“Welshman?” asked Paul the medical student.

“Dwarf?” asked Small Dave.

“Er…” said Old Pete.

“Two pints of Large please, Neville,” said John Omally.

“Bloke,” said Old Pete. “And he goes into this bar, or was it a…”

“Library?” asked the lady.

“Church?” asked Paul.

“Wendy House?” asked Small Dave.

“Some place,” said Old Pete. “And he’s with this other bloke or was it a…”

“Woman?” asked the lady.

“Gorilla?” asked Paul.

“What’s going on?” asked John Omally.

Neville did the business. This was the other business. The business that most men do much more often than the other other business.

“He’s run out,” said Neville.

“Of what?” asked John.

“Jokes,” said Neville. “He’s dried. Look at him.”

“Has this operation,” said Old Pete, “or did he go into a monastery?”

“Perhaps it was a bank,” said the lady.

“An Irishman went into a bank once,” said Paul. “He said, ‘Stick ’em up’ and the bloke behind the counter said, ‘You’re Irish, aren’t you?’ and the bank robber said, ‘How do you know that?’ and the bloke behind the counter said, ‘You’ve sawn the wrong end off your shotgun.’…”

The lady in the straw hat laughed uproariously.

“I don’t get it,” said Old Pete.

“Young Master Robert came in here earlier,” said Neville, presenting John with his pints.

“Oh,” said John. “Did he?”

“He was looking for you. I asked him about the decor.”

“Oh yes?” said John.

“He said they’d be coming in to change it all back tomorrow.”

“Oh good,” said John.

“And I gave him your home address.”

“Oh bliss,” said John. “Are these on the house, by the way?”

“No,” said Neville. “They’re not.”

“Chimpanzee,” said Old Pete. “No, nun, no chimney sweep…”

“I wonder when we’ll hear from the wee boy,” said John, returning to Jim’s pew.

“Cain? That was wrong, you know, letting him go off with the disc.”

“He seemed to know what he was up to. He seemed to know every damn thing.”

“It will all go guggy,” said Jim. “It was all too fast.”

“No it won’t, it will be fine. There was something about him, wasn’t there? Something almost inspirational. I don’t know how to describe it.”

“Nor me, but I know what you mean. Very strange.”

“Very strange indeed.”

“The Midwich Cuckoo, you called him.”

“He’s a pretty weird lad.”

“Not that weird,” said Cain.

“Aaaaagh!” went Jim.

“I’ll join you in one of those,” said John. “Aaaaagh!”

“I’m sorry,” said Cain. “Did I startle you?”

“You’re not supposed to be in here,” whispered Jim. “You’re under age.”

“But this is a church, isn’t it?” Cain glanced around.

“No,” said Jim, “it’s not a church. It’s a pub.”

“Den of Vice,” said Cain. “D is for Den of Vice. Also depravity, debauchery, dereliction, dipsomania, delirium tremens…”

“Delight and dominoes,” said John.

“Dominoes?” said Jim.

“Discussion,” said John. “A place of discussion.”

“Drink not only water,” said Cain, “but take a little wine for thy stomach’s sake.”

“My sentiments entirely. How did it go with the disc? Did you…”

“All wrong,” said Jim. “This is so wrong.”

“I put it into the computer,” said Cain. “In Penge, which is a very nice place, I might add.”

“You did it?” Jim shook his head. “And nobody saw you do it?”

“I don’t have to be seen if I don’t want to be.”

“Buy the child a lemonade,” said Jim. “And a packet of crisps.”

“I’d prefer a gin and tonic,” said Cain.

“Cup of tea?” asked Clive.

“I’d prefer a gin and tonic,” said Derek.

“That’s hardly a macho drink, Derek.”

“James Bond used to drink Martini. And he was pretty macho.”

“Martini is a tart’s drink.”

“Babycham is a tart’s drink.”

“No, a Bacardi and coke is a tart’s drink.”

“Posh tart’s drink.”

“I’ve never met a posh tart.”

“Is a tart the same as a slapper?”

“Aaaaaaaaaaaagh!”

