CHAPTER ELEVEN
The cheering and clapping continues for all of thirty
seconds until the clapping slows down and finally peters out rather
pathetically like those occasions at music concerts when the audience is
encouraged to stand and clap along and ends up with just one or two people at
the front keeping it going against all the odds while everyone else realising
their hands are getting sore and their arms are aching just give up and sit
down. A heavy cloud of silence hovers around the club. Jonathan anxiously
announces Captain Pete’s name again but as soon as he utters the words he
regrets it immediately. Nobody is smiling anymore. People are visibly nervous.
Jonathan glances to his left and then to his right fearing he’s lost control of
his audience.
A toothless old crone in the front row bows her head,
crosses herself and mumbles, “Holy Mother of Jesus” repeatedly.
A chill wind whistles around the room as tumbleweed
rolls across the club floor (again) while a lone chapel bell dongs mournfully
in the distance.
And still the silence is deafening.
“Aw, c’mon people,” says Jonathan, “I only said
Captain Pete. What’s wrong with that?”
A bread roll hits him between the eyes (he didn’t
have his visor down) as an old lady at the back shrieks, “You’ll know soon
enough Johnny boy, may the Lord have mercy on your soul.”
“Ha, ha, ha,” laughs Jonathan nervously, “How about
we get our next winner out here. Where is he? Where’s Captain Pete?”
Nobody’s clapping. Nobody’s cheering. Everyone is
looking at their feet.
“Oh come on, this is widiculous, get that man out
here,” cries Jonathan in desperation.
Joe is starting to regret he ever pushed that golden
envelope Mr. Ross’s way and glancing across at The Count, he starts to speak.
The Count glares at him and presses his finger to his lips. Joe’s scared
shitless and slowly slips lower down in his chair. The rest of the GITs turn to
look across at old Captain Pete but he’s gone. There’s nothing to suggest he’s
ever been sitting at his table apart from a gently rippling puddle of sea water
under his chair and a small flounder thrashing about on his table gasping for
life.
“Looks like Captain Pete had a small accident before
he could get to the gents,” whispers Pants.
Suddenly Mrs. Flagg appears on stage dressed in hot
pants and wet white T-shirt holding a sign above her head. Being a woman of at
least 80 years of age it seems time has not been good to her body. Her
emaciated frame makes the hot pants look as if she’s wearing baggy boxer shorts
and the T-shirt is wetly clinging to the hairs on her chest and underarms.
“I feel sick,” moans Pants.
Mrs. Flagg hobbles around the stage, sign held aloft
so everyone can see it. It reads ‘Clap and Cheer or Else You Bastards’ and as
she exits stage left – why there’s Captain Pete entering stage right as if
nothing has happened. He walks towards Jonathan, unsmiling, as he acknowledges
the cheers of the crowd with a raised right arm. Captain Pete reaches Jonathan
and stops. They both stand still and stare at each other, expressionless.
Then very slowly and deliberately they both roll one
trouser leg up and standing on one leg they turn so their backs are towards
each other, they bend down and reaching through their legs they shake hands
while shouting at the tops of their voices, “Who are we? Who are we? We are
members of the YTC.” This is followed by them both sticking a finger up the
other’s nose while raising their other hand up and down as if pulling on a
train whistle and yelling in high-pitched voices, “Whoo, whoo, whoo.”
The crowd, more in relief than anything else, cheer
and whistle and watch as Mr. Ross and Captain Pete stand before them hugging
and acknowledging the crowd.
The Count looks across at Joe, throws his head back
and cackles loudly causing Joe to jump and old Mr. Roundtree to drop his
Guinness. All the other GITs are now doing the secret handshake and shouting,
“Who are we? Who are we? We are members of the YTC” as Joe looks on confused.
The Count leans across and says, “You see old bean.
We’re all the same here. We all belong to the YTC.”
“But I don’t understand,” starts Joe, “You mean that
–“
“Yes,” says The Count, “All those weird goings-on and
the obsession with everything in three’s. It’s not just the lovely comely
Yalding lass that’s to blame for it all old boy. It’s everyone in this room. We
are all of the same persuasion. Three-legged chairs, three-legged tables, three
bulbs in the gantry lights – it’s all because we believe in and belong to the
same secret Yalding society. The funny handshakes, the strange behaviour…you
see Joe we are all Threemasons and the whole event tonight was just a ruse to
get you here to be inducted as a novice Threemason so you can well and truly
call yourself one of the GITs and participate in the activities of the Yalding
Threemason Club.
