He climbed down from his cab, slammed shut the door and, kicking rubble to left and right of him, strode across the road to the Swan’s doorway. With a single curling backward kick he applied his bare foot to the door, taking it from its hinges and propelling it forwards into the bar.

Four startled men looked up in horror from their drinks at the bar counter. Jim Pooley, John Omally, Professor Slocombe and Neville the part-time barman.

“Archroy?” gasped Neville, squinting towards the terrific figure framed in the Swan’s doorway. “Archroy, is that you?”

Archroy fixed the part-time barman with a baleful eye. “I have the Ark of Noah outside on my lorry,” he roared. “I don’t suppose that any of you after-hours drinkers would care to step outside and give it the once-over?”

Omally struggled to his feet. “The Ark of Noah, now, is it?” he said. “Could I interest you at all in a guided tour around the Great Pyramid of Brentford?”