"Robert Rankin - Brentford 04 - The Sprouts Of Wrath" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rankin Robert)

'Well . . . well . . .' The Major reclenched his fists. 'Dammit, woman!'
'Yes?' Ms Naylor leant forward as if attentive to the

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Major's every word. As she did so, her breasts, constrained within her silken blouse, gently caressed the table top.
The calculated eroticism of the act was not lost upon Philip Cameron, who found his loins responding appro-
priately. The fingernails of Mavis Peake dug in deeply.
'I'm speechless.' Major McFadeyen sank away into his seat, fanning himself with last week's minutes.
'It is all perfectly straightforward.' Ms Naylor rose upon the four-inch heels she had considered suitable for the
occasion, and tossed her auburn hair back in delicious waves across her perfect shoulders. 'As you are all no
doubt aware, the disastrous fire at Birmingham this week has, on the face of it, ruled out Great Britain's chances
of hosting the Olympic games.' Heads nodded, Ms Naylor continued. 'It is my proposal that Brentford rise to the
call of its country and host the games. This is the motion that I am forwarding.' She stared deeply into Philip
Cameron's eyes. 'Will someone second me?'
Wilting visibly beneath the emerald stare, Councillor Cameron bobbed his head up and down after the
fashion of a nodding dog in a Cortina rear window. Mavis Peake gave his left testicle a terrifying tweak which
doubled him up in a paroxysm of pain. As his forehead struck the council table with a sickening thump the
brothers Geronimo considered his scalp, their hands straying towards the Bowie knives in their trouser pockets.
'Why, thank you, Philip,' said Jennifer Naylor.
The Major, now Ribena-hued and apoplectic, gathered what wits remained to him and prepared to come up
fighting. He hadn't blasted buffalo in the Ngora Gora basin, topped tigers in Tibet and walloped the Watusi in
God knows where, to be put down by a damned woman. 'Where?' he spluttered. 'Where?'
'Right here,' Ms Naylor indicated the immediate vicinity.
Councillor Ffog put up his hand. 'If you will pardon me for asking, who would be expected to foot the bill for
this . . . uh . . . venture?'

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'I have all the figures to hand. What particular costs were you interested in?'
Councillor Ffog wiggled his fingers foolishly. 'I mean the expense, how much would it cost?'
Ms Naylor snapped open her Filofax. To build an Olympic stadium, complete with all facilities, Olympic
village, public access roads, etc., etc., etc.'
'Yes?' said Councillor Ffog.
'Around one hundred million pounds.'
Now, there are silences, and there are silences. Some are such that a pin hitting the old fitted Axminster is capable
of breaking them. This one, however, was of such a nature that within it the distinctive futt futt of brain cells dying
within Major McFadeyen's head were clearly discernible.
'We have fifty-one pounds, thirty-four pence in the kitty,' said Mavis Peake, a woman to whom silences were
simply moments that people used to draw breath between statements. 'If you can come up with ninety-nine million,
nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and forty-eight pounds sixty-six pence we shall be home and
dry. Here,' she continued, with what she considered to be crushing irony, 'I'll throw in my box of matches to light
the Olympic flame.'
Councillor Ffog chuckled horribly. Major McFadeyen munched upon a phenobarbitone. The brothers Geronimo
made grave faces and nodded towards one another.
Paul said, 'One hundred million heap big wampam, squaw gott'm screw loose in wigwam attic.'
Barry nodded. 'Me agree, noble brother, squaw been bunging too much loco weed down cakehole.'
Ms Naylor drew back her shoulders and smoothed down her blouse. 'I am well aware that Brentford Borough
Council cannot be expected to raise such a sum. The money must come from a private backer.'
 Councillor Ffog, who considered himself to be, as the French have it, 'somewhat of a garcon', enquired as to
whether anybody had Bob Geldof's telephone number.