"Robert Rankin - Knees Up Mother Earth" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robert Rankin)

is a mathematical formula behind everything. And whoever discovers this BIG
FIGURE would not only know everything, he'd be able to do everything also
and I'll prove it to you one day."
"How?" Jim asked.
"From small beginnings come great things," said Norman, who favoured a
proverb. "But the lion never roars until he's eaten."
"I'll drink to that," said Jim.
Norman got a round in. "I will succeed," he told the assembled company of
doubters and he raised his glass in toast. "As surely as one and one make two
for most of the time, I will."
And indeed Norman would н well, he almost would н and with the most
alarming consequences.

But Norman's quest would not be an easy one. Mathematics had moved
beyond the blackboard and the abacus. These were the days of the computer.
And Norman did not possess a computer. He had considered purchasing one,
but even the cheap ones were, in his opinion, expensive ... which was why he
had decided to construct his own.
Norman was no stranger to the do-it-yourself kit. He had purchased more
than a few in the past, before it had dawned upon him that it was hardly "do-
it-yourself" if all the pieces had been pre-constructed by someone else. Real
do-it-yourselfmg was really doing-it-yourself, from the ground up.
You needed certain components, of course; you couldn't be expected to
mill every piece of metal and hand-carve every screw ... which was why God
had granted man the ability to create the Meccano set. And with the Meccano
set Norman had proved, time and time again, that all things н well, nearly all
things н were possible.
And if you happened to pick up a few other little bits and bobs from here
and there along the way, well, that wasn't really cheating.

So, upon this bright and early morning, Norman continued with his incorrect
numberings of the daily papers and, once done, he sighed a certain sigh and
took to leafing through the uppermost Brentford Mercury on the pile.
A pre-leaf perusal of the front page found Norman viewing the day's
banner headline: COUNCIL TO VOTE ON CLUB'S FUTURE. Norman knew
the tale behind this well enough н the sad and sorry saga of Brentford's
football club. From its golden years in the 1920s, when Brentford had twice
won the FA Cup, and Jack Lane, the now-octogenarian landlord of The Four
Horsemen, had captained the glory boys and hammered home the winning
goals on both occasions. Through the many years of hurt, with the team
slipping down and down the divisions, until this very day.
With the team having so far failed to win a single match this season, the
club in debt to the tune of millions and property developers circling like horrid
sharks seeking to snap up the ground, tear down the stands, rip up the sacred
turf and build executive homes upon the site.
Norman shuddered. It was a tragedy. A piece of the borough's precious
history would be wiped from the map. It made Norman sick at heart.
"It is an outrage," cried Norman, with fire in his voice. "An outrage and an
abomination."
"What was that?" Another sonic shockwave struck the shopkeeper's head,