Globusz^® Publishing 

At 10 o’clock Doc jumped upon the new stage, “Hello good evening and welcome,” he mumbled, “its time to rumble, well not quite. Tonight apart from being the grand re-opening of the Two Buttocks, it is of course, Valentine’s Night. On a very sad note, we will remember Nancy. Known to many of you as our manager, she was tragically killed on Boxing Day and tonight here is dedicated to her memory. She lived life to the full, so tonight will we. Thank you.” The crowd applauded.

“Thank you, I checked the stats, you know very few babies are conceived on Valentine’s Day. I don’t know what we should read into that, but as a stand-up comedian I better read something pretty fucking quickly into it. Oh yeah, perhaps it’s the cold, reducing the speed of the flow of body fluids, it’s a thought. Bit too technical for you lot I guess. Any Doctors in? Yep there’s one, no two, what three! Hospital closed tonight is it?

Maybe it’s the planning of it, all the ladies remembering to take their pill. Tonight’s the big one. Every one armed with their condoms, tooled up you could say. I’ve got one, no you’re all right I got one here. Oh do try one of mine. Do you think only the oldies go for it anyway, out of conceive by dates? Talking of which, any of you old dogs here pregnant now? Oh there’s always one, or two! Yeah, good. How you like your eggs in the morning girls, fertilized?

I find it let’s say interesting. Society never seems to fully make the connection between getting pregnant and getting laid, you know the sex word is taboo.

Recently I was visiting my parents. My sister turns up with husband. They sit on the sofa. She announces the patter of little feat are on the way. My father gets out the sherry and Mum provides a few tears. It is a moment of pure innocent happiness, or is it? Cause what my sister is really saying is, he’s been fucking me. Can you imagine what reaction that sentence would have got, you could forget the fucking sherry anyway. We would have got the tears I guess though. So following the good news I’m sitting there thinking wicked thoughts, I can’t help it. Cause those little innocent questions pop up at these times, like, was it planned? How long have you been trying. This is polite sexual innuendo. Was it planned, what does that mean? Did you lie down dear with your legs open? No it wasn’t planned, just seemed like a good idea at the time. There wasn’t much on the telly. Or yes we’ve been trying for ages; we have been fucking each other silly every night for a year. Well no, we didn’t have to try for long, it was all over in a few minutes.

Then we have to drink a toast to the baby, why not sex, well that’s what it is really, but we as a family have never mentioned sex, now we are toasting it. I ask you.

So you two ladies out there, we know what you’ve been doing, ‘Making the Beast with Two Backs,’ perhaps. Enjoy tonight and enjoy making babies, later mate, core look he’s all over that one, bet she’s not your wife. Go and buy her another drink mate, yes the bar’s over there and mingle, mingle, that’s better and relax dear it’s just a commercial.”

Doc walked backwards off the stage. The D.J. played I’m An Urban Spaceman, the crowd were now well humoured and the bar was busy.

Doc gathered up Betsy and Norman and ushered them through to the back office. “We got some serious press critics in tonight,” he said, “don’t get nervous, play to them and give it everything. Let the audience play its part too. Milk them. Let’s get out of here I’m thirsty.”

Back in the bar, the three relaxed as they watched the crowd enjoying the evening. ‘Soma, for the masses,’ quipped Doc, this comment was lost on the other two. Doc knew there were several generation gaps between the three, but that should help them. Between swigs of his lager he jumped up on the stage and introduced his old fashioned juggling act. He loved stuff like that, so did this audience. He returned to Norman’s side to boost his confidence, he was up next and Doc needed him to be faultless.

The night was going like a train. Betsy had creped off to the office. She knew that pacing her drink was essential. Doc was an old hand at the booze and Norman the gentle giant could hold his too. Midnight soon came round. The D.J. not Doc introduced Norman. The theme 2001 A Space Odyssey blasted out; Doc pushed Norman towards the stage as the extreme volume of the music vibrated the customers’ drinks on the new bar tables. Norman stood on the stage; the music stopped dead; smoke had been released; it covered his legs. A single white spot-light circled him; there was silence followed by a mixed response, a few murmured, ‘That’s Norman the doorman.”

