Scotch whisky, of cheap cigar smoke, of exclusive perfume and of other smells, strange and haunting and unfathomable.
Of frying fish. Old Pete turned the large salmon steak (an unexpected gift from Neville) in his cankerous frying pan and whistled “When the Boat Comes In”. Young Chips barked an off-key counterpoint. It hadn’t been a bad old day all in all and there was still the evening to come.
Of Scotch whisky. In the allotment shed John Omally poured two large glasses of ten-year-old malt and handed one to Scoop Molloy.
“Cheers,” said the star reporter, passing John a brown envelope containing several bank-notes of high denomination. “And thanks for the tip-off.”
“My pleasure,” said himself. “I suggest that we drink to further scoops of an exclusive nature.”
“Your health.”
“And yours.”
Of cheap cigar smoke. The editor of the
Brentford Mercury
paced the floor of the print room, enveloped in a thick blue haze. Through this, Williams, the languid typesetter, peered up at intervals from the vast cryptic crossword he was composing to catch the latest philippic directed towards a certain newly arrived police inspectre.
Beneath the editor’s pacing feet and torn asunder lay the trampled remnants which were some of the greatest headlines never to see the light of day: BRAVES PASTE POOF IN BRIBERY SCANDAL SENSATION. This and no less than twenty-seven permutations of equal literary worth had been done to death that very afternoon when Hovis had unexpectedly arrived at the office, slapped a D-notice on the whole thing, declared it
sub judice
and paraphrased the famous Fleet Street axiom with the words, “Publish and be nicked.”
The editor puffed and paced, effed and blinded and did such other things as ruing the day and damning the eye of. Williams squinted through the blue fug towards his wristlet watch. He’d soon be on double time. He would wait until that time before he suggested that they could always use BRENTFORD TO HOST NEXT OLYMPICS! which was probably the greatest headline the
Mercury
was ever likely to get — without fear of prosecution. In the meantime, he was having a problem finding a word to fit forty-seven across. He had something “A”, something something “A”, something “D”.
“Bastard!” shouted the now invisible editor.
“Ideal,” said Williams. “BA-STAR-D, astronomical graduate likes a cuppa, or something like that.”
Of exclusive perfume. Jennifer Naylor arrayed herself upon a chromium bar-stool before the faux-marble counter of Punter’s Wine Bar, sipping a cocktail and considering the doings of her day. A wry smile played about her delicate lips and her equally delicate fingers played about a ludicrous miniature sunshade which shish-kebabbed a Morello cherry and a slice of canned pineapple.
To the sounds of a drum-roll and stupendous applause (heard only to himself), the establishment’s proprietor, one Robert Tucker, known and hated locally as Bob the Bookie, swaggered through the reproduction art deco doorway.
Tonight he was a vision in white. A Japanese silk jacket hung upon his shoulders at “Full Zorro”. Sleeves dangling like those of a double amputee. The inevitable Raybans were strung about his neck and the two-inch Cuban heels raised everything except his credibility. This was amply catered for by the Rolls-Royce key-ring which swung from a belt loop above his padded crotch, and a wallet containing a secret contrivance, designed for him by Norman, which could project his American Express Gold Card into the lap of a likely-looking female at the touch of a secret button.
Feigning nonchalance at the singular lack of “punters” this Happy Hour, he flexed his shoulders, stooped to retrieve his jacket and sauntered over to his single patroness.
“Hi, Jen baby,” he crooned, clambering on to the next bar stool. “What’s happening?”
“Simply enjoying the tranquillity of your wine bar,” Jennifer explained.
Of frying fish. Old Pete turned the large salmon steak (an unexpected gift from Neville) in his cankerous frying pan and whistled “When the Boat Comes In”. Young Chips barked an off-key counterpoint. It hadn’t been a bad old day all in all and there was still the evening to come.
Of Scotch whisky. In the allotment shed John Omally poured two large glasses of ten-year-old malt and handed one to Scoop Molloy.
“Cheers,” said the star reporter, passing John a brown envelope containing several bank-notes of high denomination. “And thanks for the tip-off.”
“My pleasure,” said himself. “I suggest that we drink to further scoops of an exclusive nature.”
“Your health.”
“And yours.”
Of cheap cigar smoke. The editor of the
Brentford Mercury
paced the floor of the print room, enveloped in a thick blue haze. Through this, Williams, the languid typesetter, peered up at intervals from the vast cryptic crossword he was composing to catch the latest philippic directed towards a certain newly arrived police inspectre.
Beneath the editor’s pacing feet and torn asunder lay the trampled remnants which were some of the greatest headlines never to see the light of day: BRAVES PASTE POOF IN BRIBERY SCANDAL SENSATION. This and no less than twenty-seven permutations of equal literary worth had been done to death that very afternoon when Hovis had unexpectedly arrived at the office, slapped a D-notice on the whole thing, declared it
sub judice
and paraphrased the famous Fleet Street axiom with the words, “Publish and be nicked.”
The editor puffed and paced, effed and blinded and did such other things as ruing the day and damning the eye of. Williams squinted through the blue fug towards his wristlet watch. He’d soon be on double time. He would wait until that time before he suggested that they could always use BRENTFORD TO HOST NEXT OLYMPICS! which was probably the greatest headline the
Mercury
was ever likely to get — without fear of prosecution. In the meantime, he was having a problem finding a word to fit forty-seven across. He had something “A”, something something “A”, something “D”.
“Bastard!” shouted the now invisible editor.
“Ideal,” said Williams. “BA-STAR-D, astronomical graduate likes a cuppa, or something like that.”
Of exclusive perfume. Jennifer Naylor arrayed herself upon a chromium bar-stool before the faux-marble counter of Punter’s Wine Bar, sipping a cocktail and considering the doings of her day. A wry smile played about her delicate lips and her equally delicate fingers played about a ludicrous miniature sunshade which shish-kebabbed a Morello cherry and a slice of canned pineapple.
To the sounds of a drum-roll and stupendous applause (heard only to himself), the establishment’s proprietor, one Robert Tucker, known and hated locally as Bob the Bookie, swaggered through the reproduction art deco doorway.
Tonight he was a vision in white. A Japanese silk jacket hung upon his shoulders at “Full Zorro”. Sleeves dangling like those of a double amputee. The inevitable Raybans were strung about his neck and the two-inch Cuban heels raised everything except his credibility. This was amply catered for by the Rolls-Royce key-ring which swung from a belt loop above his padded crotch, and a wallet containing a secret contrivance, designed for him by Norman, which could project his American Express Gold Card into the lap of a likely-looking female at the touch of a secret button.
Feigning nonchalance at the singular lack of “punters” this Happy Hour, he flexed his shoulders, stooped to retrieve his jacket and sauntered over to his single patroness.
“Hi, Jen baby,” he crooned, clambering on to the next bar stool. “What’s happening?”
“Simply enjoying the tranquillity of your wine bar,” Jennifer explained.
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