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

"This is a pub."

Neville tossed back his golden breakfast and shrugged away the shudder that
the Campbell's daily passing always brought him. Today was a new day,
another day; hopefully, it would be much as the old day that it had replaced
had been, a pleasant and samey prelude to the one that lay beyond.
And so on and so forth, so to speak.
Although it did have to be said that today was going to be slightly different
for Neville the part-time barman.
Hence the shoes.
Hence the shoes? one might ask. What meanith this?
What meanith this is this: the shoes were an anomaly. Bright and shiny,
yes, as was the norm for these shoes, but not at this time of the day. At this
time of the day, Neville was normally a carpet-slipper man. Monogrammed
were Neville's carpet slippers, his own initials woven in cloth-of-gold upon a
brown felt surround, with soft India rubber soles. The pair a present from the
mother who loved him. But he was not wearing these today. Today Neville
wore the classic Oxfords, those brogues that, in their unassuming, understated
way, had helped to forge the British Empire. The creation of Lord Oxford, who
is now remembered solely for his shoes.2
Not that Neville was wearing the actual pair that had helped to forge the
British Empire. But his were of a similar design.
And they were upon his feet at this time of the morning.
So, why?
Because Neville had an appointment this morning. One that he did not
wish to keep, but one he knew that he must keep. It was an official
appointment. Not one of brewery business, but of other business. It was a
matter of duty that Neville keep this appointment. And Neville was a man of
duty.
The classic brogues pinched Neville's toes; the certain spring that was
normally to be found in his step had today deserted him. Neville limped from
the saloon bar of The Flying Swan and returned to his humble yet adequate
accommodation above.
Mahatma Campbell limped on. And on he limped until he reached the football
ground, Griffin Park. And here he ceased to limp, for here he stopped and,
bending low, removed his seven-league boot and shook from it a stone. And
then he replaced the boot upon his best-foot-forward.
And then he reached into his ample sporran and withdrew a ring of keys.
Selecting one of these, he presented it to the padlock that secured the gates of
the football ground, unlocked same and swung open these gates.
And then, a-singing and a-whistling the portions of the song that he could
not remember, Mahatma Campbell entered Brentford Football Ground.

And the sun rose higher in the heavens. And the birdies sang and the folk of
Brentford slowly stirred from their beds and, as is very often the way, things
began to happen.


2
James Arbuthnot Pooley, Jim to his friends and all else besides, awoke from