‘Just walks around sweating, does nothing but sweat…and fart. Yeah, sweating and farting, and grunting too. Sweats, farts, and grunts. The man is a disgrace!’ raged Nobby, hopping shrewdly on his good foot.
‘What did he ban you for then?’
‘I called him a fat, lazy, turd.’
And Henry did see. He had discerned a pattern emerging since Nobby offered to stick a hot poker up his arse in July after a lurgy. Quarterly cycles, circadian rhythms, in-growing toenails, attention seeking behaviour, and six pints of Old Tharg each lunchtime had taken their grotesque toll.
‘ I’m going down the Zephyr from here on in.
Henry was confused.
‘You mean the Zodiac?’
‘Yeah. See you Sunday.’
With Flo away and Headcase post-traumatically shocked from a wolfhound goring Henry was all for the quiet life. Summer had been pointless, autumn dormant, and now with winter’s onset Henry was concentrating on his baldness with all his might. If he fretted on it very hard, a hairless Xmas was within his grasp. A once in a lifetime opportunity. The experiments with the uranium earmuffs would have paid off. In the new year he would get a patent via the Godalming Honkers Cult and new vistas would duly open up.