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

'It's not a bad old life if you don't weaken,' he constantly informed his customers, adding guardedly that this was
of course dependent upon not letting the bastards (whoever they were) grind you down.
 Whistling tunelessly, between teeth of his own design and construction, Norman slid the blade of his reproduc-
tion Sword of Boda paperknife through the twine bindings and spread away the pink covering to expose the
FRONT PAGE NEWS. There was always more than the merest hint
of ceremony about this weekly routine. Something vaguely akin to the mystical, although performed sub-
consciously and without the solemnity generally accorded to ritual. But such was often the way of it in Brentford.
Certain customs appeared to have acquired almost magical significance. Professor Slocombe's dawn peram-
bulation of the borough boundaries, for example, or Neville the part-time barman's daily check of the Swan's
beer engines. Such things were part of the Vital stuff of Brentford and a contributing factor towards the town's
separateness from its neighbours. Brentford lacked the cosmopolitanism of Hounslow, the upward mobility of
Haling, the young professionalism of Chiswick and the aloof urbanity of Kew. It should not be surprising
therefore to note that the initials of these surrounding territories spell out the word HECK, the nineteenth-
century euphemism for hell.
Norman flung the length of knotted twine into an overflowing rubbish box beneath the counter, leant upon the
threadbare elbows of his ragged shopcoat and took stock of the week's doings. The headline was not slow to
engage his attention: INVISIBLE MYSTIC IN CHURCH HALL RUMPUS ran the generously inked banner headline
filling a third of the front page. 'Guru Vanishes With The Takings As Fists Fly!'
Norman chuckled to himself as he read the account of how local warlock and self-styled miracle worker
Hugo Rune, having failed to make good his promise to dematerialize before a capacity crowd, had performed
an entirely different variety of vanishing act when the dissatisfied punters turned ugly and demanded the return
of their money. Fearing possible damage to the Jacobean timbers of the newly restored church hall, Father
Moity had telephoned for the police. During the ensuing punch-up there had been twelve arrests and the local
constabulary were currently seeking the whereabouts of the perfect master.
Norman shook his head and turned the page.

10
BIRMINGHAM'S OLYMPIC HOPES GO UP IN SMOKE: 'Stadium Fire Ends Drum's Olympic Dreams'. Of course
Norman had heard all this on the wireless set. The grim catalogue of mismanagement, bungling, inefficiency and
chaos had been daily news for months. As David Coleman had said, The final kiss goodbye has long been on the cards.'
'Shame,' said Norman to no-one but himself, 'I thought I'd have a crack at the javelin.'
On a lower portion of the same page was an item that any other editor might well have considered to be front-page news:
GOLD BULLION ROBBERY: Thieves Net Largest Ever Haul In Crime Of The Century'. Norman whistled once more
through his home-made railings as he read the figure. Even allowing for the exaggeration of the Mercury's cub reporter,
Scoop Molloy, there seemed little doubt that this was, as the Sweeney's now legendary 'Guv' would have put it, 'One big
blag, George.'
Exactly how the robbery had been carried out was still something of a mystery and Norman marvelled at the
ingenuity of the light-fingered gentry who had slipped unseen through the high security cordon to abscond with the
many tons of golden booty. Norman counted up the rows of noughts and tried to reconcile them into hundreds,
thousands and millions. It didn't bear thinking about.
A quick flip through the remaining pages disclosed pretty much what he had come to expect. The same tired old
stuff, although strangely comforting in its tired old sameness. Local fetes and flowershows. A listing of next week's
car boot sales. (Norman never ceased to be amazed by the public's apparent craving for car boots.) A three-page tide
table. Next week's demonstration of the art of Levitation called off due to unforeseen circumstances. The council still
flogging off portions of wasteland in a vain attempt to make the books balance. Old Sandell, the Mercury's oracle,
predicting scandal for the house of Windsor and a one-eyed Puerto Rican to win the Derby. The same old, tired old
stuff.

11
Shaking his head once more - just for the hell of it -Norman dug a biro from his top pocket and began to