.

‘I’ve a very very bad feeling about this,’ Jim told Omally. ‘How do you spell, recitation,’ the other replied. If I were you I wouldn’t even try,’ Jim drew John’s attention to his still bruised kneecap.

Omally bit his lip. ‘Yes, you’re right. No point in handing in a badly spelt form.’ He crumpled up the paper and tossed it aside.

The minute hand on the Guinness clock moved towards eight-thirty. Laughing Jack sprung up from the piano, blew once more into the mic’ and said, ‘Well, well, well, it’s Howdy Doody Time. And tonight it gives me enormous pleasure …’ He paused and peered about the crowded bar wearing what he considered to be a wickedly mischievous grin. ‘But then it always does.’

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?’