Clovenhoof Read Online Free PDF Page B

depend on what you regard as well-endowed or, you know, an average endowment.”
    Nerys put her hand a distance apart on the table. She knew the measurements. She had conducted studies.
    Ben took a long long sip of cider and black and wondered what the hell to say.
     
    “I,” said Clovenhoof once the barman had poured fresh drinks for those he had offended, “will have one of everything.”
    “What do you mean?” said the barman.
    “What I mean, mortal man, is – what’s your name?”
    “Lennox.”
    “Lennox, what I mean is that, all those drinks there, the pint pulling things –“
    “Taps.”
    “All the beer taps, all the bottles in your fridge, all those upside down drinks behind the bar. I would like one of every one of them.”
    “Are you sure?”
    Clovenhoof nodded.
    “And then we will move onto” – he savoured a new word he had learned – “cocktails.”
     
    “He’s kind of rugged, don’t you think?” said Nerys, watching Clovenhoof work his way along a row of bitters, lagers, stouts and ciders, dwelling on some, shaking his head instantly at others.
    “You mean weatherworn,” said Ben.
    “How old do you think he is?”
    “Sixty.”
    “Don’t be silly.”
    “You’re not... interested in him, are you?”
    She gently swirled her glass.
    “I don’t know,” she said playfully.
    Ben sighed.
    “So that’s your perfect gentleman, is it?”
    “Hardly.”
    “Right,” said Ben in disbelief.
    Nerys downed the remains of her drink.
    “Hercule Poirot.”
    “What?”
    “The perfect gentleman. No, the perfect man .”
    “Fat Belgian detective Poirot?”
    “Suave, mannered, precise and intelligent. And that little waxed moustache!”
    She gave a little shudder of pleasure.
    “Each to their own,” said Ben.
    “When I was a little girl, I wrote to David Suchet and asked him for a signed photograph of him as Poirot.”
    “Did he send one?”
    “No.”
    “That’s not very nice. I think famous people should always be good to their fans.”
    “I mean I did ask for a photograph of him naked but, still, you’re right.”
    Clovenhoof lurched against their table.
    “I’ve done it!” he declared.
    “Done what?” said Nerys.
    “Found the perfect drink,” he said and placed a wine glass reverently in the middle of the table where its contents gently fizzed.
    “Champagne?” said Ben.
    Clovenhoof shook his head. “It’s called...” – he licked his lips – “Lambrini.”
    Ben looked at it.
    “As drinks go, isn’t it a bit... girly?”
    “It looks like fizzy piss,” said Nerys.
    “I know!” said Clovenhoof in ecstasy. “And it tastes great too!”
     
    In the corner of the pub, unnoticed by everyone were two old ladies. With their puffy blue-rinses and thick knitted coats, they were of the type that were often called something like Betty and Doris. The one who might have been called Betty was sipping a small sherry. The one who might have been called Doris had a glass of tap water, untouched, on the table in front of her.
    “It’s that man again,” said possibly-called-Doris.
    “Well,” said possibly-called-Betty. “At least he’s wearing clothes now.”
     

Chapter 2 – in which Clovenhoof tries to leave, dabbles with Satanism and discovers Crispy Pancakes
     
    It wasn’t the daylight that woke him, or the intense cold, or even the chattering of passing shoppers, it was the large, bearded man in the red suit, kicking him in the side.
    Clovenhoof clutched his head and curled into a foetal position.
    “What are you doing?” he groaned.
    A shiny black boot connected with something soft and squishy that might have been his liver, maybe a kidney.
    “Get out, you filthy scumbag,” scowled the bearded one.
    “Ow. Get lost!”
    “I need to open up and you... you’ve smashed the roof in.”
    Clovenhoof rolled over and looked up.
    Oh, yeah.
     
    Clovenhoof had never heard of the conga before, but he’d got the hang of it quickly with help from his new friends from