Knees Up Mother Earth Read Online Free PDF Page A

granted planning permission.
    The name of this theme bar was The Beelzepub. It was a satanic theme bar.
    The Beelzepub catered thus far to a somewhat limited clientele, mostly callow acne-faced youths with a penchant for black T-shirts and a bit of Death Metal. And elderly spinsters who had nowhere to go on a Tuesday night now that the Spiritualist church had closed down.
    Exactly who had voted Mr Gwynplaine Dhark on to the local council baffled Neville, but he felt certain that the Powers of Darkness must have had some hand in it.
    Neville, whom most who knew him would have sworn did not possess an ounce of malice in him, hated Mr Gwynplaine Dhark.
    And Mr Gwynplaine Dhark hated Neville.
    But Mr Gwynplaine Dhark was democratic.
    He hated everyone.
    Across the council table sat a further prial of councillors. There was Councillor Doris Whimple, a woman of considerable tweediness who bore an uncanny resemblance to the now legendary Margaret Rutherford; Councillor Arthur Doveston, octogenarian beekeeper and enthusiastic pamphleteer; and Councillor David Berkshire, local librarian and a man of so slight a presence that, should he enter a room, that room would still for the most part appear to be empty.
    Neville didn’t notice him for a minute or two, but when he did he nodded a greeting, which was returned by a vague and wistful nod of the councillor’s head.
    And that was that for the Brentford councillors: two publicans, a used-car dealer, a lady of the Shires, one ancient and one all-but-invisible librarian.
    And all of them, with the exception of Neville, in Neville’s opinion, were up to some kind of no-good.
    At the head of the council table stood a grand mahogany chair. It was a heavily carved chair and heavily crested, too, with the badge of the borough – two griffins rampant flanking a pint glass of Large. It was the Mayoral Chair.
    The Mayoral Chair was unoccupied.
    The Mayoral Chair was always unoccupied.
    The Mayor of Brentford did not attend council meetings. He did not attend any meetings at all. The Mayor of Brentford was an ornamental hermit who lived in an oak tree in Gunnersbury Park.
    Neville unfolded his slender arms, gave them a stretching, placed his hands upon the table before him and began gently to drum his fingers to the beat of his beneath-breath whistlings. Doris Whimple raised a powdered eyebrow and did
tut-tut-tuttings
with her pinkly painted mouth.
    Neville ceased his drummings. “Should we begin the meeting?” he enquired.
    “No can do, old sport,” said Vic Vanilla. “Have to wait for the arrival of his nibs.”
    “The Mayor?” said Neville.
    David Berkshire tittered, although none of them heard him do it.
    Doris Whimple shook her head, releasing lavender fragrance into the morbid air. “The Mayor will not be attending,” she said.
    “But surely,” said Neville, “this is a most important meeting.”
    “The Mayor will
not
be attending,” Doris Whimple repeated sternly.
    “Oh,” said Neville.
    “You know, his nibs,” said Vic, elbowing Neville gently in the rib cage, “the bloke with the bunce.”
    “From the Consortium,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark.
    Neville glanced in the direction of the rival publican and received a gust of his brimstoned breath.
    “The Consortium,” said Neville and lowered his gaze. He knew well enough about the Consortium, the Consortium that intended to purchase the football ground, tear up the turf and rip down the stands and build their damnable executive homes on it.
    Neville took his pocket watch from his waistcoat and flipped open its cover. “It’s now ten-fifteen,” he observed. “This fellow is a quarter of an hour late. Perhaps we can start the meeting without him. Perhaps we can settle this with a show of hands now. I’m certain that none of us
really
wants to see the football ground go – it is, after all, the very heart of the community.”
    “The Church of St Joan is the heart of the community,” said Doris Whimple. Mr