Knees Up Mother Earth by Robert Rankin

Pete hoisted himself with difficulty on to his favourite barstool.
    “Not in a month that is composed of Sundays all,” replied Neville, returning himself to his place behind the counter and lowering the flap. “What will it be today, Old Pete? Large dark rum, as ever?”
    “Large dark rum it is.” Old Pete secured Chips’ lead to a stanchion on his stool that had been especially fitted for the purpose and observed Neville as he went about his business.
    “You look the glum Charlie today,” said Old Pete. “Is something troubling you, Neville?”
    “Nothing that I would wish to trouble you with.”
    “Thank the Lord of the lawnseed for that. I only asked out of politeness.” Old Pete accepted his large dark rum and paid for it with the exact small change. “You need a pick-me-up,” said he, raising his glass of rum and giving it a tasting.
    Neville sighed once more, but this time in company. “I need something,” he said.
    “
Mandragora officinarum
,” said Old Pete.
    “Pardon me?” said Neville.
    “
Mandragora officinarum
,” said Old Pete once more. “It’s a powerful aphrodisiac. It used to be known as the ‘gallows plant’ because it was believed to take seed from the seminal effluvia that dripped from hanged criminals. I am currently cultivating a crop of it on my allotment patch. It’s said to have magical powers – prolongs active life, increases virility, puts a spring into your step and lead in your pencil, so to speak.”
    “I’m sure it does,” said Neville wearily.
    “It does too,” said Old Pete. “Do you doubt my words?”
    “Oh no.” Neville gave his head further shakings. Old Pete was hailed hereabouts as a veritable fount of knowledge regarding all matters horticultural. What he didn’t know about allotment cultivation, he didn’t know because it didn’t exist.
    “Well, think on,” said Old Pete.
    And Neville thought on. And this thinking on further depressed him.
    James Arbuthnot Pooley entered The Flying Swan.
    “Watchamate, Pete, Neville,” said Jim in a cheery fashion.
    Old Pete grunted and Neville nodded.
    “Oh dear,” said Jim, crossing to the bar and ascending the stool next to Old Pete. “Do I sense an atmosphere of gloom upon this glorious morning?”
    “It’s Neville,” said Pete. “His pecker’s playing him up and his legs are giving out. Needs a dose of Mandragora. I told him.”
    “There’s nothing wrong with my pecker,” said Neville. “Pint of Large would it be, Jim?”
    “It would,” said Pooley, extracting the exact change from his trouser pocket and counting it on to the counter.
    Neville drew the perfect pint and presented same to his patron.
    Pooley perused the perfect pint, presented same to his laughing gear, took a taste and said, “Ahhh.”
    Neville managed a sort of smile. At least the ale was, as ever, superb. He rang up “no sale” on the aged cash register and deposited Pooley’s coinage therein.
    Pooley placed his perfect pint upon the bar counter, took out his packet of Dadarillos, removed from it an overlong ciggie and lit up.
    “God’s garden-claw,” gasped Old Pete, sniffing at the plume of smoke that wafted in his direction. “Smell’s like a tart’s laundry basket. What are you smoking there, Pooley?”
    “Dadarillos,” said the lad. “An all-new smoking taste sensation. A blend of the finest long-grain tobaccos and an extra special secret ingredient that …”
    “Well blow it somewhere else, you craven buffoon.”
    “Quite so,” said Jim, blowing it somewhere else.
    “Not at me,” said Neville, fanning the air.
    “I’m sorry.”
    “So,” said Old Pete as Jim blew smoke down the front of his open-necked shirt, “given your regular morning’s contribution to Bob the Bookie’s retirement fund, have you, Pooley?”
    “I feel lucky today,” said Jim.
    “Put your money into the soil,” saged the ancient. “Great oaks from little acorns grow and the sprout is the father to the