“I’ll give you that within the week.”

“Within the week?” said Norman.

“Within the week?” said Jim.

“Within the week, I promise.” Omally crossed his heart.

“You saw that, Jim,” said Norman. “You saw that with your own two eyes. He swore and crossed his heart and everything.”

“And I’ll shake on it too,” said John, sticking out his hand.

Norman shook Omally’s hand and Norman’s mouth was open.

“Within the week,” said John. “Now take the tape and make the copies. I’ll be back within the hour.”

John and Jim walked up the Ealing Road.

“You promised him fifteen hundred pounds,” said Pooley. “You promised it to him and you shook his hand.”

Omally shrugged. “It sounds a lot,” said he.

“It is a lot,” said Jim.

“Not when you split it in half, it’s not.”

“I suppose it wouldn’t be,” said Jim.

“I’ll tell you what,” said John. “The best thing for you to do would be to pay my half as well. I can owe you the difference.”

Jim drew up rather short in his stride. “What are you saying?” he asked.

“Oh, come on now, Jim. Don’t say you’ve forgotten already. We shook on it, didn’t we? Half the profits, half the expenses, we agreed. I hope you don’t intend to renege on our deal.”

“What?” went Jim. “What?”

“Look upon it as a kind of negative investment. We’ll be making millions soon. What’s a mere fifteen hundred to you?”

Jim Pooley shook his disbelieving head. “I have only been in the music business half an hour,” said he, “and already I’ve been done up like a kipper.”

“The day is yet young,” said John to Jim. “We haven’t got started yet”

Of all the noble men at arms

And Casanova’s love-nest charms.

And knights of old with painted spears.

Or pirates on the chandeliers[9].

No fellow that did e’er draw breath

Could aught compare to the griddle chef.

No long-dead earl of Arran’s Isle,

Who might have won some maiden’s smile,

By striking down that dragon bad.

Nor even Tom the farmer’s lad.

Could ever, though, in noble death

Compare at all to the griddle chef.

The griddle chef.

The griddle chef.

A hero bold and true.

“Two Wimpy Brunch,” goes up his cry.

“One with no onions, too.”

“All right, then,” said Jim to John. “I assume you have some kind of a plan.”

“And then some,” said John to Jim. “When it comes to a plan, I am ever your man.”

They stood in the sundrenched Ealing Road. Right outside the business premises of Bob the Bookie. The graffiti-spattered brickwork glittered in the sun, and the red and white plastic slash curtain at the doorway moved gently in the breeze, swaying sensuously, it seemed to Jim, bidding him to enter.

Jim bit his lip and folded his arms and turned his back on temptation. “Speak to me, John,” he said bravely. “Tell me of your plan.”

“It’s simplicity itself. I’ll get the tapes from Norman and I’ll make some important phonecalls. You’ll hasten at once to West Ealing.”

“West Ealing?” Jim gave his lip another small chew. “Now why would I, or indeed anyone, wish to go to West Ealing?”

“Because that is where the Stratster works. His name is Ricky Zed and he is the griddle chef at the Wimpy. You will visit him and employ your charms. I assume that the lead singer did not give you her telephone number.”

“You assume correctly.”

“Then you chat up Ricky, see if you can get it from him.”

“Will this involve lying?” Jim asked. “I’m not very good at lying.”

“Tell him the truth, then. Tell him that we wish to manage the band and tell him that they can expect a record contract by the end of the week.”

“And that would be the truth, would it?”

“Jim, I intend to have a record contract sorted by lunchtime.”

“Right,” said Jim in a thoughtful tone. “Right. By lunchtime. I see.”

“Well, there’s no sense in hanging around, is there?”

Jim shook his head. “I suppose not,” said he.

“Then off on your way, Jimmy boy. Make me proud of you.”

“All right,” said Jim. “I’ll give it a go. Because, after all” – and he jingled the meagre change in his pocket – “I really have nothing to lose.”

They shook hands in a professional manner, agreed to meet later in the Swan and went their separate ways.

Now Jim was no Marco Polo, and the lands which lay beyond the boundaries of the great Brentford Triangle[10] were mostly terra incognita to him. Normally the thought of such a journey would have filled Jim with dread and he would have done anything within his limited powers to avoid it. But he was on a mission here. Two missions, in fact. The first being to avoid the bookies and evade the dreaded Pooley. The second to succeed at something. He had never succeeded at anything, hadn’t Jim, and this, perhaps, would be his opportunity.

So he girded up his loins and put his best foot forward and stuck his hand out boldly at the bus stop.

“You should wait until you see a bus coming before you do that,” said a lady in a straw hat. “And get to the back of the queue or I’ll punch your lights out.”

Jim got to the back of the queue.

The journey was for the most part uneventful. No terrorists hijacked the bus. The driver did not fall asleep at the wheel, nor did he become lost. No Red Indians attacked and there wasn’t a highwayman to be seen.

A couple of pirates did try to get on at the traffic lights, but the bus conductor blocked their passage and firmly tossed them off.

At length Jim found himself in West Ealing, outside the Wimpy Bar. It was everything he’d hoped it would be, and just that little bit more besides. Delicious odours wafted from within, and through the window Jim could make out beautiful people in elegant clothes, discoursing, no doubt, upon intellectual topics whilst tucking into their brunches.

Jim sighed a sigh and dreamed that dream we have all dreamed. That one day he might own a Wimpy Bar.

He then took a deep, preparatory breath, pushed open the door and went in.

Gentle music played from hidden speakers. Subtle lighting touched upon the tasteful decor. The beautiful people looked up from their brunches and eyed Jim with suspicion.

Pooley sat down at the nearest table and cast his eyes over the menu.

It was a gorgeous colourful gatefold affair, printed upon paper, yet sealed within a transparent plastic shell through some method of technological wizardry that was beyond Jim’s understanding. Jim viewed the photographic portraits of the toothsome viands. Here was a double cheeseburger with all the trimmings and here a saveloy known as a Bender. On the back page was the ice cream selection. The now legendary Brown Derby and the Jamaican Long Boat. Each of these could be had as it came or with a choice of cream or maple syrup.

Pooley’s mouth began to water. It was all too much.

A waiter approached his table and stood looking down upon him. He wore the traditional red and white livery and the jaunty paper cap. This perched somewhat perilously upon a mighty hive of hair.

“Do you wish to order, sir?” asked the waiter. “Or have you just come in to dribble on the table?”

Jim looked up and went, “Oh!”

“Oh?” said the waiter.

“Oh,” said Jim. “Aren’t you Ricky Zed?”

The waiter nodded his big-haired head. He was long and tall and lanky and lean, all cheekbones and dark sunken eyes. Jim was taken at once by his curious hands, each finger of which had three knuckle joints instead of the usual two.