“Grasshopper,” whispered Norman, “we must not always presume that all things stay the same, for if we do, they will. Now fuck off you little brat.” The crowd liked Zen straight off and showed it.

“I know it’s Valentine’s Night but, let’s have a good moan anyway. I don’t know why they call us stand up comedians, we should be called stand up moaners really. It’s all we do, professional fucking moaners. My Dad back in the Midlands, well adopted Dad really, but I don’t want to talk about it. The pain, the shame, all right in a minute. Any way he used to say my Mother, that’s my adopted Mother, but I don’t want to talk about it.” The crowed begged to hear the story. “ All right in a minute, can I get on with this, my adopted Dad, oh fuck I forgot what I was going say then. Moaning, I do like a good old moan.

Council Tax, why do they call it Council Tax, most of it goes to the fucking Police. They should call it fucking protection money, bit controversial?” he asked the audience. “ Celebrity chefs, who thought that one up? Celebrity chefs I guess. Most trades have celebrities on the tele now you know. Not the ones I would like to see though. Titty Gardener, Jordan! Celebrity gynaecologist, Peter Stringfellow! Just a thought. Celebrity postman, there’s a good one; mind you there was Postman Pat. Celebrity hospital porter, no, we had Jimmy Saville. I guess they’ve all been done any way.

I hate sport on the tele. If I wanted to see sport I would go out and see it live. Cricket you’d need a panoramic screen to watch that on the fucking tele. Rugby last year, you all latched onto that one. We all became rugby fans then for a couple of hours, well it wasn’t that hard was it, propping yourself up in front of a big screen with a beer and a fag, just a normal night out, except England won of course and we didn’t have to support them year in and year out, we just had to turn out once at the local pub and revel in the glory, fucking handsome, boys, thanks. That reminds me, my Dad used to say my Mother could have moaned for England, new it was something to do with sport.

It is all right being adopted, well you did ask. At least you don’t have to feel guilty about not liking your parents, any of the fuckers and it gives you an excuse for having a chip on your shoulder, or a French fry I guess it would be these days. If things don’t work out financially, you can always claim you were abused, better than your lottery odds that old chestnut. Friend of mines a solicitor reckons we aint seen nothing yet, bbbbabee, yeah really, she was over in the States, managed to drag herself away from my weapon of mass satisfaction for a while, I might add, well it is Valentine’s night and who said romance is dead. Shut up you’re putting me off again. Anyway she told me, the day would come when you can sue for everything, anything at all.

Breach of marital contract, not getting a good shagging when you need one, or even when you don’t. Can you imagine, you go off to bed, your partner suggests sex, oh, and you say I’m a bit too tired really, working very hard on that overseas deal. So it’s snore, snore. Next morning off you go to work, couple of hours later some fucker walks up to your desk and slaps a writ in your hand. Now if you’d of slapped something in her hand last night, would have saved you loads of fucking money.

At work you can sue the bollocks off your bosses, it’s great. Power to the people aye, at last and you don’t even need to join one of those fucking Unions, right brothers. Girls, you just let your tits hang out eat a banana slowly for lunch, tongue it, suck it, then swallow, right in front of your boss. The moment he makes his move bang, you got the bastard. Should pay for your first house. I think workers rights are going to far though. Stress is the real ‘Big Issue’ now and I’m not talking about that fucking magazine that seems to rise up at you on the end of this filthy hand as you’re walking down the street; sorry about that. Anyway stress, workers go to work to work, all work is fucking stressful, stress is now an illness, so soon, no-one has to work anymore, I’ll drink to that. How about working for al-Qaeda, now that would be stressful. I shouldn’t think they’d be Investors in People some-how. 

 Well enough of this gay banter, oh sorry I meant happy chatter, no solicitors in tonight I trust. No, good, fuck-‘em, when I was going out with my solicitor, I used to fuck her, till it even hurt me! Come on who wouldn’t like to fuck a solicitor? just like they fuck us every chance they get. Any Irish in? Lovely people, really. You know why they called their currency the Punt?” Silence fell, “Because it rhymes with Bank Manager.