And with that The Count extends his hand in welcome
but as Joe takes it he notices, for the first time, that The Count has only
three fingers. Joe glances at The Count’s other hand and that too has only
three fingers. To Joe’s horror, everyone in the room only has three fingers.
“Ah, you’ve noticed ‘ave ya,” says Crawfie, “Don’t
worry mate, your five finger ‘ands will be easy to convert before the
initiation ceremony. I always carries me ‘ammer and cold chisel wiv me.”
“Yeah, don’t worry Joe,” pipes up Pants, “It’s not
all doom and gloom. Three fingers come in very handy for ordering measures of
whiskey and for doing the scout’s salute.”
“Yes,” says Marty, “And haven’t you noticed all the
great music that’s been playing during the intervals? There was ‘Three Coins In
A Fountain’, Gene Pitney’s ‘Three Hours From Tulsa’, ‘Three Days On The Road’
by Taj Mahal, ‘Three Green Bottles’, Three Ways To Leave Your Lover’ by Paul
Simon, all the Three Degrees hits and Neil Sedaka’s ‘Happy Birthday Sweet
Three’ although how he got away with that I don’t know, it doesn’t scan or make
any sense does it?”
“Ooh and we had ‘I Want to Break Three’ by Queen,”
shouted Pants, “And ‘Alright Now’ by Three and ‘I Feel Three’ by Cream, didn’t
we?”
“Yes but hang on,” says Joe, “What about Captain
Pete? He was so weird.”
“Don’t you see old bean,” says The Count, “All the
movie quotes, the strange behaviour – it was just a way of testing you, testing
your suitability for the Threemasons. If you’d been scared off or hadn’t
guessed some of the correct movie quote answers you wouldn’t have stood a
chance of being accepted into the brotherhood. So let’s hear no more about it
old chap don’t you know. Sit down, relax, count your fingers and let’s get on
with the rest of the evening eh? “
Joe is still slightly puzzled. So many unanswered
questions. “Yes, but how come Marty thought he was hallucinating when he looked
through Captain Pete and –“
“Shut it. Awight?” says Crawfie.
Joe sighs and turns towards the stage where Mr.
Biggins is slowly crouching up to adjust Mr. Ross’s microphone. For some reason
Mr. Biggins is dressed in his pyjamas and dressing gown.
Mr. Ross has by now unrolled his trouser leg and is
announcing the next part of the evening’s entertainment.
“Now, ladies and gentlemen, before our next award we
have a vewy special tweat for you. It weally is something extwaordinawy. Old
Mr. Lawson will, I’m told, be eating things including his clothes while his
wife Muriel will give us the dance of the seven tea towels. Take it away Mr.
and Mrs. Lawson.
Channel 4 cuts to the
adverts.
Channel 4 fades back from
the adverts.
Mr. and Mrs. Lawson, both in their late seventies,
are naked on stage bowing frantically to huge applause.
Sitting on a wonky chair towards the back of the
stage is Pants who in order to get a better view of the dance performance had
clambered on stage just as the act was announced. With a now uninterrupted view
from the back of Mr. and Mrs. Lawson taking their bows he’s rather wishing he
hadn’t been so keen but is putting a brave face on things as he rushes off
stage retching into the wings.
Back at the GIT’s table an empty pickled egg jar is
upturned in the champagne bucket awaiting replenishment. The Count and Joe are
animatedly discussing how it was possible for old Mr. Lawson to have eaten old
Mrs. Lawson’s discarded tea-towels so quickly after consuming all his clothes
while Crawfie and Marty are stunned and shocked by what they’ve just witnessed
unable to comprehend why Pants wanted to get up on the stage in the first
place. Pants finally arrives back at the table looking pale and embarrassed.
He’s frantically trying to wipe off the sick stains on his dinner jacket and
shoes before he sits down and stares straight ahead glassy-eyed and
semi-comatose.
With a voice that is remarkable in its similarity to
Bugs Bunny, Mr. Ross continues.
“Now, the final category before we get to the
crowning of King GIT 2006 is the “Loch Ness Monster Award” for the person whose
answers are never seen until the quizmaster has given up all hope of ever
seeing them and then sees them when he’s least expecting it.
And the winner is…
Pants.”
Pants, who’s in the middle of drinking the vinegar
from his second empty jar of pickled eggs, suddenly stops and slowly lowers the
jar carefully back on the table. He wipes his mouth on the sleeve of his
jacket, stands up with as much dignity as he can muster and tries to focus on
the stage.
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