Knees Up Mother Earth Read Online Free PDF

Gwynplaine Dhark sniggered. Vic Vanilla shrugged. Neville, who had always considered the saloon bar of The Flying Swan to be the true heart of Brentford, kept his own counsel.
    The outer door of the council chamber opened, flooding sunlight into the room. A figure stood, dramatically framed, in the brilliant opening. “Greetings one and all,” said this fellow, striding forward into the chamber.
    “Close the door behind you,” called Doris Whimple, which raised a wan smile from Neville. The figure returned to the door, slammed it shut, strode forward once more and came to a halt behind the Mayoral Chair. He carried a slim, black executive case and his face was painfully pale. He glanced from face to face of councillors all, though his glancings were guarded behind his mirrored sunspecs.
    Shifty
, thought Neville.
Very shifty
.
    “Shufty,” said the fellow. “Gavin Shufty, representative of the Consortium. So sorry I’m late. I asked directions from a local bod sitting on a bench in front of the Memorial Library and the buffoon misdirected me to the council dump.”
    Neville managed a bit of a grin in response to this intelligence.
    “But no matter.” Gavin Shufty pulled back the Mayoral Chair and seated himself thereupon.
    A gasp went up from Doris Whimple, and one would most certainly have also gone up from the aged Concillor Doveston had he not been fast asleep and dreaming of bees.
    “Oh, excuse me,” said Gavin Shufty, making as if to rise, “have I committed a social gaffe? Is this someone’s chair?”
    “It’s the Mayor’s chair,” said Doris, tinkering with the brooch on her breast, a brooch in the shape of a foxhound savaging a peasant.
    “And where is his worship, the Mayor?” enquired Shufty.
    “He is not attending this meeting.”
    “So, no damage done, then.” Gavin Shufty hoisted his executive case on to the council table and opened it. “Down to business, then. I’ve drawn up the contracts – I’m sure you’ll find them most favourable, if you know what I mean, and I’m sure that you do.” And he tapped at his nose as he said this.
    “Contracts?” said Neville. “What contracts are these?”
    “For the purchase of the football ground by the Consortium.”
    “Oh no,” said Neville. “No, no, no. This meeting is to debate the matter of selling the football ground. It is not a forgone conclusion.”
    “Really?” said Shufty. “Then I must have got my figures wrong. Let’s see.” And he drew from his case a pocket calculator of advanced design, which was very possibly powered by the transperambulation of pseudo-cosmic anti-matter.
    Or possibly not.
    And tapped at it with his forefinger.
    “No, I am correct,” he continued. “The club, which is to say the council, that owns the Griffin Park ground is in debt to the bank to the tune of £1,650,320.”
    “No,” said Neville. “Surely not.”
    “Oh no.” Gavin Shufty struck his forehead. “My mistake.”
    “Phew,” said Neville.
    “It’s £1,650,689 – I forgot to take today’s interest on the debt into account.”
    Neville groaned dismally.
    “Only joking,” said Shufty.
    Neville brightened.
    “You don’t really owe all that money to the bank.”
    “Blessed be,” said Neville.
    “You owe it to the Consortium – which, in an act of supreme public spiritedness paid off the loan to the bank and took it on for you. So, to business, the contracts.”
    “No, no, no,” said Neville and he shook his head once more.
    “Does anybody else have anything to say?” asked Shufty. “I find this vagabond frankly annoying.”
    “What?” went Neville.
    “I have something to say,” said Gwynplaine Dhark.
    “And that is?” said Shufty.
    “Where would you like us to sign?”
    “Now you’re talking my kind of language.”
    “No,” said Neville. “This isn’t right. This isn’t how it should be.”
    “No,” said David Berkshire. “I agree. It isn’t right.”
    “Seems you’re all on your own, then,”