“Scottish people, any, yep always one or two they get everywhere those Scottish boat people. I once asked a Scottish musician friend of mine what he thought about Rod Stewart. Well Zen he said, when you listen to Rod Stewart it reminds you of Al Green, but when you listen to Al Green it doesn’t fucking remind you of Rod. Stewart. Boom Boom. Sorry Rod but that is a true story. Publicans, they’re an odd race, my mate’s Dad was one, when he retired he bought a boat, called it cirrhosis of the river. Medical joke there, for the locals.” Norman was struggling with his performance.

Suddenly as if by fait he looked out over the audience, as if for inspiration. He saw Paddy, just standing there looking lost too, out of place and in a state of panic. Lottery Lenny had his hand on Paddy’s shoulder and his eyes fixed on Norman. He did manage to signal to Norman that there was a problem. Norman ripped off his jacket like he was a pop star and threw it to the crowd. “Thank you, thank you, England, you’ve been a great audience, God bless you, I love you all, look me up when you’re next in the States,” he screamed.

Doc was horrified as he watched Norman leap off the stage. He had not yet noticed Paddy’s presence. The stage lights had gone off allowing Norman to move quickly and un-noticed over to Paddy. Lenny greeted him whispering into his ear: “His wife has just died; he’s come straight here, she’s dead in the flat. No one else knows yet, fuck! What are we going to do Norman?” Paddy looked up, he needed help. Doc could only watch from the other side of the pub as Norman led him outside.

“We should go to your flat and call the Doctor now,” said Norman in a gentle tone. Paddy led the way it was just a short walk, he was focused now. Soon they entered the flat on the third floor; the view of the floodlit McNaughton’s Brewery from the lounge window took Norman by surprise. He stood gazing at his first place of work in London. His mind was spilling over with all that had happened since he knocked on Ernest and Katie’s front door in the summer. He realised Paddy needed him. This was the first time in his life Norman had taken on any responsibility. An open door revealed a bed, he entered the room were laid Maureen; she was dead.

Norman froze only just managing to turn his gaze back at Paddy. After a couple of minutes

his senses returned, “The number, for the Doctor, Paddy I need it now,” he said without emotion. 

“It’s by the phone,” replied Paddy, now seated in the next room beside the phone. A couple more minutes passed before Norman was able to get his legs to walk him back into the lounge. The phone number was written on a cigarette pack; it was the Doctor’s mobile.

“The Doctor is on his way Paddy,” Norman mumbled now in a state of shock. Fortunately the pair had not closed the front door; this allowed the Doctor to enter through to find Norman and Paddy seated in a cigarette smoke filled room and then Maureen’s dead body. Seeing the vague look on Paddy’s face, the Doctor addressed Norman, “Marty Crown, Doctor and old friend, you are?”

“Norman Smith,” he answered, “I manage the pub for Paddy.”

“Yes, he has talked of you, I of course know your Uncle and Auntie very well and I am their Doctor also. Do they know about Maureen?”

“No,” replied Norman.

“I will tell them, my boy. There is a plan for tonight. The undertaker will be here any minute, another friend. He will look after Maureen; Paddy will stay at our house till some time after the funeral. Here is my card, you will be contacted very soon, go now this is no place for a young man and thank you. ” Norman could see Paddy had shut himself off from reality, so he just touched both of his shoulders on the way out of the flat.

Back out on the streets of East London Norman lit up a cigarette. Still without his jacket he walked back to the Two Buttocks on autopilot. Entering the front doors he bumped into Lenny. Are you alright?” asked the doorman. “You’re as white as a fucking sheet man.”

“Please don’t ask me if I have just seen a ghost you fucking brain donor, or you’ll be wearing that exit sign. Where’s my jacket? It’s below freezing outside.”

“Yeah, sorry I wasn’t thinking big man, how was it? What happened? Sorry, I’ll find your jacket.”

“And get me: a large; double southern comfort; no fucking ice; now; in fact several in a pint glass.”

Lenny shot off towards the bar; Norman leaned on the back wall. ‘After all he was the boss and entitled to be a prick sometimes, thought Lenny as he ordered up his drink.’

Betsy was on stage. The audience were having a great time. Doc noticed Norman and waded over through the sea of bodies and booze towards him. He saw tears swelling in his friend’s eyes and hugged him. Betsy saw this as she was being begged for an encore, realising Norman needed her, she did it at last, “If I get my tits out can I go?”

