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

Mock Tudor!
It was definitely the death of Queen Victoria that did it. History proves to us that
inadequate architects, when faced with an uncertain present, inevitably take refuge in a
pipedream of the past. Those of the Edwardian era, employed by the breweries certainly did.
Mock Tudor!
The Jolly Gardeners was a mock-Tudor bar. It had been given a face-lift shortly after
the First World War.
This consisted of gutting out all the mahogany and etched-glass partition work and
beaming the place around and about and up and down with tarred railway sleepers. There had
even been talk of renaming the place, The Dick Turpin.
But that was all very long ago now. And few there were still living, who could recall
the pub in its previous incarnation. The regulars merely accepted it for the thing it was, a
haven of good ale, good companionship, merry converse and no music whatsoever. That was
quite enough really. They didn't give a toss about the aesthetics.
Simon was a regular at The Jolly Gardeners and he certainly didn't give a toss about
the aesthetics. He emerged from the alleyway which lead from the allotments and his house,
crossed over King Neptune's Road and approached the pub in question.
Tarred railway sleepers, peely-painted stucco, knackered old coachlamps and a pub
sign with only one hinge.
'Home sweet home,' said Simon.
He entered through the saloon-bar door, ducked his head beneath the-beam-that-
strangers-bash-their-skulls-upon and sidled up to the bar.
Regulars, engaged in merry converse, broke off momentarily to savour Simon's
sidling. And having savoured same and found it pleasing, returned to their discourses, with
words to the effect that, though his teeth were sound, his stride was shifty. And a shifty stride
on one so young was not, of truth, a good thing to behold.
Simon ceased his sidling and perched himself upon his favourite bar stool. Andy
smiled at Simon and the lad smiled at the landlord in reply.
Andy was of medium height, whatever that may be. Smart turn-out, ironed shirt,
trouser creases. The head of an old Greek god atop the body of a young British businessman.
A lot of unanswered questions. And a beard.
'Evening, Simon,' said Andy. 'New hat?'
'No thanks. Just a pint of the usual, please.'
'Pint of the usual. Good idea.' Andy gazed along the row of pump handles. 'Pint of the
usual, you said?'
'I did, yes.'
'Now, let me just clarify this. Would that be the usual you usually order when first
you come in? The more-expensive-usual that you order when someone else is buying a
round? Or the cheap "Death-by-Cider" usual that you have at the end of the evening, when
your money's running low?'
'The usual that I usually order when first I come in.'
'But you don't usually come in this late.'
Simon stroked his manly chin. 'I see what you mean. Then tell you what, I think I'll
go for the more-expensive-usual that I usually order when someone else is buying a round.'
'Quite sure?' Andy arched an eyebrow.
'Quite sure.'
'That one's off, I'm afraid,' said Andy.
'Cheap "Death-by-cider" usual then.'
 'That's off also.'
'What about the usual that I usually order when first I come in?'