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

number up the papers.
'An invisible guru, a gold bullion robbery and aloha to the Brum Olympics,' muttered Norman. 'Worth a bit of
chit-chat in the Swan come lunchtime, but hardly likely to change the face of civilization hereabouts.'
In the light of future events, however, Norman might have done well in discarding this particular remark in
favour of something completely different.. . possibly one of the less cheerful doom prophecies from the Book of
Revelation, or a simple The end is drawing nigh'.
But precognition had never been one of Norman's stronger points. For indeed had he possessed this rare gift
to even the slightest degree, he would not now have been unnecessarily numbering up papers which he would
shortly be delivering himself. For upon this particular morning, as on several past, Zorro the paperboy had
chosen to remain in his cosy bed rather than face the rigours of bag, bike and bull terrier.
Thus it was that with a Beefheartian air upon his lips and the dust settling thickly upon his 'mutton-chops',
Norman continued with his task, blissfully unaware that he had just glimpsed the beginning of the end. Or if
not that, then something that looked very much like it.




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Not one hundred yards due north of Norman's shop, as fair flies the griffin, there stands a public house which is
the very hub of the Brentonian universe. Solidly constructed of old London stocks and fondly embellished with
all the Victorian twiddly bits, the Flying Swan gallantly withstood the slings and arrows of outrageous brewery
management. Its patrons have never known the horrors of fizzy beer or pub grub that comes 'a-la-basket'.
The Swan had grown old gracefully. The etched glass windows, tinted with nicotine and the exhalations of a
million beery breaths, sustained that quality of light exclusive to elderly pubs. The burnished brass of the beer
engines shone like old gold and the bar top glowed with a deep patina. The heady perfumes of Brasso and beeswax
blended with those of hops and barley, grape and grain to produce an enchanting fragrance all its own. Only a man
born without a soul would not pause a moment upon entering the Swan for the first time, breathe in the air,
savour the atmosphere and say, This is a pub.'
But of course, for all its ambience, redolence and Ridley Scottery, a pub is only as good as the beer it serves. And
here it must be said that those on offer were of such a toothsome relish, so satisfying in body and flavour as
might reasonably elicit bouts of incredulous head-shaking and murmurs of disbelief from the reader.
Nevertheless the eight hand-drawn ales available were of a quality capable of raising eulogies from seasoned
drinkers, their bar-side converse long hag-ridden by cliches of how much better beer tasted in the good old days.
So who then was the paragon, the thinking man's

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barkeep, this publican amongst publicans, this guru of good alery? The tap-room tenant of this drinking man's
Valhalla?
A carpet-slippered foot flaps upon a stair-tread, the hem of a worn silk dressing-gown brushes the gleaming
mahogany top of a Britannia pub table. A gaunt shadow falls across the row of twinkling pump handles, as a
shaft of sunlight, diamond flecked with floating motes, glistens upon a brilliantined barnet. A slim, almost girlish
hand snakes out towards the whisky optic.
Surely we know those monogrammed carpet slippers, recognize the faded dressing-gown, have seen that
brilliantined head bowed as in reverence as its owner draws off a shot with that slim yet certain hand?
Yes, there can be no mistake, no doubt can remain. Neville the part-time barman, it is he.
Neville yawned, belched, scratched at his stomach and drew off a large measure of breakfast. Flexing his
rounded shoulders and puffing out his pigeon chest he downed the 'gold watch' with a practised wrist-flick and
prepared himself to face the day.
Still a-yawning, a-belching and a-scratching, yet now inwardly fortified, Neville sallied forth in search of his