“Yes,” the crowd bellowed. She did it, pulling up her top and turning 360 degrees before leaping off the stage. In the darkened venue she raced over to Norman; taking his shaking body from Doc she walked him outside, hailed a passing taxi and pushed him in. They cuddled as he wept on the short journey to her apartment. 

“He’s not going to be any trouble is he?” asked the driver.

“Not for you,” replied Betsy.

The cab stopped.

“Here we are then darling, good luck,” said the cabbie with a genuine tone. Betsy threw a ten pound note at him. She led Norman through the gates into the courtyard and home. The apartment was heated up like a sauna, for once this pleased Betsy. Norman had been shaking with coldness. To her delight he spoke, “I need to wash.” He pushed her aside heading for the shower room. Betsy relaxed in the lounge. She was surprised at the new Norman that rushed into join her after his quick shower. He was smiling, looking good and soon sat down opposite her with a glass of red wine. She lit him a cigarette and passed it over. “That’s very kind of you, considerate,” he said. “I will need to pop back to work in a minute.”

“No you won’t,” Doc has wound up the show by now and I had put most of the money in the safe, just before I went on stage. Well, I am your assistant. Doc and Lenny will lock up. You want to talk? ”

“How was Valentine’s Night?”

“It went very well, must checkout the reviews.”

“I don’t know why the fuck I went off to Paddy’s.”

“Seemed like a good idea at the time dear!”

Norman laughed, “Not really.”

“I guess if Nancy was, oh sorry I shouldn’t have.”

Norman’s laughter grew, “Let’s stop being so fucking morbid,” he insisted. Then standing up he ballet danced round the room, collecting the red wine bottle before he returned to his seat. Betsy was now confused. She wanted him to talk and thinking the wine might help loosen him up she opened another bottle. “Let’s have a session,” she suggested.

He nodded, then toasted, “Stiff ones.”

“Stiff ones, every time,” added Betsy. They drank, relaxed and listened to music. After a while Norman just started to talk, “Tonight has been surreal all of it, including now even. Will the rest of my life be like this?” he asked. Before Betsy had the chance to answer that she’d hope so, the doorbell sounded. She rushed over to the intercom, it was Doc. Now there were three of them Betsy felt the pressure off, she would let Doc debate the meaning of life with Norman; she went off for a long shower.

Doc took up her seat and glass of wine, “I hung your jacket in the hallway.”

“Thanks Doc,” Norman passed over a packet of cigarettes.

Doc continued, “Maureen could have picked a better night to die on, I’d bet Paddy at least hadn’t wasted money on a card. Valentine’s Night, our big opening could have been ruined. She saved the night for you though, Zen was rubbish. While she was dying in bed, you were dying on stage. Betsy’s tits are bigger than I thought they’d be though.” Both men roared with laughter.

“Mermaid,” shouted Doc, “fish and tits.” Their laughter echoed through to Betsy in the shower room. “Fucking blokes,” she scoffed. Then feeling she was missing out hurried her shower to re-join them.

“So what will become of the Two Buttocks, now Paddy has gone doolally,” she asked on her grand entrance. “Like the kimono? I bought it in Norwich.” This was just too much for Doc and Norman they now hooted with laughter. “ Fuck off you pigs,” yelled Betsy, before collapsing into the hysterics.

“Norman, come on, what’s what with Paddy now, pray tell dear boy?” asked Doc.

“I need to talk to his Doctor. He’s staying there for a while; I’ll phone him in a few days.”

“Stop worrying you two,” said Betsy. “It’s Saturday night, or it was. ‘And always look on the bright side,’ we sure got lots of money to play with. Paddy has been getting rich just sitting on his ass, possession is nine tenths of the law, let’s just go with flow, cheers.” She raised her glass, the others were less optimistic, however they joined her bizarre toast, “The Queen is dead, long live the Queen.”

“I won’t ask you what that means, I’m too drunk,” said Doc “but you’re right, we must carry on. Got a show later today in fact. I’ll grab a cab now. ” Betsy saw him out. Norman had fallen asleep; she left him in the armchair as she would enjoy the entire bed to herself.

