The Sprouts of Wrath Read Online Free PDF Page B

moment? What then, gentlemen?” Ms Naylor glanced pointedly towards Mavis. “And lady, of course.”
    “Do so!”
roared the Major.
“Do so, madam!”
    “Macca’s petty cash box, eh?” whispered Ffog, winking lewdly and nudging a Geronimo twin about the buckskin ribs. Mavis Peake leant forward in her chair. Any attempt upon her part to indulge in any erotic breast-brushing, however, would have required her to place her chin firmly upon the table. “If you can find a philanthropist willing to finance a Brentford Olympiad to the tune of one hundred million pounds,” she sneered, “then we shall all second the motion and declare it carried.”
    “Hear, hear,” mumbled a muddy brown Major, drifting into a pharmaceutical haze. A further chorus of hear hears filled the unhealthy atmosphere of the council chamber. Philip Cameron clutched at his testicles and maintained a bitter, clench-toothed silence.
    Ms Naylor smiled and nodded her head gently as if in time to some secret melody. “So be it then,” she said dramatically. “Consider it done.” She clapped her hands and at the signal the doors of the council chamber opened to reveal a pair of Covent Garden design-studio-executive-types sporting designer sunglasses, clipped beards and Paul Smith suits. They flanked what appeared to be a hospital trolley, its upper regions shrouded beneath folds of white linen.
    “Oooh!” said Clyde Ffog, straightening his tie. “Nice.”
    “May we enter?” enquired the taller of the two.
    Clyde Ffog nodded enthusiastically. “Please do,” said he.
    “Ladies and gentlemen,” said the smaller of the pair, “I am Julian Membrane and this is my associate, Lucas Mucus.” Lucas bowed slightly from the waist, anticipating the looks of disbelief which generally greeted his name. “Of the Membrane, Mucus, Willoby, Turncoat and Gladbetook Partnership, specialists in the conceptualizing of new marketing trends through increased consumer product awareness. Design Consultants. Our card.”
    Paul Geronimo eyed the thing suspiciously, “White brother speak with forked tongue,” he observed. “Talk load of old buffalo chips,” his brother agreed.
    “We should very much like to make for you our presentation,” Membrane continued. “We are acting upon the part of our client, a great philanthropist who wishes to finance the games here. He is a scientist and something of a recluse and he wishes for us to make this presentation upon his behalf. He chooses anonymity; we honour his wishes.”
    “Words spill from white brother’s mouth like wheat from chafing dish of careless squaw,” said Paul Geronimo. Barry eyed his brother proudly. He could never think of things like that to say. He went along with Paul’s conviction that they were a dual reincarnation of the great Apache chief mostly because he liked dressing up.
    “Thus,” said Julian Membrane, “we offer our conceptual representation for the proposed Brentford Olympiad.” With a flourish, he drew aside the linen cover from the trolley to expose a scale model of Brentford. With a chorus of
“oohs”
and
“ahs”
, those councillors that were able rose from their seats to view the wonder. For wonder it indeed was.
    The model’s realism was uncanny — the entire borough reduced, as if by magic, to doll’s house proportions. The councillors gathered about it, cooing and pointing, anxious to examine their own houses, as well as those of their fellows. Mavis Peake let out a little excited cry. “Even my bedroom curtains are the right colour!”
    “What are those things in your back garden then?” Philip Cameron asked Clyde Ffog. “They look like instruments of torture.”
    “Rubbish,” spluttered the reddening Ffog. “They’re … er … bean-frames.”
    Philip Cameron was unconvinced. Paul Geronimo whispered loudly to the effect that “brown-hatted brother heap big bondage fan”.
    “This is an invasion of privacy!” cried Ffog. “So where is the bloody stadium