for
something
.
On the Sunday Norman drove off to Epsom in his Morris Minor. He set out early and sought the grandest-looking stables. Here he leaned upon the fence and watched the horses being groomed. He had brought with him two essential items. A breeder’s guide and a bucket. These were all he needed to gain the
something
he required.
His technique proved to be faultless. Having selected from the breeder’s guide a horse suitable for cloning, Norman shouted abuse at the stable lad grooming it. The stable lad replied to Norman’s abuse in the manner which has been favoured by stable lads since the very dawning of time.
He hurled horseshit at Norman.
Norman gathered up the horseshit and put it in his bucket.
Having visited five stables, Norman had a full bucket, containing all the genetic material he needed.
He was even home in time for Sunday lunch.
On the Monday, Norman used whatever time he could between serving customers to slip away to his back kitchen workshop and extract the DNA from the horseshit. This was a rather tricky task, requiring, as it did, a very large magnifying glass, a very small pair of tweezers and a very steady hand …
By shop-close, however, he’d filled up a test tube. Now, there is, apparently, something of a knack to gene-splicing. It calls for some pretty high-tech state-of-the-art equipment, which is only to be found in government research establishments. Norman did not have access to these, so instead he gave the test tube a bloody good shake. Which was bound to splice something.
On the Tuesday, which was today, things had not gone well for Norman. He’d been hoping to at least knock out a test horse, but there had been too many interruptions.
People kept bothering him for things. Could he get them this? Could he get them that? Norman told them all that he certainly could not. And then there had been all the fuss about the videos.
He should never have started hiring out videos. It was a very bad idea. Norman couldn’t think for the life of him why he’d started doing it in the first place. But then, for the life of him, he remembered that he could.
It was all the fault of John Omally.
Omally had come into Norman’s shop a couple of months before, complaining bitterly that there was nowhere in Brentford where you could hire out a videotape.
Norman had shrugged in his shopcoat.
“There’s a fortune waiting for the first man who opens a video shop around here,” said Omally.
Norman nodded as he shrugged.
“A fortune,” said John. “I’d open one myself, but the problem is finding the premises.”
“Why is that the problem?” Norman asked.
“Because there aren’t any shops to rent around here.”
“Which must be why no one has opened a video shop.”
“Exactly,” said Omally. “And it’s not as if you’d need a particularly large shop. In fact, when you come to think about it, all you’d really need would be a bit of shelf space in an existing shop.”
“I see,” said Norman.
Omally glanced around at Norman’s shop. “I mean, take this place, for instance,” he said. “Those shelves over there. The ones with all the empty sweetie jars. Those shelves there could be earning you a thousand pounds a week.”
“How much?” said Norman.
“A thousand pounds a week.”
“Those shelves there?”
“Those shelves there.”
“Bless my soul,” said Norman.
Omally did a bit of shrugging. “Makes you think,” said he.
“It certainly does,” Norman agreed. “Of course, there would be the enormous capital outlay of buying all the videos.”
“Not if you had the right connections.”
“I don’t,” said Norman.
“I do,” said John.
And it
had
seemed a good idea at the time. What with Omally knowing where he could lay his hands on five hundred videotapes for a pound each. It was only after Norman had parted with the money and Omally had loaded the tapes onto the shelves that Norman thought to ask a question.
“What are on these
something
.
On the Sunday Norman drove off to Epsom in his Morris Minor. He set out early and sought the grandest-looking stables. Here he leaned upon the fence and watched the horses being groomed. He had brought with him two essential items. A breeder’s guide and a bucket. These were all he needed to gain the
something
he required.
His technique proved to be faultless. Having selected from the breeder’s guide a horse suitable for cloning, Norman shouted abuse at the stable lad grooming it. The stable lad replied to Norman’s abuse in the manner which has been favoured by stable lads since the very dawning of time.
He hurled horseshit at Norman.
Norman gathered up the horseshit and put it in his bucket.
Having visited five stables, Norman had a full bucket, containing all the genetic material he needed.
He was even home in time for Sunday lunch.
On the Monday, Norman used whatever time he could between serving customers to slip away to his back kitchen workshop and extract the DNA from the horseshit. This was a rather tricky task, requiring, as it did, a very large magnifying glass, a very small pair of tweezers and a very steady hand …
By shop-close, however, he’d filled up a test tube. Now, there is, apparently, something of a knack to gene-splicing. It calls for some pretty high-tech state-of-the-art equipment, which is only to be found in government research establishments. Norman did not have access to these, so instead he gave the test tube a bloody good shake. Which was bound to splice something.
On the Tuesday, which was today, things had not gone well for Norman. He’d been hoping to at least knock out a test horse, but there had been too many interruptions.
People kept bothering him for things. Could he get them this? Could he get them that? Norman told them all that he certainly could not. And then there had been all the fuss about the videos.
He should never have started hiring out videos. It was a very bad idea. Norman couldn’t think for the life of him why he’d started doing it in the first place. But then, for the life of him, he remembered that he could.
It was all the fault of John Omally.
Omally had come into Norman’s shop a couple of months before, complaining bitterly that there was nowhere in Brentford where you could hire out a videotape.
Norman had shrugged in his shopcoat.
“There’s a fortune waiting for the first man who opens a video shop around here,” said Omally.
Norman nodded as he shrugged.
“A fortune,” said John. “I’d open one myself, but the problem is finding the premises.”
“Why is that the problem?” Norman asked.
“Because there aren’t any shops to rent around here.”
“Which must be why no one has opened a video shop.”
“Exactly,” said Omally. “And it’s not as if you’d need a particularly large shop. In fact, when you come to think about it, all you’d really need would be a bit of shelf space in an existing shop.”
“I see,” said Norman.
Omally glanced around at Norman’s shop. “I mean, take this place, for instance,” he said. “Those shelves over there. The ones with all the empty sweetie jars. Those shelves there could be earning you a thousand pounds a week.”
“How much?” said Norman.
“A thousand pounds a week.”
“Those shelves there?”
“Those shelves there.”
“Bless my soul,” said Norman.
Omally did a bit of shrugging. “Makes you think,” said he.
“It certainly does,” Norman agreed. “Of course, there would be the enormous capital outlay of buying all the videos.”
“Not if you had the right connections.”
“I don’t,” said Norman.
“I do,” said John.
And it
had
seemed a good idea at the time. What with Omally knowing where he could lay his hands on five hundred videotapes for a pound each. It was only after Norman had parted with the money and Omally had loaded the tapes onto the shelves that Norman thought to ask a question.
“What are on these
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