The two by one, the two by one,

That’s the stuff for you, old son.

It makes your DIY such fun,

You can’t go wrong with the two by one.

I would not lie, I kid you not,

It’s the greatest of them all.

The four by two is much too large,

And the one by one’s too small.

Ooooooooooooooooooh …

I’ve sawn this and I’ve sawn that,

I’ve reeved and grieved and sworn and spat.

I’ve dug my bradawl to the hilt,

I’ve chiselled ’til I could have kilt.

I’ve planed away for hours on end

Through knotholes and through planks that bend.

But finer work I’ve never done

Than working with the two by one.

Ooooooooooooooooooh …

The two by one, the two by one,

That’s the stuff for me, old son.

The war and battle, both are won,

When working with the two by one.

I would not lie, I could not lie,

It’s the greatest of them all.

The four by two is much too large,

And the one by one’s too small.

Ooooooooooooooooooh …

I’ve banged nails, what times I’ve had

With a two-inch cut and an oval Brad.

A size-ten clout, a three-inch wire,

Whacking at the obo ’til we all perspire.

And screws, by God, I’ve known each twist,

Damaging the muscles on my right wrist.

But I’ll keep on ’til I am done,

As long as I can do it with the two by one.

Ooooooooooooooooooh …

The two by one, the two by one,

The finest wood on Earth, my son.

I’d raise my trusty elephant gun

To him who’ll say a word against the two by one.

I would not lie, no faker I,

This stuff is on the ball.

The four by two is much too large,

And the one by one’s too small.

Ooooooooooooooooooh …

It’s clean and white and dry and cut, and you buy it by the grain.

In a curious manner, so to speak, it’s not unlike cocaine.

It comes in many handy lengths, just ask at your supplier,

And you can use the odds and ends left over for the fire.

So when I get to heaven, when my time on Earth is done,

And Saint Peter asks me what I’d like, I’ll tell him …

All together now …

The two by one, the two by one,

etc, etc, etc …

Dances from stage to monstrous applause …

Thank you and goodnight.

“Wake up, Jim. Wake up there.”

Smack.

“Wake up, Jim. Wake up.”

Shake, shake.

“Loosen his collar,” said Neville.

“I’ll loosen his wallet instead,” said John. “I think the weight has pulled him over.”

Smack, smack, shake and loosen.

“Get off me. Get off me. Oh.” And Jim returned to consciousness.

Omally helped him onto a stool. “Whatever happened?” he asked.

Jim took his pint in a shaky hand and sucked upon his ale. “Don’t ever mention that again, John,” he said. “Don’t ever mention The Pooley.”

“The Pooley?” asked Neville. “What is The Pooley?”

“It’s nothing.” Pooley flapped with his pintless paw. “It’s nothing and it isn’t what I’ve done and it isn’t what I’m going to do ever.”

“Well, I’m glad we’ve cleared that up,” said Neville. “Now kindly get out of my pub. You’re barred.”

“Excuse me, please?” Jim spluttered into his pint.

“Coming into my bar last night, buying a round of drinks for twelve young louts in shorts—”

“A round for twelve?” and John did splutterings too.

“He did,” said Neville. “And now ‘Have a pint yourself, Neville.’ What are you trying to do, Pooley? Push me over the edge?”

“But—” said Jim.

“But me no buts. I’ve heard about bars where the patrons offer to buy the barman a drink. ‘Have one yourself, barlord,’ they say. But twenty long years I’ve run this establishment and not once, not once, mind, have any one of you tight-fisted bastards ever offered to buy me a drink.”

“Not once?” said Jim. “I’m sure I—”

“Not once. And now you’ve ruined it. I was hoping to get into the Guinness Book of Records.”

“Were you?” John asked.

“No, of course I bloody wasn’t. But I’m warning you, Jim. One more. One more of anything and you are out of this pub for good.”

Omally raised his ever-calming palms towards the barman. “I’ll see that he behaves,” he said, steering Jim away from the bar and off to a quiet corner table.

John sat down and Jim sat down and John stared hard at Jim. “You bought a round for twelve?” he whispered. “You, a round for twelve?”

“I don’t wish to talk about it, John.” Jim took another pull on his pint. “It was a very trying evening. I’d rather just forget all about it, if you don’t mind. But you must promise me this. Never, ever, speak of The Pooley again. Do you promise?”

“I promise,” said John. “If it means so much to you.”

“It does and I thank you. And so.”

“And so?” asked John.

“And so down to business. I have arranged for the band to meet us here at seven o’clock. To celebrate the founding of Brentford Records. Which gives us a bit of time before they arrive, to work out our business plan.”

“Business plan.” Omally gave approving nods. “Very professional, Jim.”

“Thank you, John. Now the first thing we’re going to need is a recording studio. There are some vacant units on the old industrial estate down by Cider Island. There’s one called Hangar Eighteen that I like the look of. We’ll rent that and fit it out and—”

“Have to stop you there,” said John.

“Oh yes, and why?”

“Why? Do you know how much it costs to fit out a recording studio? All the equipment you need?”

“Haven’t a clue,” said Jim. “Which is why I’ll leave that side of it to you. Ducking and diving and wheeling and dealing is what you’re all about.”

“Yes I know, but—”

“Come on now, John. Pull your weight.”

“It’s not a matter of pulling my weight. It could cost at least half a million quid to fit out a recording studio. Probably much more than that.”

“Fortune favours the brave,” said Jim. “Now, regarding the look of Hangar Eighteen. I think we should go for something really distinctive. Something eye-catching. I have a vision of a huge hairdryer up on the roof. Or, even better, a dirigible shaped like a hairdryer, moored to the roof and floating in the sky and—”

“Stop!” said Omally. “Stop stop stop.”

“You’re not keen on the dirigible?”

“I’m not keen on any of it. We don’t need a recording studio, Jim. It isn’t necessary.”

“It isn’t?” said Jim. “But how can we make records if we don’t have a recording studio?”

“We’ll record the band when they play live. On a portable mixing desk.”

Pooley gave this a moment’s thought. “That’s brilliant,” he said.

“And we’ll get Norman to turn out as many copies of the tapes as we want. We’ll pay him a retainer, or two bob a tape, or something.”

“That is also brilliant,” Pooley said.

“And then we’ll distribute them to the record shops.”

“That is not so brilliant,” Pooley said.

“Not so brilliant? Why is that?”

“Because the record shops won’t take them. I’ve discussed all this with Ricky. The shops are all owned by the big record corporations. They won’t sell tapes that are independently produced.”

“They’re bastards,” said Omally.