First up in the morning was Norman; he made a pot of coffee, a plate of toast and joined Betsy in bed. “Another day another Euro,” she said, “thanks, I need this to get going, I fucking hate Sundays. What was Bob Geldof going on about in that awful song? Nothing wrong with Mondays, Pratt! ”

“I think it was based on a true story,” added Norman.

“Whatever.”

“We’ve lots of work to do at the pub today Betsy.”

“I’m off today.”

“Oh! O.K.”

“I might cycle by, later.”

“I’m glad, we are not on stage tonight.”

“Yeah let some other fuckers, have ago at insulting the World and his Wife.”

“I can be nice to the customers, like I used to be.”

“Think I’ll give that one a miss Norman dear, I fancy a nice quite night in on my own.”

“So you’ll have my dinner waiting when I get home from work?”

“Not as such, but I will have your wine and cigarettes in front of the radiator.”

“Sounds good. And sex!”

“Depends on what I watch on the tele, if it leaves me horny, you’re on.”

“Sunday night, is a bit tame, so I’ll take that as a no then.”

“Off you go to work dear.”

Norman leaped out of bed. He amused Betsy nearly falling over several times as he struggled into his trousers. “Sit down you silly sod, why do men dress like?” she asked. 

“Cause real men do it standing up,” replied Norman.

The Two Buttocks was a bit of a mess. Paddy had a thing about not employing cleaners, he also had a thing about child allowance, and Norman planned to include both of these philosophies on stage one night. With the cleaning all under control, he decided to pop around to see Ernest and Katie at the Prince. They were so pleased to see him that it brought tears to their eyes.

Ernest ordered Norman a drink and muttered, “Thanks for looking after Paddy last night.” Norman took the drink sitting down beside Katie giving her a hug. Norman learned that Maureen had not been a popular woman; Paddy however had worshiped her. He had an accountant named Mr. Patel and Katie assured Norman he would soon come round and take charge of business affairs at the pub. The Doctor felt Paddy was not compos mentis at this time and had contacted Paddy’s solicitor, Norman listened with great interest. Ernest and Katie didn’t know of the great plans Norman, Betsy and Doc had made for themselves. Norman just nodded his acceptance of the situation.

“You can always get your old job back, at the brewery,” suggested Katie, “you were popular there and Lenny would see you all right.” Norman nodded again, this time in appreciation as he excused himself to get back to work.

Betsy was busy chaining her bike to a lamp-post as Norman returned to the Two Buttocks.

“So, this is what you call hard work is it,” she taunted him.

“Working class perk, dinner breaks.”

“Lunch actually dear and remember work is a four letter word.”

“I know and manual labour is a Mexican bandit. Come on, I saved you some four letter words.”

The two got on with setting up the pub for the evening opening. They wound each other up as they speeded through their superficial cleaning task. Betsy was a good singer and drowned out the tape playing. Norman left her to it, going off to talk business on the telephone with Doc.

Early afternoon, work completed they locked up the pub. Betsy continued on her cycle expedition. Norman set off to walk back to the apartment. He was not expecting to be greeted at the front door by Doc, “Hope you don’t mind old boy.”

“Not at all,” replied Norman, “Betsy has gone off cycling, come in.”

“Do you think it’s sexual, Norman?”

“What?”

“Her cycling like that.”

“Hope so, anything else would be perverted.”

“Quite, I’d swap places with that saddle of hers though, sorry, you were saying?”

“Red wine Doc?”

“Just a litre please.”

“Anyway, what brings you here, I thought I was just talking to you on the phone or did I just imagine that!”

“Ah, the million lire question, thought you’d never ask. I am a trifle concerned about the Paddy factor, only we kind of skated around that one earlier.”

“I had a drink with Ernest and Katy this lunchtime.”

“And how are those lovable cockney characters?”

“Sarcasm, eh!”

“Put me out of my misery Norman please.”

“It seems that Paddy will need time to get going again. His accountant Mr. Patel will contact me soon, very soon. Now you know as much as me.”

“Mr. Patel! Oh no! I feel a fucking song coming on. It’s the blues, woke up this morning our comedy venue had all gone, turned into a corner shop, mercy, mercy Lord what did I do wrong.”

“These things happen Doc.”

