Free The Sprouts of Wrath by Robert Rankin Page B

have to be worth a lot of scratch to get a woman like that for a wife. A veritable millionaire at the very least.”
    “My glass is empty,” said John. “Whose round is it?”
    “Yours, John, without a shadow of a doubt.”
    “Itineraries, ladies and gentlemen,” said Jennifer Naylor as Mavis and Philip moved amongst the throng, distributing the xeroxed sheets. “You will see that everything has been laid on for your convenience. If there are any problems, I will be happy to help out wherever I can.”
    Neville, returning to the bar, found an itinerary pushed into his hand. Somewhat flattered, he thrust out his chest, grinned broadly and examined the thing with keen interest.
    “A coach will pick us up from here at twelve noon,” Jennifer continued.
    “Twelve noon?” The grin fell from Neville’s face. He gazed up in horror towards the Guinness clock. It was already eleven forty-five. “Hang on,” he cried. “What’s the hurry?”
    “There will be a reception at the town hall,” said Jennifer, ignoring the barman’s protests. “Full buffet, choice of wines, etc., etc.”
    Neville found a large platter of salmon sandwiches being thrust back into his hands. “Sorry, old chap,” said one of the Hoorays, “and could you cancel those bottles of vino.”
    “Then there will be a private viewing of the Olympic model at one o’clock where you will have the opportunity to pose questions to Messrs Membrane and Mucus, the design consultants. A tour of the local brewery and a later wine tasting at Punter’s Wine Bar will lead us through nicely to the Mayoral banquet at seven-thirty. Do please keep your itineraries with you as they will serve as security passes to the various functions.”
    John Omally hastily availed himself of two copies. “This sounds like our kind of day out,” he told Jim, who nodded enthusiastically.
    “Same again?” Neville asked, spying out Pooley’s empty glass.
    “Ah, no thanks, Neville, I think we’ve had enough for now.”
    The barman turned away in fury to view more plates of salmon sandwiches being pushed back across the bar counter. “Bastards!” was all he had to say.
    Pooley and Omally were the first to board the coach. Although Jim wanted to sit next to the driver, Omally counselled subtlety and the keeping of the now legendary low profile and thrust him towards a rear seat.
    “Not over the wheel,” said Jim. “It makes me travel sick.”
    Omally shook his head. “You’re so childish,” he said.
    The ministers and team climbed on board, talking loudly, all white collars, blue ties and red faces. After a brief kerfuffle over who got to sit next to the driver, a pecking order was established and they lowered their Gieves and Hawkes and prepared for the off.
    Jennifer Naylor climbed aboard, with the unnecessary assistance of Philip Cameron, and took up the microphone. “If you are all sitting comfortably,” she said, “then off we go.” And off they jolly well went.

15
    The town hall’s hospitality suite was no stranger to events and receptions. The West London Wandering Bishops, the Chiswick Decorative Egg Society and the Association of Invisible Aryans each held their annual meetings there. It had not, however, seen a spread like this since the Brentford Blow-Out Club had dined themselves to collective oblivion there five years previously with a marathon eat-in. Today’s spread was of that rare and almost unknown variety that combined quality with quantity.
    “You know,” said Jim Pooley as he pushed an exquisite sweetmeat into his face and held out his glass for a top up, “this is the life.”
    “I was thinking something of the sort myself,” Omally replied, as he decanted another measure of chilled French wine into his own glass.
    “Do you think it’s always like this for politicians, John?” Omally perused the congregation. Those present looked very much at ease and pretty much at home. “Can one still buy one’s way into Parliament?” Jim