“Perish the thought,” said Omally. “My heart belongs to you.”

“Your heart, then, should perhaps inform your penis of this truth.”

“Perhaps so.”

Lil heaped several pre-cooked-and-ready-for-a-warm-up bangers into the cacky pan and shook the pan around upon the gas hob.

“Do you never think about settling down, John?” she asked through the smoke.

“All the time,” said himself, “which is why I always keep on the move.”

“You could do little better than to find yourself a good woman.”

“There are many to be found.” John turned towards himself a copy of the Brentford Mercury (numbered by Norman for a house in a nearby street and wrongly delivered by Zorro the paperboy who cared nought for Norman’s numberings) which lay upon the counter and viewed its front page. “Many, many, many,” he continued in a wistful tone.

“You are a scoundrel.” Lil popped two doorsteps into the toaster and rammed down the starter with a thumbnail painted Rose du Barry.

“Poo,” said Omally. “This sits most uneasily.”

“You have some complaint to make about my seating?” A fierceness arose in the voice of Lil.

“Not a bit of it, fair lady. I allude to the headline news upon the day’s broadsheet. Inasmuch that the council are, as we engage in pleasant social intercourse, sealing the fate of the football ground.”

“I didn’t have you down as a supporter, John. A small bird whispered into my ear that when a match is on, you are generally to be found in the arms of the goalkeeper’s wife.”

“A damnable lie,” quoth Omally, for indeed it was, it being the centre-forward’s wife that John was prone to visit. “But this is an outrage. I shall write to my MP.”

“Your MP?” Lil laughed. “You’ve never even voted in your life.”

“Voting for the lesser of two evils holds no appeal for me.”

“Let’s face it, John.” Two charred doorsteps leapt suddenly from the toaster to be deftly caught by Lil. “The club is finished. Everyone knows that it’s finished. It was just a matter of time before some big business concern bought up the land and built housing on it.”

“Outrage,” declared John. “Iconoclasm.”

“I’ll bet you’ve never even been to a match.” Lil scooped up the contents of the cacky pan, which now included mushrooms, bacon, black pudding and a beetle named Derek, and delivered this eclectic cuisine to a dinner plate that had once boasted a willow pattern. This, in turn, in the company of the burned toast (now buttered) she delivered unto John Omally.

“And a mug of tea,” said himself. “In my usual mug.”

“I’ll bring it over,” said Lil. “Enjoy.”

Omally bore his breakfast to the nearest table, which although not his favourite was not entirely without favour and set to tucking in. Pull down the football club, he thought as he ate. Appalling, diabolical – why, that would mean pulling down The Stripes Bar beneath the south stand, where ale at below-average price could be enjoyed at hours that were outside those of normal licensing. And, of course, it might well leave the Bees’ centre forward with nothing to do on a Saturday afternoon. And of course there was the matter of Brentford’s glorious heritage. And such like.

Omally pressed on with his repast. They’d sell the ground, he knew that they would. Those town councillors, they were all up to some kind of no-good, everyone knew that. All up to no good, with the exception of Neville.

Omally, as a regular in the saloon bar of The Flying Swan, held Neville in high esteem. In fact, it had been Omally’s idea to put the part-time barman up as a candidate for one of the vacant seats on the town council – out of public spiritedness, of course. That and the fact that Omally had been told that council meetings often ran late into the night, which meant that Neville would have to leave the bar in the hands of Croughton the pot-bellied pot man, an inebriate buffoon who could always be inveigled into serving after hours.

A practice that Neville frowned deeply upon.

But you couldn’t just pull down the football club, plough up the ground. You couldn’t. You just couldn’t.

Sadly, John knew all too well that you could. You just could. It happened all too regularly nowadays. In fact, it was something of a current fashion.

Lil brought over Omally’s tea and stared down between her bosoms at the thoughtful Irishman.

“There’s no stopping what can’t be stopped,” she said, which rang a bell somewhere. “Don’t let it play on your mind, John.”

Omally sipped his tea and burned his mouth. “It just doesn’t seem right,” said he.

At length, John finished his breakfast and patted his belly. The morning sun shone in upon him and the Irishman’s spirits, so recently lowered, were lifted again. Today was, after all, another day and a day that it was his duty to enjoy to the full, being the sort of fellow that he was – to whit, one who truly revelled in life. There were pennies that must be earned and then spent, things to do and people to see.

“Excuse me, sir.”

Omally looked up.

A fellow looked down at him, a fellow in a drab grey suit, with a painfully thin face and matching hair. A drab and pale grey fellow, all at odds with the day.

“How might I help you?” Omally enquired with politeness.

“It’s how I might help you,” said the fellow. Which set certain alarm bells ringing.

“Oh yes?” said Omally, in the voice of undisguised suspicion.

“Oh, don’t get me wrong. Might I sit?” The fellow did so without waiting for a reply. “It’s just that I’m in a bit of a dilemma and I think we might be able to help each other out.”

“I suspect that at least half of that statement might hold some degree of truth,” said Omally.

“Do you smoke?” asked the fellow.

“Ah,” said John. “Duty-frees, is it?”

“Not as such. Allow me to explain. I’m a salesman, travelling in tobaccos and ready-rolled cigarettes.”

“I know,” said Omally. “I saw you when I came in.”

The fellow shook his head. “I sell these.” He hoisted a bulging suitcase on to the table, all but upsetting Omally’s mug, tugged it open and withdrew a packet of Dadarillos. “I’m covering this area. I’ve got a caseful, but the local shops don’t seem very keen to purchase.”

“They wouldn’t be,” said John. “This is a very conservative neighbourhood.”

“But they’re half the price of normal cigarettes and nearly twice the length.”

“Half the price?” said Omally.

“And twice the length. And with the deal I’m giving to the shops, they’ll still make more profit per packet than on normally priced cigarettes.”

Omally nodded sagely. “Which prompts the question that will not be answered,” said he.

“Which is?” asked the fellow.

“What’s the catch?” asked Omally.

“There is no catch – it’s a promotional offer. The company are literally giving these cigarettes away. They are convinced that once smokers try them, they will like them so much that they will switch from their regular brands.”

“And then the price will go up.”

“Naturally. Such is the way with business.”

Omally cogitated. And then he smiled. Although it was true that the local tobacconists would not care to take on new products, what with their clientele being so set in their ways and all, there were few folk who, when offered a good deal – under-the-counter, as it were, or off-the-back-of-a-lorry – would turn up their noses. And so where the shopkeepers of Brentford might fail to find custom, Omally, with his winning ways and the gift of the gab, which God had personally granted to Irish manhood to make up for the fact that their staple diet would be the potato, would, with the wind behind him and all things being equal and those that weren’t falling in his favour due to his own exertions, SUCCEED.

“Two questions,” said Omally.

“Go on,” said the fellow.

“Firstly, how many packets of these cigarettes do you have?”