Free A Bit of a Do by David Nobbs Page A

pregnant on her wedding day,’ said Rita.
    ‘Your son did have something to do with that,’ said Liz.
    ‘I hope,’ said Ted.
    ‘Ted!’ said Rita.
    ‘Mr Simcock!’ said Laurence.
    Elvis Simcock and Simon Rodenhurst entered from the garden.
    ‘I bet you fifty pounds you never make it as a philosopher,’ Simon was saying. ‘I mean, who ever heard of a famous philosopher called Elvis?’
    Elvis didn’t mean to knock Simon out, just to give him a good, hearty biff. But the rising young estate agent, who had also drunk rather more than he should have, fell backwards across the buffet table. He caught his head on the edge of a large plate, which jerked up into the air. Simon Rodenhurst, of Trellis, Trellis, Openshaw and Finch, slid slowly onto the ground, the upturned plate crashed onto his forehead, and a shower of tuna fish vol-au-vents descended on his inert body.
    Rita fainted.
    The immaculate Neville Badger entered, complete with hat,and gazed at the scene with eyes that saw nothing.
    ‘I’m off now,’ he said. ‘Goodbye, and thank you. Sorry if I … it was just too soon. I just couldn’t cope with the sight of so many people enjoying themselves.’

October:
The Dentists’ Dinner Dance
    Laurence Rodenhurst felt that it was rather vulgar of a three-star hotel to decorate the walls of its bars with signed photographs of celebrities. He appeared to be looking with extreme disfavour on the smiling face of Terry Wogan, who had signed his picture with the message ‘Super nosh. Pity about the flab. Love – Tel’. But Laurence’s expression might equally have been because he was talking to Larry Benson, of fitted kitchen fame.
    The Angel Hotel stood in Westgate, which sloped gently away from the abbey church towards the westerly loop of the Gadd. Seven building societies, four shoe shops and the great concrete frontage of the Whincliff Shopping Centre had replaced its old town houses. Only the Angel’s long, peeling facade remained to recall the street’s Georgian heyday.
    The Angel’s yellowish Georgian facade concealed a crumbling, rambling, heavily altered medieval interior. The Gaiety Bar, whose beamed roof was concealed by plaster except for one small hole, was situated next to the ballroom and was used as a private bar for functions held there. It was just too small to be impressive. The green-and-white striped wallpaper bore the stains of a decade, and there were large damp patches not quite hidden by furniture and radiators. The tables were extremely low, and customers reclined so steeply in the armchairs that their knees were level with the table tops. It was rumoured that the chairs had been designed by the brother of an unscrupulous osteopath. Bar snacks were served in the Gaiety Bar at lunchtimes, although the furniture made it almost impossible to eat them; but perhaps this was the aim, since they were almost inedible. The brown leather upholstery was beginning to burst. Everyone said that the Angel had known better days, though nobody could actually remember them. But it had one great advantage for events such as theDentists’ Dinner Dance. There was still nowhere else in the town with a function room of the size required, at least not until the Grand Universal opened.
    The standing room around the bar was slowly filling up with dentists and their guests. The men wore lounge suits, the women short dresses. Liz Rodenhurst’s black dress was restrained and bold, simple and revealing, elegant and sexy. Her back and shoulders and, almost certainly, her breasts were tanned.
    Laurence had invited his son Simon, Jenny and Paul, Ted and Rita Simcock, and Neville Badger. None of them had yet arrived.
    ‘In Peru they drink a thing called pisco sour,’ Laurence was telling Larry Benson, of fitted kitchen fame. Larry Benson was looking everywhere but at Liz’s cleavage.
    ‘Laurence!’ said Liz. ‘Don’t bore Larry to death over Peru. He hasn’t paid you for his gold bridge yet.’
    She moved off