“Oh that’s alright then. Not to me they fucking don’t. I think we had better all turn up at the funeral, yeah that’s it and we’ll get a huge turn out from the stand-ups. It’s like he needs to let us keep the Two Buttocks open in his Mrs. Memory, O.K. badly worded perhaps, but we can’t take this standing up.”

Norman was bemused. His mobile rang. “Yes Norman speaking, Mr. Patel, what can I do for you? Monday at the pub mid-day sure, yes I can make that, Doc! Yes of course, O.K. bye.”

“Well you sure told him Norm.”

“Sooner we get sorted the better, I thought you wanted to know your fate!”

“Yep, I did, but not sure if I do now.”

“Well Monday we will, now drink up and I’ll stick some pizzas in the oven.”

“Betsy returned as Norman was finding his way round the kitchen area.”

“Who do I have to fuck round here to get a drink, “she asked in her full Norfolk accent.”

“The old ones are the best,” responded Doc.

“Pizza dear?” added Norman.

“I would have preferred some food, for just once, but go on then.”

“Would you both please stop trying to upstage me, just relax,” pleaded Doc as he put a C.D. on and danced out onto the balcony, forbidding the Thames to come any nearer. “Stay wayth from my wharf,” he screamed and waved his arms. Neighbours curtains twitched as he tossed his wine at the river. “I’ll freeze you for ever, oh mighty Father Thames.”

“Pizzas ready Doc,” called Norman, “go and wash your hands before you come to the table.”

Betsy had set the table, the three sat down for their late lunch. There was no talk of business, Doc and Norman keeping quiet about their Monday meeting with Mr. Patel. Talk was of the night’s stand-ups. “You will miss some good turns Betsy, if you stay home,” said Doc.

“And some bad ones,” she responded, “so who you got Doc.”

“Rasta Man,” for starters.

“Rasta Man!” exclaimed Norman.

“Yes that’s his stage name.”

“Stage name!”

“Look, the guy’s been driving me round since last year,” pleaded Doc, “why! Because he wants to be a stand up and I have been coaching him, now as his Sole Agent and of course Manager.”

Betsy interrupted, “You must of course get him a gig or the free taxi rides might stop.”

“No no no no no, wrong, now I have got him ready for his debut,” insisted Doc banging his fist on the dining table, “I will present him to the World. He is mine I created him, all mine, mine you see. O.K. he’s all right, I’ve seen a lot fucking worse.”

“That’s slave labour you know,” added Betsy, “I thought it had been abolished, well in England anyway. But this is worse, you get this guy to drive you round all year, then as his reward he gets to go on stage for 5 mins so people can laugh at him and that’s if he’s lucky.”

“But has slavery been abolished?” asked Doc, “What about call centres, the fucking computer tells them when they can get a piss, then it says bye-bye I’m off to India, the job centres that way Pratt.”

“Well thank you for sharing your extremely narrow perspective of the World with us Doc but it’s time for the lady to retire.” Betsy headed off to lie down on the king-size. The men continued eating, drinking and chatting in lowered voices; she fell asleep. The apartment living area was large enough for Betsy to be uninterrupted whilst the men relaxed with fresh red wine endless cigarettes and Van Morrison. Within the hour they slept.

Betsy was the first to awake, she opened all the windows. “Up you get boys, time for work, fuck off,” she shrilled, speeding round the apartment, “look at this mess,” she cleared away ashtrays and wine goblets from the floor beside their armchairs.

Totally disturbed now the two set about making coffee; Doc having to take charge of this challenge. “We can smarten up at the pub later,” he insisted, Norman agreed and minutes later they were walking off to the cab office.

Outside of the Two Buttocks some of the bar staff were waiting for Norman to unlock “Sorry we’re late,” called out Norman.

“We,” shouted Doc, “he’s the Boss; hey Rasta good to see you on time, tonight’s the night, nice, got your Lynx on? And that must be a suit from the George Collection surely.”

They filed in to the pub. Rasta stood up on the stage, “Can I have a practice Doc?” he asked.

“You’ve been practicing for a year man.”

“Yeah but that was just in my cab.”

“Carry on, Rasta Man, tonight East London, tomorrow Montego Bay.”

