“Who’s back?” Jim asked.

“Archroy is back.”

“Archroy?”

John looked at Jim.

And Jim looked at John.

“Archroy is back?” said Jim.

“That’s what I said.” Small Dave took up his pint in his two tiny hands, which Jim and John refrained from gazing upon, and gulped away the better part of it. “Arrived this morning, looking very full of himself. Well tanned he is and wearing a pith helmet.”

“He’s been gone for ages,” said Jim. “How long has it been?”

“Eighteen months,” said Small Dave, finishing his pint. “Went in search of the Ark of Noah that supposedly rests upon Mount Ararat, which is now buried in the ice.”

“And did he find it?” asked Jim.

“Apparently not. The borders are closed – there was some unpleasantness – so he set sail for other parts.”

“He’s a nutter,” said John. “Always was. A dreamer, even when we were back at school together. He goes off on his wanderings in search of mythical artefacts and always comes back empty-handed.”

“Not this time,” said Small Dave, rattling his empty glass upon the table. “This time he’s hit the motherlode. Oh no, my voice is giving out again.”

“One more, then,” said Omally, calling out to Mr Rumpelstiltskin for more. “But this had better be good.”

“Oh, it is.” Small Dave awaited the arrival of his new pint and, upon its arrival, continued with the telling of his tale. “He got blown off course somewhere in the Adriatic. Got washed up upon an island.” Small Dave went on to name the island.

“Never heard of it,” said John.

“That’s because it’s not on any modern map. Did you ever see that film Jason and the Argonauts?”

“One of my favourites,” said Jim. “A Ray Harryhausen.”

“That’s the one,” said Small Dave.

“Ah, yes,” said Jim, “and that island is where Jason captured the Golden Fleece.”

“You are correct,” said Small Dave. “And that’s what Archroy’s done.”

“What has he done?” John asked.

“He’s found the Golden Fleece and he’s brought it back to Brentford.”

John looked at Jim once more.

And Jim looked back at John.

“On your way, Dave,” said John Omally. “And give that pint to me.”

“I’m not kidding, lads,” said Small Dave, clinging on to his pint. “He really has found it, and it really is magic. Remember the warts?”

“What warts would these be?” asked John, as if he didn’t know.

“As if you don’t know,” said Small Dave. “All over my hands. Well, look at them now.” And Small Dave held up his hands. “He laid the Golden Fleece upon me and all my warts vanished away.”

And John beheld the hands of Small Dave.

And Jim beheld these hands also.

And lo, these hands were free of warts.

These tiny hands were wartless.

“Now let me just quote you, John,” said Jim. “Nothing else weird is going to occur, you said. Nothing else preposterous.”

Norman drank that lunchtime in The Flying Swan, in the company of Ms Bennett. Later, the two of them took a little drive in Norman’s van.

And what went on in that van, somewhat later, when it was parked-up in a quiet cul-de-sac, would have been considered by John to be more than quite preposterous.

Archroy did not pop into The Stripes Bar for a pint or two to celebrate his unexpected return to Brentford. Neither did he pop into The Flying Swan. Which was probably a good thing, because Neville was having a bit of trouble with the brewery.

It was Tuesday now and Neville was cringing at the unexpected and truly unwelcome arrival of the brewery-owner’s son, Young Master Robert.

Young Master Robert paced up and down The Swan’s saloon bar, turning occasionally to glance at Neville before pacing on.

“Everything is in order,” Neville told him. “The books balance, as near as books can balance. Trade is good.”

“Really?” Young Master Robert ceased his pacing and turned his visage fully upon Neville. “Words reach my ear,” said he, “words to the effect that The Stripes Bar has engaged the services of a lunchtime stripper.”

“No,” said Neville. “Really?”

“Trade appears somewhat slack in here at the present,” said the young master. “And the present is lunchtime, is it not?”

“They’ll be in soon,” said Neville. “They always are – young pasty-faced office types. We get through a lot of cider.”

“But not today, apparently.”

“They’ll be in.”

“Then perhaps I’ll wait and say my hellos.”

“Cheese,” said Neville.

“Needs a pep-up,” said Young Master Robert. “This place needs a pep-up, something to draw in the punters.”

“We have regular trade,” said Neville. “This is a highly respected establishment, very popular with the locals.”

“A lot of no-marks.” Young Master Robert paced up to the bar counter and sat himself down upon Old Pete’s favourite stool, which was unusually empty. “I hear that the team actually won a match on Saturday.”

“Indeed,” said Neville, “and I am responsible for appointing the new manager, not that I wish to take any credit. Although if any is going, I will receive it without complaint.”

“Needs a pep-up,” said Young Master Robert. “Needs a new look.”

“It really doesn’t.” Neville found himself wringing his hands. He thrust these wringing hands into his trouser pockets. “It’s perfect as it is. It couldn’t be more perfect.”

“New look,” said Young Master Robert. “Pep-up. Vodka and Slimline.”

Neville hastened to oblige. “Please don’t do anything to the decor,” he begged the young master as he presented him with his drink.

“One thing at a time,” said the brewery-owner’s one and only boy-child. “Let’s start with the bar staff.”

“Oh no,” said Neville. “You’re not going to sack me?”

“Oh no, not yet, but the place needs a little colour. And if The Stripes has strippers, then The Flying Swan needs ladies, too.”

“Not strippers,” said Neville. “Anything but strippers.”

“Not strippers, but female bar staff.”

Neville flinched, horribly. He’d never met a woman yet who could draw a decent pint.

“Female bar staff?” he said in a tremulous tone.

“Topless female bar staff,” said Young Master Robert.

“By the shades of the seraphim,” said Jim Pooley, for Dr Strange Comics were rarely far from his mind these days, “that lady has very large bosoms.”

“Very large,” said John Omally. “I agree that she doesn’t have much of an act, just sort of crawls on to the stage and tries to stand upright, but it works for me.”

John and Jim viewed the stripper, as did the large male contingent that thronged The Stripes Bar. Which included, upon this occasion, the now legendary Ivor Biggun.

“A decent turnout for a lunchtime,” said Jim.

“It’s a wonder what a few posters will do,” said John.

“Neville is not going to like this.”

“He’s a professional. He understands the spirit of healthy competition. Hey, look, here’s Norman. And who’s that with him? I know that woman.”

“Hello, lads,” said Norman, mooching up to the bar counter. “This is my business associate, Ms Bennett.”

“We’ve met,” said John, putting out his hand for an intimate shake.

“Have we?” said Ms Bennett, declining the offer of John’s hand.

“Champagne,” said Norman, “if you have any.”

“Of course we have.” John drew the attention of Mr Rumpelstiltskin, which was difficult as the barman’s eyes were fixed upon the bosom of the stripper. “Champagne over here.”

“She’s nearly up,” said Mr Rumpelstiltskin. “No, she’s down again.”

“Champagne,” repeated Omally.

“Cheers,” said Norman. “And get in further glasses. You can have some, too.”

“So what are we celebrating?” Omally asked.

“My patents,” said Norman. “I am shortly to be very rich indeed.”

“This would be the electrical business that nearly killed us all in The Flying Swan, would it?” said John.