“Holes in the Poles,” said Soap, thrusting the Irishman aside and stalking away to the gents.
“I think you may have offended him,” said Neville.
Omally shrugged. “He’ll be back. Give me another of the same please, Neville. And pray take one for yourself. And what is the explanation of that poster in your window?”
Neville, somewhat taken aback at the Irishman’s generosity, reddened about the cheeks upon the mention of the poster. He pulled two pints in silence. “Poster?” he said, finally. Omally accepted his pint.
“The poster displayed upon your window which reads, and I quote from memory, ‘Thursday Night is Cowboy Night at the Flying Swan, Yahoo, Barbeque Country Music Best-Dressed Cowboy Comp, Big Prizes, Fancy Dress Optional.’”
Neville hung his head in shame. “The brewery,” he said. “After the Channel wading business the brewery seem to have been taking an indecent interest in the Swan’s affairs.”
Omally drew deeply upon his pint. “A sad business,” said he.
“I have been issued with an outfit,” said Neville in a hushed tone.
“Outfit?”
“Cowboy, chaps and all that.”
“Good God.”
“There are prizes for the best dressed cowboy, a bottle of scotch, two hundred cigarettes and a voucher which enables you to dine at one of the brewery’s licensed eating-houses.”
Omally raised his bristling eyebrows. “A bottle of scotch, eh?” His voice was one of casual unconcern. “Has Pooley been in today?”
Neville shook his head. Omally gestured to Neville with a motion which counselled secrecy and discretion. “It is better,” said he, “that we do not cause any great rumpus over this cowboy thing. The regulars might become somewhat incensed, the Swan being an establishment renowned for its conservatism.” Omally pulled at his lower eye-lid suggestively.
Neville nodded thoughtfully. “I can sympathize with your feelings, John,” said he, “but you must understand that the brewery pull the strings as it were and I must comply with their wishes, no matter how unseemly they might appear.”
“Unseemly is hardly the word. And what’s all this about a barbecue?”
“I’ve had one built on the patio of the beer garden.”
“Beer garden?” Omally leant forward across the bar and fixed Neville with a baleful stare. “I have partaken of alcoholic beverage in this establishment man and boy these fifteen years. Possibly I suffer from some strange aberration of the optical apparatus which deprives my sight of beer gardens and patios thereupon, but if you might be referring to the tiny strip of back yard behind the Gents where you stack the empties then I might suggest that you reconsider your terminology.”
“The brewery have done a conversion,” said Neville.
“Oh, a conversion is it? Would this conversion by any chance have been carried out by those two master builders known locally as Jungle John and Hairy Dave?” The part-time barman nodded. “And this patio has been built with the bricks and mortar we were led to believe were to be used in the restructuring of the bog roof?”
Neville hung his head in shame. He had led the deception, it was true. “It was meant to be a nice surprise,” said he in a wounded tone.
“Might we view this nice surprise?” the Irishman asked.
“Not until Thursday,” said the barman, “and Omally, I might beg you not to cause anything in the way of a scandal over this patio. A representative from the brewery will be present for the occasion and any controversy might reflect badly upon my position here.”
Omally sipped thoughtfully at his pint. “How many are you expecting then?”
“About two hundred.”
Omally spluttered into his beer, sending a stream of froth up his nose. “Two hundred?”
“The brewery say that such a turn-out is average, they have put some adverts in the local papers.”
“Regarding these two hundred cowboys who will shortly be descending upon the Flying Swan for a hoe-down in the ten-foot-square backyard,” said Omally. “Can you expect to hear the crack of the mule whip, the roaring of Colt forty-fives, the rattle of wooden wheel and flap of canvas as the mighty covered wagons roll over the prairie bound for Brentford, the thunder of pony hoof upon tarmac and the lusty vocal renderings of ‘Mule Skinner Blues’ and ‘Do Not Forsake Me, Oh My Darling’?”
“There will be cheap drinking and an extension until eleven-thirty,” said Neville.
“Do Not Forsake Me, Oh My Darling,” sang John Omally, flinging an imaginary stetson into the air.
Soap Distant, who had finally returned from the gents, said, “With a bottle of scotch as a prize, cut-price drink and an eleven-thirty extension we can expect to see at least one Irish John Wayne impersonator swaggering through the Saloon Bar door toting a six-gun and asking for two fingers of redeye.”
Omally smiled indulgently. “Possibly, Soap,” said he, “you will be taking the opportunity to invite up a few of your chums from the inner earth. Tell me now, does old Rigdenjyepo get the likes of Laramie on his underworld twenty-inch or is the reception a bit ropey down there?”
Soap rose purposefully to his feet and stood swaying to and fro, his hand upon the bartop for support. “You, sir, are an ignorant Irish blaggard,” quoth he, raising a shaky fist to strike Omally.
“Soap was telling me that flying saucers are manifestations of the static souls of bygone civilizations,” said Neville, who was not only pleased that the subject of Cowboy Night had been forgotten but was also a great stirrer.
“I’ve heard that little gem on more than one occasion,” said John, “but you and I know that there is a logical and straightforward explanation for that particular phenomenon.”
“There is?”
“Of course, flying saucers are in fact nothing more than the chromeplated helmets of five-mile high invisible fairy folk.”
The Irishman, having both sobriety and the eye for impending violence to his account, stepped swiftly out of the hollow-earther’s range. Soap’s fist whistled by harmlessly.
Neville was making some motion towards his knobkerry when the door swung open to reveal none other than Mr James Pooley. Jim stood framed in the opening, thumbs clasped into his belt and a licorish- paper roll-up in the corner of his mouth. “Howdy pardners,” he drawled.
Omally groaned and hid his face in his hands.
“Howdy Soap,” Jim continued, “you subterranean sidewinder, you look mighty like as if yore meaning to slap leather with this here Irish hombre.”
Soap was squaring up for another shot at Omally’s chin; now his fist hovered motionless in mid-air as if freed from the powers of gravity. “You what?” was all he could say.
Neville leant across the counter. “Before you ask, Jim,” he said, “I am fresh out of Buckskin bourbon, Mississippi Sippin’ liquor, Kentucky rye, Redeye whiskey or any other brand of white man’s firewater.”
“I shall just have a pint of the usual then Neville.” Jim seated himself between the two combatants and withdrew from his pocket the exact change. Neville drew off a pint of his very best.
Soap placed a drunken hand upon Jim’s shoulder. “I am glad you have arrived, Jim Pooley, for now you can witness the rapid demolition of this Irish lout here.”
Pooley whistled through his teeth. “That indeed will be a sight worth watching.”
“It will be terrible but instructive,” said Soap.
“Soap,” said Jim, “Soap, may I ask under which grand master of the oriental arts you study?”
Soap said, “Eh?”
“Well, I take it that you are acquainted with Mr Omally’s skills in this direction?”
Soap shook his head and peered suspiciously over Jim’s shoulder at the Irishman.
“You are surely aware,” Jim continued, “that Omally here is an exponent of Dimac, the