The hustle of the opening preparation drowned out Rasta Man’s rehearsal which just consisted of him pacing up and down mumbling. Doc had to talk him off the stage as the doors opened. Norman still found it hard to believe that Doc’s mini cab driver would soon be let loose on a Two Buttocks audience.

The crowds poured in, the staff had to change up a gear. Lenny was panicking on the door dealing with the numbers. Norman cornered Doc, “I do hope you can make them laugh tonight Doc,” he said, “There are a lot of them to keep happy.”

“Just the usual lynch mob Norman, if the going gets tough you and I will just pull it out the hat.”

“I’m not on tonight,” replied Norman.

“Never Say Never, Zen. I’ll put Rasta on first; then the only way is up. If it’s looking too bad just do a happy hour, get them pissed, put on some music, they’ll forget why their here anyway. As long as we all have a good time, just live for tonight Zen. Don’t loose your amateur status and let’s have some fun, ‘Let’s go get stoned.’

The doors had to be closed within an hour of opening, the crowd, mainly staff from the local hospital were out for a good night; with a birthday, stag night and a leaving party to celebrate Doc felt they would be easy. He played to his audience as he declared the start of the show. Dressed as a hospital Doctor he asked for a nurse from the crowd to come upon stage to hold his stethoscope, with no takers he asked, “O.K. then can I get a nurse up here to take my temperature, no, you’d be quite safe I’m not really a pervert, I could have been had I not been born such a great Comedian of course. Any hospital porters in, no, thank Beckham for that, spooky possums, they’re like the walking dead, you don’t believe me, read, ‘Spawn,’ sorry Patrick. See we got some parties in tonight, where’s the birthday person, glad I said person and where’s the stag, oh ha ha ha don’t make me laugh, can anybody get married these days? Once you had to at least look the fucking part. Beckham there’s still hope for me.

Who’s leaving, oh it’s that fucking Pratt, so what did you get sacked for? Necrophilia! Did the earth move? Don’t know why I said that really. Any way enough of this gay banter, please give a Two Buttocks welcome, not literally of course, we have now live on stage one of North London’s finest mini cab drivers, it’s Rasta Man.”

Onto the stage ambled Rasta man to the amazement of all, especially Doc and Norman; he was wearing the most colourful shirt and shorts, the pub had sunshine in February. Even more of concern to Doc was the fact that Rasta had a small electric guitar slung round his neck. It was a strange looking home-made instrument, with built in amplifier and speaker. He stepped up to the microphone.

“For my first song I will sing, ‘Get up Stand Up’ thank you.” He hit the guitar and sang. At first there was a shocked silent response, this soon changed as the crowd turned into a live music audience and they were loving it. Rasta Man wasn’t bad; Doc changed the lighting to suit. Norman shook his head in disbelief; Doc was getting away with it yet again. Rasta followed on with ‘Stir It Up’ announced in an apologetic manner. The Bob Marley songs had set an atmosphere that would now be difficult for the others to follow. Doc realised this he needed a plan of action and quick. As Rasta was still basking in the applause for his second offering Doc joined him on stage.

“Thank you thank you,” he shouted. “ Now I know how Brian Epstein felt, not literately of course. O.K. here’s the deal, Rasta Man will be back much later to close the show with more great reggae hits for you. ” He ushered Rasta off the stage and back into the changing room. D.J.Ed Nolmans as instructed by Doc played some Beatles hits; this tempo change kept the crowd happy enough and would ease the way for the next act. Back stage Doc was about to have some serious words with his new act.

“I hope you know some more good songs Rasta, or we’re fucked later,” shouted Doc.

“Well mun, those were ma best.”

“O.K. you just stay here, I’ll get one of the girls to bring you some Jamaican rum. You got two hours to practice. We got a Bob Marley tape somewhere, that’ll help and I’ll teach you a funny one see you later. ” Doc returned to oversee the show. Norman wanted answers. “Think Zen, be in tune with things Norman,” screamed Doc over the roars of the crowd. “Yes Rasta Man has conned me, or has he!”

Doc and Norman took a breather and a drink as a few auditions followed each other onto the stage. Bungalow Bill had just arrived; he was the top of the bill. The three men were enjoying a good drink and a laugh at one of the new faces on stage. Doc had installed a laughter effect into the sound system; the guy wasn’t at all funny, but the canned laughter made the audience laugh, this confused everyone especially the stand-up. 

