"Robert Rankin - Nostradamus Ate My Hamster" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robert Rankin)

rise from the biscuit tin, I see.'
`Christmas,' said Neville in a voice without tone. `Who can odds it, eh?'
John and Jim drew upon their pints, the snow crystallizing on their shoulders to steam away by the
heat of the blazing fire. `You have The Act booked, Neville?' Omally asked.
Neville gave his slender nose a tap. `The Johnny G Band. Northfield lads. Oldies but goodies and
things of that nature.'
Omally made a face. `I've heard of these fellows. Buffoons to a man.'
`The brewery,' said Neville. And that was that.
 Outside the snow continued to fall and a stagecoach-load of travellers enquired the route to Dingly
Dell.

The saloon bar door swung open to admit a flurry

Not to be confused with the other professional position .
*


of white, an ancient gentleman and a snow-covered dog. `Good-evening, Neville,' said Old Pete,
hobbling to the bar. `A dark rum, if you please, and something warming for young Chips here.'
The barman thrust a glass beneath the optic and with his free hand decanted a ladle of mulled wine
into the dog's personal bowl. Old Pete pushed the exact change across the polished bar top and
accepted the drinks.
`Deepening out?' asked Neville.
The ancient gave a surly grunt. `Christmas,' he said. `Who can odds it? Norman not here yet?'
The part-time barman shook his brylcremed bonce and took up a glass to polish. `He'll be along.'
Christmas Eve at The Flying Swan always had about it an almost religious significance. It fell
somewhere near to the ritual of the high mass. There was the arrival, the blessing, the hymns, the taking
up of the offering, the communion of souls and the big goodbye. You had to have your wits about you to
pick up on all the subtle nuances though.
Pooley, having made his arrival, now made the first blessing. `To Christmas,' he suggested, rais-ing
his glass. `Another Christmas, nothing more, nothing less.'
Omally clinked his glass against his fellow's and drained it with feeling. `Nothing more, nothing less,'
he agreed. `Two more of similar please, Neville.'
Old Pete hefted a colourfully wrapped parcel onto the countertop as the barman did the busi-ness.
`It's a goody this year,' he confided to the drinkers.
Regarding the offering part of the high mass, it had become something of a tradition amongst The
Swan's patrons to reward, upon this special night, the year-long endeavours of their barman. That
Neville should actually have survived intact another year behind the counter of The Flying Swan was a
meritorious something in itself. And with the passing of time the unhealthy spirit of competition had
entered this tradition and the drinking populace now vied with one another to produce the most original,
exotic or extraordi-nary gift.
Using Christmas as a theme (it being available and everything), the plucky Brentonians chose to
bombard their pagan barkeep with trinkets of a Christian nature. The irony of this was never lost upon
Neville, although it had others bewildered.
Last year he had received, amongst other things, a full-length bath towel, printed with the image of
The Turin Shroud, which did little to enhance the post-tub rub down; several more nails from the true
cross, that didn't match any of the others he already had in his drawer; an aftershave bottle containing
The Virgin's tears and a genuine piece of Mother Kelly's Doorstep (this from a dyslexic).
Every gift, however, was inevitably overshadowed by that borne in by Norman Hartnell* of the
corner shop. Norman's present was usually the high point of the evening.