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Nostradamus Ate My Hamster
Robert Rankin
 A WORD TO THE WISE


This book contains certain passages that some readers might find deeply disturbing. Due to the
questionable sanity of the author and the convoluted nature of the plot, it is advised that it be read at a
single sitting and then hidden away on a high shelf.
 CHAPTER 1


OH LITTLE TOWN OF BRENTFORD



All along the Baling Road the snow fell and within The Flying Swan a broad fire roared a way in the
hearth.
Neville the part-time barman whistled a pre-Celtic ditty as he draped the last tired length of tinsel
about the lopsided Christmas tree. Climb-ing down from his chair, he rooted about in the battered biscuit
tin which stood upon the bar counter. Herein lay the musty collection of once-decorations and the
wingless fairy that had served The Swan well enough for some fifteen Christmas-times past. Neville
considered that the jaded pixie still had plenty of life left in it, should The Swan's Yuletide revellers be
persuaded to keep their malicious mitts off her.
Drawing the elfin relic into the light, Neville gently stroked the velvet dust away. She was a sad and
sorry specimen, but tradition dictated that for the next two weeks she should perch upon her treetop
eyrie and watch the folk of Brentford making the holy shows of themselves. Being a practising pagan,
Neville always left dressing the tree until the very last night before Christmas.
That its magic should work to maximum effect. Clambering once more onto his chair, the bar-man
rammed the thing onto the treetop, thinking to discern an expression of startled surprise, and evident
pleasure, flicker momentarily across the wee dolly's countenance. Climbing carefully down, Neville
stepped back to peruse his handiwork through his good eye.
`Blessed be,' said he, repairing to the whisky optic for a large measure of Christmas cheer.
The Guinness clock above the bar struck a silent five-thirty of the p.m. persuasion and an urgent
rattling at the saloon bar door informed the barman that at least two of the aforementioned revellers,
evicted a scant two hours before, had now returned to continue their merry-making. Neville drained his
glass and smacked his lips and sauntered to the door.
Click-clack went the big brass bolts, but silently the hinges.
Upon the doorstep stood two snowmen.
`Looks like filling up out,' said one.
`God save all here,' said the other.
`Evening, Jim, John,' said Neville, stepping aside to allow The Swan's most famous drinking
part-nership entry. Jim Pooley and John Omally (both bachelors of the parish) shook the snow drifts
from their shoulders, rubbed their palms together and made towards the bar.
Neville shambled after, eased his way behind the counter, swung down the hinged flap, straightened
his dicky-bow and assumed the professional position. *
With stooped-shoulders back and head held high, he enquired, `Your pleasure, gentlemen?'
`Two pints of Large please, Neville,' said Pooley, slapping down the exact change. Neville drew off
two pints of the finest.
Jim raised his glass to his lips. `Yo ho ho,' said he, taking sup.
John took sup also and account of the tree. `Our good woman the fairy has made her yearly phoenix