The Sprouts of Wrath Read Online Free PDF

straightforward.” Ms Naylor rose upon the four-inch heels she had considered suitable for the occasion, and tossed her auburn hair back in delicious waves across her perfect shoulders. “As you are all no doubt aware, the disastrous fire at Birmingham this week has, on the face of it, ruled out Great Britain’s chances of hosting the Olympic games.” Heads nodded, Ms Naylor continued. “It is my proposal that Brentford rise to the call of its country and host the games. This is the motion that I am forwarding.” She stared deeply into Philip Cameron’s eyes. “Will someone second me?”
    Wilting visibly beneath the emerald stare, Councillor Cameron bobbed his head up and down after the fashion of a nodding dog in a Cortina rear window. Mavis Peake gave his left testicle a terrifying tweak which doubled him up in a paroxysm of pain. As his forehead struck the council table with a sickening thump the brothers Geronimo considered his scalp, their hands straying towards the Bowie knives in their trouser pockets.
    “Why, thank you, Philip,” said Jennifer Naylor.
    The Major, now Ribena-hued and apoplectic, gathered what wits remained to him and prepared to come up fighting. He hadn’t blasted buffalo in the Ngora Gora basin, topped tigers in Tibet and walloped the Watusi in God knows where, to be put down by a damned woman.
“Where?”
he spluttered.
“Where?”
    “Right here,” Ms Naylor indicated the immediate vicinity.
    Councillor Ffog put up his hand. “If you will pardon me for asking, who would be expected to foot the bill for this … uh … venture?”
    “I have all the figures to hand. What particular costs were you interested in?”
    Councillor Ffog wiggled his fingers foolishly. “I mean the expense, how much would it cost?”
    Ms Naylor snapped open her Filofax. “To build an Olympic stadium, complete with all facilities, Olympic village, public access roads, etc., etc., etc.”
    “Yes?” said Councillor Ffog.
    “Around one hundred million pounds.”
    Now, there are silences, and there are silences. Some are such that a pin hitting the old fitted Axminster is capable of breaking them. This one, however, was of such a nature that within it the distinctive
futt futt
of brain cells dying within Major McFadeyen’s head were clearly discernible.
    “We have fifty-one pounds, thirty-four pence in the kitty,” said Mavis Peake, a woman to whom silences were simply moments that people used to draw breath between statements. “If you can come up with ninety-nine million, nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and forty-eight pounds sixty-six pence we shall be home and dry. Here,” she continued, with what she considered to be crushing irony, “I’ll throw in my box of matches to light the Olympic flame.”
    Councillor Ffog chuckled horribly. Major McFadeyen munched upon a phenobarbitone. The brothers Geronimo made grave faces and nodded towards one another.
    Paul said, “One hundred million heap big wampam, squaw gott’m screw loose in wigwam attic.”
    Barry nodded. “Me agree, noble brother, squaw been bunging too much loco weed down cakehole.”
    Ms Naylor drew back her shoulders and smoothed down her blouse. “I am well aware that Brentford Borough Council cannot be expected to raise such a sum. The money must come from a private backer.”
    Councillor Ffog, who considered himself to be, as the French have it, “somewhat of a garçon”, enquired as to whether anybody had Bob Geldof’s telephone number.
    Rising from his seat he said, “Although one hundred million is a mere dip into Paul McCartney’s petty cash box, it might not be readily accessible to the average punter.” Satisfied that he had wrought crushing defeat upon his adversary, Ffog grinned smugly and resumed his seat. Before his bum had hit the cushion, however, he was aware that Ms Naylor was continuing her discourse as if he had never spoken.
    “And what if such a backer could be brought forward at this very