And female.

Tracy waved a delicate hand towards John. “Good do, innit?” she called.

John gave Tracy the thumbs up. “Make sure the team get as much of the Team Special as they want, on the house,” he called back. And John’s eyes fell upon the breasts of Tracy and verily the sight thereof brought joy unto John. For John had made intimate acquaintance with these breasts in times past, and hopefully would do so again in times soon to come. “Speak to you later,” called Omally. “I have to get things started.”

John Omally eased his way through the crush, mounted the stage and took up the microphone. He blew into it and did the old “one-two-one-two”.

Feedback flooded The Stripes Bar and brought the crowd to attention.

“Good evening, all,” said John, in the manner of the now legendary Dixon of Dock Green.

“Nice start,” said Constable Meek, who had come along in plain clothes to “observe the proceedings”.

“Eh?” said Constable Mild, whose clothes weren’t quite so plain and whose tie would have caused a riot in Tibet.

“Welcome, each and all,” said Omally. “Welcome and thank you for attending this Night of the Stars to raise funds for our club and team. I feel confident in saying that you are about to enjoy a night to remember.”

“Kenneth More was in A Night to Remember,” Old Pete said to Small Dave as he relieved him of his entrance fee and pocketed same. “It was all about the Titanic, if I remember correctly. And I do, because I went down on it.”

Norman regarded his reflection in the dressing-table mirror of the marital bedroom. “Pretty damn hot to trot,” said the shopkeeper, grinning and straightening his wig. “A regular dandy.”

The mothballs were out of the pockets of his granddaddy’s double-breasted evening suit. This suave apparel now graced Norman, who took a little bow before the mirror.

“My lords, ladies and gentlemen,” said Norman, “and indeed Her Majesty the Queen, it is with great pleasure that I receive this Nobel Prize for Services to Mankind. So great, however, is my wealth now that I couldn’t possibly accept the cheque.”

“What are you babbling about?” The voice of Peg swelled from the en suite bathroom that Norman had constructed in the wardrobe.

“Just singing, my dear. Are you almost ready to go?”

“I’ll be ready when I’m ready and not a moment before.”

“Time heals all wounds,” said Norman. “And it’s a small world. Although I wouldn’t want to have to paint it.”

“What was that?”

“I said ‘take your time’.”

“Don’t worry, I will.”

Norman grinned at his reflection. If only she knew, he thought, if only she knew. But she wasn’t going to know, because he was not going to tell her.

Norman had slipped out during the afternoon to the local Patent Office (next to the town hall, in the building with the weathervane shaped like a DNA strand on the top) and there had registered five (count them!) five brand-new never-before-registered patents. And if all went well, and Norman could think of absolutely no reason why all should not go well, he would very shortly be very, very, very rich indeed.

“I shall buy a castle,” whispered Norman to his reflection. “An old castle on top of a hill, with a laboratory in it. And I’ll have all manner of equipment sparking out all over the place and those big we-belong-dead levers that you throw and there—”

“What was that?”

“Nothing, dear. There I will uncover the formula, The Big Figure. I think I’ll go water-skiing, too, I’ve always fancied that.”

“Fancied what?” Peg appeared from the en suite. She wore the gold figure-hugging strapless Lurex number she had worn upon the night Norman met her, in that time so long ago, at The Blue Triangle Club in Ealing Broadway. On a Tuesday night in May, with Jeff Beck on stage and Norman full of Purple Hearts. The gold Lurex figure-hugger hugged somewhat more than it used to. Peg had let it out, inserting gussets of the pink gingham persuasion, which lent her the appearance of an exploding cushion.

“How do I look?” Peg asked.

“Like an expl … Like a vision,” said Norman.

“Yes.” Peg viewed the area of herself that the dressing-table mirror was capable of reflecting. “Like a vision.”

“From the Book of Revelation,” whispered Norman. “Shall we be off?”

Off and running, up upon the stage at The Stripes Bar, were a local tribute heavy-metal band called IRONIC MAIDEN (in capital letters). They were very loud. The crowd pressed themselves back from the stage, feet were trampled upon, drinks spilled and voices raised.

These raised voices went unheard.

“I quite like them!” bawled Mr Rumpelstiltskin towards Old Pete – the noise of the band had raised the barman from his vertical coma.

“I’ve got my deaf aid switched off,” the oldster replied. “You’ll have to shout. Give me a large dark rum and put it on Mr Omally’s bill, I’m on the door.”

Mr Omally was up in Mr Pooley’s office. It was a very, very, very crowded office. John could but barely squeeze himself into it. “The jugglers go on next,” he said. “Can anybody hear me? Where are the jugglers?”

“They’re practising over there,” Tim McGregor told him, “with bits of the Beverley Sisters. And I’ll tell you something else.”

“If you must,” said John.

“The Rock Gods aren’t happy,” said Tim. “No opossum. No lady-boy. No dancing dwarves. No angel fish in an aquarium shaped like a handbag. No—”

“Have Stevie Wonderbra arrived?” John asked.

“Yeah,” said Tim, “but there’s something not quite right about them.”

“I saw them play at The Shrunken Head a couple of weeks ago,” said John. “I hope they’re wearing the same short skirts.”

“The one that was standing next to me taking a pee in the gents was,” said Tim.

“Eh?” said Omally.

A knocking sounded at the office door. John wriggled about and managed to winkle it open an inch or two.

“The Count Basie Orchestra,” said a dapper fellow beaming through the crack at John. “Can we come in?”

Jim Pooley awoke to find his bath water cold. “By Crom,” said Jim, who occasionally favoured some Robert E. Howard, “I must have dropped off. I work too hard. Better get off to the gig.” Jim tried to rise from his bath, but, strangely, he could not.

“That’s odd,” said Jim. “Must have a bit of pins and needles in the old pegs. Probably stress-induced. It’s like that for we high-powered business types. I hope my hair doesn’t go white – although I wouldn’t mind a bit of greying at the temples. Very Stewart Granger.” Jim struggled to rise once more. And found to his horror that not only did his legs not work, but his arms weren’t working either.

“Either you come out, or we come in,” the fellow from the Count Basie Orchestra called through the door crack.

“I can’t get out,” John called back to him. “This room appears to have reached critical mass.”

“Can you pass out our bowls of jelly babies, then?” called the fellow. “The ones with the black jellies taken out. I mentioned them in the list of riders.”

“Can’t seem to get to them right now,” called John. And, “Not now, madam,” he continued, as one of the Stevie Wonderbras squeezed forcefully against him.

“Sorry,” said the Wonderbra. A rather tall Wonderbra. With a rather deep voice for a girlie.

“Get the orchestra on stage,” John called through the door crack. “I’ll be with you as soon as I can.”

“Mr Omally,” called the voice of Howard, “do you have any superglue? This Beverley’s head keeps falling off.”

IRONIC MAIDEN came off stage to very little applause. They made Devil-horn finger gesturings towards the crowd and headed for the bar. The Count Basie Orchestra began to set up their music stands and tune their instruments.