"Robert Rankin - The Greatest Show Off Earth" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rankin Robert)

you stood your ground and fought your corner, or clenched your buttocks and ran for your
life. In Simon's case the special chemical unerringly chose the latter of the two decisions.
So, it wasn't as if he was a coward or anything like that. Oh no. It was the special
chemical. Simon felt sure that Raymond wouldn't hold it against him once he'd returned in
glory from Venus.
'I hope he brings me back a present,' said Simon to himself. 'I wonder what they drink
on Venus.'
And wondering what they drank on Venus, made Simon remember what they drank
on Earth. And how, if he just hurried, he could catch a pint or two of it at The Jolly Gardeners
before closing.
'Boom Shanka,' said the lad with the teeth, rising from his grassy nest and saluting the
night sky. 'Nice one, Raymond, and hope to see you soon then.'
And with that said, Simon made off for a quick change of shirt and the pub.

Now in every village, as in every town, there are pubs and there are pubs. These span the
saloon-bar spectrum 'twixt the spit and sawdust and the slick and Spritzered.
Down at the infra-red end, there are great beer-bellied blackguards, who maintain a
turbulent dominion over smoke-wreathed drinking dens, where the devotees of rival
sportswear cults have at one another with billiard cues, while Faith No More play on the
jukebox.
While up in the ultra violet, you have the gentile 'we're more a traveller's rest than a
public house really, dear' kind of establishment. Here, short, middle-aged, well-kept ladies,
with tall hair and lipgloss, divide their time between working out at the gym and artistically
arranging beer-mats. They hold court from tall bar stools, while husbands named Keith or
Trevor ogle the teenage barmaids, as they constantly empty the ashtrays and worry at the
tabletops with fragrant J-Cloths. A tape of 'background music', that the landlady brought back
from her holiday in Benidorm, nags at the nerves from secret speakers.
The Jolly Gardeners occupied a mellow middleground between these gaudy extremes.
Andy the landlord served a clear pint of ample measure at an honest price, smiled upon all of
his patrons and said 'jolly good', whenever he thought it appropriate. With little more than a
voice of quiet authority, he had won the respect of his regulars. In fact, he had engendered
such a spirit of camaraderie amongst them, that on the single occasion when violence actually
erupted, the perpetrator was made instantly aware, by the appalled looks of those around him,
that he had committed a most grievous faux pas, and slunk from the pub, never to return.
Under Andy's benign rule, The Jolly Gardeners was finally starting to nourish. For
the first time in its long and colourful history, it was actually running at a profit.
The previous landlord, gone upon a midnight clear, hailed, according to local
opinion, from a long line of well poisoners. And met eventually, according to local legend,
with a sad accident involving cement and deep water.
The brewery had confidence in Andy. He had their trust.
He did not intend to betray it.
 Now, it must be said, however, that for all the excellence of its present management,
The Jolly Gardeners, as a building, was not a thing of beauty and a joy Forever Amber.
Oh no no no.
To those who hold to the unfashionable conviction that some things are better than
other things, and to some people capable of making the distinction, the golden age of public
house design apparently died with Queen Victoria.
Among the many books that will never see publication, there is one called Great
Pubs of the Twentieth Century. This will be written by a man who has a thing about 'mock
Tudor'.