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

across his shoulders and a harmonica harness about his neck and was definitely ready for lift off.
`Johnny G Band?' asked Neville, suspiciously.
`Five piece,' said John. `Vocals, guitar, drums, harmonica and kazoo.' He called a hasty,
`One-two,' into the mic and a scream of feedback tore about the bar, rattling the optics and putting the
wind up young Chips.
Neville gave his head another shake. `Christmas,' said he. `Who can odds it?'

In four feet of snow and a little way up the road, Tiny Tim pressed his small blue nose against the
window of Norman's corner shop and took to blessing the Woodbine advertisements.
Each and every one.

Within The Swan, Christmas Eve was now very much on the go. The cash register rang musically, if
anything somewhat more musically than the Johnny G Band, and the patrons were already in full song.
 There appeared to be some debate regarding exactly which songs they were fully singing and it was
generally left to those of loudest voice and soundest memory to lead the way.
Old Pete had turned his back upon the young strummer and now applied himself to The Swan's
aged piano. Those who favoured Yuletide selec-tions from the Somme joined him in rowdy chorus.
Johnny strummed on regardless, oblivious to the fact that the jack plug had fallen out of his guitar and that
no-one was really listening anyway.
A merry time was being had by all.
Omally was doing the rounds of the local womenfolk, smiling handsomely and pointing to the
mistletoe sewn into the brim of his flat cap. He gave Roger's hags a bit of a wide berth though.
Young Roger had already phoned for a minicab, donned a disguise and repaired to The Swan's
bog. Here he was apparently conversing with God down the great white china speaking tube. Pooley
stood beneath the tree, miming The Wreck of The Hesperus.*
Neville moved up and down the bar, dealing with all-comers, as the roaring voices of the various
singing factions ebbed and welled according to who had been called to the bar or caught short. The
Johnny G brigade, composed mostly of those to whom drunkenness brought charity, came greatly into its
own during periods when Old Pete, whose bladder was not what it used to be, took himself off to the
bog. But it fell into disarray upon his reinvigorated returns. The Guinness clock ate up the hours and crept
towards ten, the traditional time for Neville's present openings.

Outside, in answer to a thousand schoolboy prayers (Christmas being, as all drunkards will
know-ledgeably inform you, a time for children), local transvestite, Will Shepherd, washed his frocks by
night.
***


* Don't ask!


A minicab driver fought his way in from the cold, togged out in heavy furs and snow shoes of the
type once favoured by Nanook of the North (he of the `yellow snow' fame). He enquired after a certain
Mr de Courcey de Courcey, but none felt inclined to arouse the lad who now lay snoring peacefully
beneath the Christmas tree.
The short-sighted driver, who had had his fill of Christmas anyway, ordered himself a triple Scotch
and soon fell into conversation with two hags, who appeared to his limited vision as nothing less than a
deuce of Cindy Crawfords.
Old Pete, who had exhausted his repertoire, was now downing a yard of rum at the expense of a
well-heeled punter. Omally was braving the elements in the rear yard with The Shrunken Head's