“But I thought you said—”

“I don’t want your money,” said John.

“You don’t?” said Mr Kay.

“No,” said John. “Perish the thought. All I want is that.”

“What is that?” asked Jim Pooley of the man who now stood before his desk.

“It’s a mobile phone,” said John Omally. “I acquired it from Mr Kay in the High Street.”

“A mobile phone?” Pooley drew back in horror. “I’ve heard about those lads,” he said. “They fry your brain with microwaves. Otherwise normal individuals turn into burbling fools the moment they put one of those things to their ear. They feel compelled to call people simply to inform them of their whereabouts. They will be the death of us all. Throw the thing away, John, while you still have the power to do so.”

“Enough of your nonsense, Jim. This little baby is all charged up and ready to bring fortune to the both of us.”

“I am afeared,” said Jim. “Use it out in the open, lest the death rays penetrate my groin.”

“No,” said John. “I’ve read that an independent committee formed from employees of the mobile phone companies has declared these contraptions to be absolutely harmless.”

“Well, don’t blame me if you end up speaking in a high voice and feeling the urge to ride Marchant side-saddle.”

“I’ll use it outside, if it bothers you so much.”

“It does, and who do you intend to call on it anyway?”

“A-list celebrities. Name bands. All manner of folk.”

“May God go with you, then.”

“Thank you, my friend.”

Now, there are friends who have friends, who have other friends of their own (some of whom, no doubt, live by a river) and John Omally had cultivated many friendships in his time – mostly, it is true, with the female of his species. John had an awful lot of numbers in his little black book and the battery of his new mobile phone was all charged up.

Lunchtime found John still making phone calls. He sat now in The Stripes Bar, in the corner he had marked out as his office, in a chair he had acquired from Goddard’s Home-Furnishing Stores in the area of the High Street known as the Brentford Half-Acre. Mr Goddard had loaned the comfy recliner (the 3000 series Royal Damask model) in return for having his company logo printed upon the team’s shirts. The chair was a plug-in jobbie with a footrest that went up and down to offer support for the varicosely inclined and a vibrating doodad built into the seat for those who were otherwise inclined. John had the remote control in his phone-free hand and John’s feet were going up and down.

“So let me get this straight,” John was saying, “you said to Val Parnell that if your name didn’t go above the jugglers, you would not appear.”

John listened as further words poured into his ear.

“And do you think you can get all three Beverley Sisters?” he enquired.

Jim Pooley drank at the bar counter. He had no wish to interrupt John in the course of his business.

“He’s certainly doing his stuff, isn’t he?” Jim said to Mr Rumpelstiltskin.

“He’s switched breweries also,” said the barman. “We’ll have Large here on the hand pump by this evening.”

“Bliss,” said Jim.

“You reckon?” The barman shrugged. “He’s ordered enough beer for tonight to slake the thirst of the Queen’s Own Regiment of Foot, Fowl and Four-by-Two, and it’s not on sale or return.”

“Beer never is,” said Jim.

“The sort I always ordered was.”

Jim shrugged also.

“And crisps,” said the barman. “I never trouble with crisps. Too messy, crisps. They get in the carpet. I can’t be doing with crisps.”

Jim cast a shufty around and about the dire establishment. There was nothing that crisps could do to make it any worse than it already was.

“And peanuts,” said the barman mournfully. “And he’s hiring in extra bar staff. Women, I’m told.”

“Stop now,” said Jim. “You’ll spoil the surprise.”

“And bunting.”

“Stop, please.”

“I don’t know where you are going to find all the money.”

“Definitely stop,” Jim told him. “All will be well.”

“I’m thinking of running away with the circus,” said Mr Rumpelstiltskin.

“Am I speaking to the Tom Jones?” Jim heard John Omally say.

“And who exactly am I speaking to?” Norman asked.

He was in his kitchenette and his telephone wasn’t working properly. He’d had to wire it back into the box into which he’d wired the Internet cable of his computer and there had been some more scorching of the fingertips involved.

“Ah yes,” said Norman. “The Patent Office, Mr Parker … Pardon? Oh yes, I see, Percy Parker the patents person – rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it? I said, ‘It rolls off the tongue.’ Yes. Listen, I have to talk to you about a number of inventions. I want to know whether patents have ever been taken out on them. Pardon? Oh yes, I see, you’re the man to ask. Right then. Sorry, what? Ask you then? Yes, I will.”

“Will I what?” Neville stared across the saloon bar counter of The Flying Swan at Old Pete, who stood smiling before him. “I thought I told you that you were barred for a week.”

“You did,” said Old Pete, who today actually smelt of old peat, for he had been turning his allotment beds.

“And you want me to do what?” Neville asked.

“Just put one of these up in your window and a bundle of these on your counter.” Old Pete proffered papers.

“Are they pamphlets?” asked Councillor Doveston, who had just popped in for a swift half-dozen before settling in for his afternoon snooze.

“Flyers,” said Old Pete, thrusting one in the councillor’s direction.

“About bees, by any chance?”

“The Brentford Bees,” said Old Pete. “There’s a benefit fund-raising night this evening at The Stripes Bar. John Omally had these pamphlets run up on the library photocopier. I’m giving them out in return for free entrance to the event. Cheap beer and A-list celebrities.”

“Out of my bar!” cried Neville.

“Excuse me?” said Old Pete.

“You heard me.” Neville reached for his knobkerrie. “Traitorous knave!”

“Now, let me get this straight,” said Old Pete. “Are you refusing to display the poster and hand out some flyers?”

Neville’s face was a sight to be seen. And not a very pretty one. “Out!” he roared.

“You are saying,” said Old Pete, unflinchingly, “that you do not wish to offer your support to an enterprise that might save Brentford football ground?”

“I …” said Neville. “I … never—”

“You wish to number yourself amongst the vile would-be despoilers of our borough who seek to destroy our glorious heritage?”

“I never said that.” Neville shook from Brylcreemed head to carpet-slippered toe.

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Old Pete. “I dread to think of how dire the consequences might be for you if you had.” He mimed once more the throwing of a rope over a high beam.

“Give them here,” snarled Neville, “and then depart.”

“Are you not going to offer me one for the road?”

“Get out.”

Old Pete chuckled as he shuffled away. “Don’t forget to put up the poster,” he called upon his departure.

“I know it’s a bit of a departure from the norm,” John Omally was saying into his mobile phone, “but please bear with me on this, there is a good reason for it.”

Words of affirmative reply were evidently spoken into John’s ear.

“Thanks very much and see you later.” John switched off his mobile phone and slotted it into the top pocket of his jacket. “All done,” said he.

Jim viewed his bestest friend from the bar counter. “All done?” he said.

John pressed a button on his remote control and lowered his feet to the unspeakable (but crisp-free) carpet. “All done,” he said. “Everything arranged.”