Betsy arrived. “Interrupting your boys’ night out am I?” she asked, her eyes fixed on Norman.

“You want a drink dear,” he answered. She joined them happily.

“Just in time to witness another of my great performances Betsy,” shouted Bill.

“Another!” she shouted back, “how was Rasta Man? I see he didn’t empty the place. ”

Doc gloated, “He went down so fucking well, he’s coming back to close the show.”

Bill looked surprised, shrugged his shoulders, “I still want the same money Doc,” he insisted.

“No probs Bill, when has the Doc ever ripped you off.” With that said it was time for the clumsy Aussie to get ready for his turn on stage.

After a couple more drinks with Norman and Betsy, the Doc felt his phone vibrate, the text told him Bill was ready to go mad. Doc took to the stage, screaming at the crowd, “ I never wanted to be a compare, I really wanted to be a fat Australian comedian, talking of which, here is one I made earlier, it’s that time already folks, here’s Bungalow top of the bill Bill.”

“You whinging fucking poms, do you ever fucking stop whinging and wining? Back home we say there’s nothing worse than a Brit.tourist except more than one of course. So what is it now; what’s fucking wrong today? Oh did it rain ah, heard of umbrellas; staying in; the Rain Forest. You got it made over here and you still fucking whinge. I love England myself; it’s the women, shag like rattlers. But you guys really miss out, you don’t do the old business like you should, it’s not hard, well it should be, just lie the sheilas down and give ‘em a good seeing to or better still table end ‘em when you get home from work. Take out the day’s frustrations by throwing the old one-eyed trouser snake into the nearest watering hole you can find.”

Norman and Betsy had heard it all before, Bill carried on insulting the English in great style. The pair cuddled a bit, which was unusual in public, Betsy quizzed Norman over Rasta Man. “You’ll see him for yourself soon,” he whispered in her ear. 

“Watering hole indeed,” she said, “That Bill is a fucking pig.”

“Yes, but a fucking funny pig,” replied Norman. Bill stayed on stage longer than usual, as if somewhat challenged by Rasta closing the show.

Eventually he ran out of material and following his rowdy departure off stage after a rendition of a ‘Long and Whinging Road,’ Bill joined Norman and Betsy at the bar. “Well, I wanted a good view of Rasta Man,” he explained. “So what’s with this guy then?” Norman ordered over some more drinks, but said nothing, mainly because he was a bit speechless on that subject still.

The D.J. was playing as instructed by the Doc a selection of drab music with the treble turned down to assist Rasta to sound O.K. at worst.

“Ladies, Gentleman and Betsy,” announced Doc, “here to sing his latest composition co-written with yours truly of course, you’ve waited long enough, it’s the man who put the casual into labour Rasta Man.”

The crowd responded with warm applause, Rasta sang,

“Whenever I’m sad, whenever I’m blue,

Whenever my troubles are heavy

Beneath the stars, I play my guitar, just like Tony.

Blair la la lal lala, la la la lala la ”

The crowd joined in, “Blair la la la lala la la la lala la,” 

Played in the Reggae style, the crowd went berserk. “More, more, more,” they started to chant. Rasta eased into ‘Satisfy My Soul,’ then finished his set with a very long, ‘Jamming,’ another Bob Marley classic. Doc jumped up as it ended encouraging the applause to even greater heights. He screamed, “Good night, see you next weekend and don’t forget, if you can’t be with the one you fuck, fuck the one you‘re with, Beckham bless you.”

The stage lights were faded as the D.J. rebelled by playing the Sid Vicious version of ‘My Way.’ The crowd even found this a funny as they started to spill out onto the pavement.

The pub lights came up to allow the staff to clean the tables. Norman took charge of the close up as Doc was catching a free lift home with Rasta. He shouted across the bar to Norman, “Keep an open mind and a watchful eye Zen, see you back here mid-day. Now Rasta here’s an idea, ‘Get on down like a text machine’ perhaps not, let’s go.” 

Betsy helped with the lock up, she and Norman hurried back to the apartment after yet another memorable night.