“It wasn’t an unreasonable question.”

“It wasn’t me going ‘Aaaaaaaaaaaagh!’…”

“Who was it then?”

“Aaaaaaaaaaaagh!”

“Fred,” said Derek. “It was Fred.”

Clive and Derek raced along the Corridor of Power. They reached the Chamber of Power. Derek won by a short head. Clive pushed open the mighty door.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaagh!” went Fred again. He was standing behind his desk. The desk was still covered by the dust sheet. Not too much more had been done to the ceiling. Fred held a computer print-out in his hand. It was one of those financial jobbies. A bank statement affair. Fred went “Aaaaaaaaaaaagh!” once again.

27

Now Small Dave was a postman.

A postman, Small Dave was.

At one time he had the reputation for being a vindictive grudge-bearing wee bastard. But after a very nasty experience involving the ghost of Edgar Allan Poe, a zero-gravity camel named Simon and a mothership from the lost planet Ceres, he had mellowed somewhat and was now, for the most part, quite easy-going.

For the most part.

But not this morning.

This morning Small Dave was all in a lather. All in a lather and a regular foam. He’d arrived at the Brentford Sorting Office with the not-unreasonable expectation of finding the usual two sacks of mail awaiting him.

But not this morning.

This morning there were twenty-three sacks.

“Aaaaaagh!” went Small Dave, all in a lather and a regular foam. “Twenty-three sacks! Aaaaagh!”

Mrs Elronhubbard the postmistress looked Small Dave up and down. Though mostly down, due to his lack of inches.

“I’m terribly sorry, Small Dave,” said she. “But all these printed pamphlets arrived last night and one is to go into every single letterbox in Brentford.”

“Outrage!” Small Dave knotted a dolly-sized fist and shook it. “Outrage! Outrage! Outrage!”

“I’m sorry, but there it is.”

Small Dave kicked the nearest sack, spilling out its contents. He stooped (though not very far) and plucked up a pamphlet. And at this he glared, fiercely.

FREE MONEY ran the headline, in a manner calculated to gain the reader’s attention.

“Eh?” went Small Dave.

THE BRENTFORD MILLENNIUM FUND IS OFFERING YOU A CHANCE TO SHARE IN THE BOROUGH’S GOOD FORTUNE.

“Oh,” went Small Dave.

ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS COME UP WITH A PROJECT FOR THE NEW YEAR’S CELEBRATIONS AND THE FUND WILL GIVE YOU ALL THE CASH YOU NEED.

“It’s a wind-up,” said Small Dave.

THIS IS NOT A WIND-UP.

“Blimey,” said Small Dave.

SO FILL IN THE ATTACHED APPLICATION FORM. STICK IT IN THE ATTACHED PRE-PAID ENVELOPE AND POP THAT INTO AN UNATTACHED POST BOX. AND LOTS OF MONEY WILL BE YOURS!

“Incredible,” said Small Dave.

YES, ISN’T IT!

“Paragliding,” said Mrs Elronhubbard.

“What?” went Small Dave.

“Synchronized paragliding, like synchronized swimming only up in the sky. I’m going to put in for a grant.”

“But you’re nearly eighty.”

“You’re only as old as the men you feel.”

Small Dave sighed. “Sometimes I feel like a motherless child,” said he. “But of course there’s a law against that kind of thing.”

“Quite,” said Mrs Elronhubbard. “And there should be another about recycling old gags. So, Small Dave, up and at it.”

“I am up.”

“Oh, so you are. Well then, get at it.”

Small Dave made grumbling noises. “It’s no bloody use,” he complained. “It takes me nearly a day to deliver two sacks. It would take me a month to deliver this lot.”

“Then God bless the Brentford Millennium Committee.”

“What?”

“They’ve supplied you with ten part-time workers, who are out in the car park even now, awaiting your orders.”

“My orders?”

“Yours. You have been awarded the title Millennial Postman First Class and your salary’s been doubled.”

“Oh.” Small Dave puffed out his pigeon chest. “Right then, let’s get to it.”