CHAPTER FIVE
With the GIT’s table in total disarray once more,
Mrs. Flagg slowly rushes over with Mrs. Wickham to attempt to quickly clean up
before the presentation of the next award. This is proving to be more difficult
than they expected as Joe, Marty and The Count are all sitting slouched in
their chairs with dazed looks and glazed expressions. They can’t be persuaded
to move out of the way and the other two GITs, Pants and Crawfie, although so
far relatively unscathed from the previous waves of violent activity, are in no
mood for conciliatory gestures.
While The Count sits staring into space dreaming of
Claire Grogan (just as she looked in ‘Gregory’s Girl’), singing ‘Happy
Birthday, Happy Birthday’ tunelessly to himself, Pants and Crawfie are arguing
amongst themselves over who to humiliate next. With everything still left to
play for, Crawfie is trying to persuade Pants that if they can eliminate the
other three GITs from the proceedings the ‘King GIT’ award would be theirs for
the taking.
Sounding more like ‘Mad’ Frankie Fraser with every
minute that passes, he whispers to Pants, “Keep shtum, mate, but I reckon we
could get our ‘ands on the King GIT award if we bides our time and acts cute
abaht what’s goin’ on ternight. The uvver free losers ‘ave got no chance if we
can keep up the pressure on ‘em. Look at ‘em. They’ve all got wimmin problems ‘aven’t
they? No, I don’t mean wimmin’s wimmin problems, I mean wimmin problems, and
that, as we know, is a recipe for disaster ain’t it? The Count’s pining for ‘is
lost opportunities wiv that bint Claire Grogan (just as she looked in
‘Gregory’s Girl’), Joe’s dreaming of his missed liaisons wiv that comely
Yaldin’ country lass or the Yaldin’ comely country lass as she’s sometimes
known as and Marty’s still ‘opin’ for a reconciliation with the same said
comely country Yaldin’ lass which ‘e knew ‘er as. They’ll all start losin’ it
sooner or later, speshly if we keep the pressure on ‘em. What d’yer fink
Pants?”
“Sorry,” says Pants, “what did you say? I wasn’t
listening. I think I’m in love with prostitute number three, I can’t get the
way she wears her T-shirt out of my mind.”
Rubbing his hands and twirling his false moustache
(not at the same time, obviously), Crawfie cackles and putting the back of his
hand to the side of his mouth he whispers to a startled Mrs. Flagg, “Heh, Heh,
Heh. Even Pants is ‘avin’ wimmin trouble now, I’ve got it made. The King GIT
award is mine for the takin’. It’s mine I tell yer, it’s mine. It’s mine, it’s
mine, it’s all mine. It’s mine, it’s –“
Mrs. Flagg slaps him round the face and Crawfie
immediately punches Mrs. Flagg back. As Mrs. Flagg reels across the room into
poor old Mr. Roundtree who drops his umpteenth tray of Guinness, Crawfie shouts
across the room, “You slag! Don’ ever touch me again. D’yer ‘ear me?”
The Count, startled out of his reverie with Claire
Grogan (just as she looked in ‘Gregory’s Girl’), tries to calm Crawfie down by
offering him a cigar. “I say old boy, crikey, one’s not supposed to hit a young
lady like that. Here have a Monte Cristo or if you prefer a Cohiba Cuban to
take your mind off it,” and rather nervously guides Crawfie back to his chair
while Mrs. Flagg is attended to by the two on-duty St. John’s
With the GIT’s table now looking slightly more
respectable (it’s surprising what a difference a clean tablecloth and a new
doily under the pickled egg jar can make), Mr. Biggins once more rushes onto
the stage in another remarkable display of speed crouching prompting gasps of
admiration at his technique from the audience and even a few isolated ripples
of applause. Adjusting Mr. Ross’s microphone, he speedily crouches off again.
Mr. Ross continues, this time sounding unbelievably
like Freddy ‘Parrot Face’ Davis
“Ladies and gentlemen, before I pwesent the next
award, it’s cabawet time once more. Please welcome on stage, Herb Williamson
and his Collapsing Piano.” There’s a loud crash, a tinkling noise and a cry of
“Oh Shit!” from backstage. Mr. Ross frowns as he puts his finger to the ear
piece he’s wearing and says, “Sowwy ladies and gentlemen, Herb’s collapsing
piano has collapsed too early and his performance has been cancelled. What a
shame. I’m told that his act is weally something special. Never mind, on with
the show. Our next award is the ‘Sainsbury’s Nectar Award’ for the person who
has twied, unsuccessfully, to accumulate more bonus points than anyone else,”
he pauses, ”…and the nominees are Pants, Joe, Cwawfie, Marty and The Count.”
At the mention of The Count’s name a bread roll hits
him squarely on the back of the neck. “Please mater, it all happened a long
time ago old gel, let it go, let it go,” cries The Count to his mum as she gets
ready to follow it up with a jar of pickled eggs.
There’s a clatter and crash from the back of the room
as another poor sod bends forward too far on their bar stool to reach their low
coffee table and loses balance.
“And the winner is…Cwawfie!”
Crawfie, who at this particular moment is climbing
half way through the frosted glass window into cubicle one of the Gents, suddenly
hears his name, climbs back out and races back into the club waving his arms
and wriggling his hands above his head shouting, “Yes, Yes, Yes.” His sheer
exuberance causes him to mis-time his run right past the front of the stage and
straight out of the front door of the club where he bumps into the raised
bottom of the comely Yalding country lass who’s bending down picking up another
can of Tennents from the pile at her feet.
Without turning round she says,”Ooh, you are awful
but I like you whoever you are.”
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