They get up your nose and into your ear.
I think it’s time for action.
Brave words are fine, but insubstantial.
What we need is help, financial.
A government grant would do the trick.
It needs some toff to shake the stick.
Then, if everything starts to click,
We’ll really get some action.
There’s too many Pikers for this time of day.
They fall from the clouds (or so they say).
And crawl up your bum while you sleep in the hay.
I think it’s time for action.
Proud talk is well, but it’s not enough.
We need more, when the going’s rough.
A word from the Pope would spin the coin,
Or Johnny B. could write a poem.
Or sing a song to get things goin’,
And then we’d see some action.
There’s too many tinkers in the street.
They always get beneath your feet.
They make you trip and drop your sweet.
I think it’s time for action.
Great oaths are grand, but money talks.
We need police to guard our walks.
A dozen for The Avenue,
And in each sweetshop, one or two.
And plain-clothed coppers, quite a few,
And then we’d see some action.
There’s too many things …
… hey, come back, fellas, I haven’t finished …
… hey, fellas … wait for me …
… come back …
… damn …
24
Now it is the nature of things, that they do not occur in isolation. Things happen all at once or not at all. There must surely be some reason for this. But it is probably one that is beyond all human understanding. Like why people who do not engage in sports wear sportswear. Perhaps it is that things simply don’t like to happen alone. They crave the company of other things to happen with. They like to buddy-up and go about mob-handed.
There’s just no telling, with things.
Of course, we do our best to fight against things. We try to put things off and leave things ’til tomorrow. But things still get on top of us. Things conspire to grind us down. In fact things really get on our nerves. Things drive us to distraction.
And so, as we reach the conclusion of our tale, it should come as no surprise to find that things, which have been building up, are now about to happen all at once.
And happen, as things so often do, with a bang.
It was now nearly eight of the evening clock and the Beatles were about to go onstage. But, nearly eight? Can this be right? Some things should have happened by now. But, no, things hadn’t happened.
Soap had slept through the balance of the day, missing all the really good bands. Bands which should have received some attention and been described in considerable detail. As indeed should the Gandhis’ performance. But they hadn’t. And it wasn’t. Because, let’s face it, our tale really isn’t so much about the music itself. Our tale is about other things.
Other things which have to do with Wingarde. And so where is he? John Omally has been standing at the park gates for nearly five hours, grinding his teeth and shuffling his feet and planning a terrible vengeance. But there is still no sign of Wingarde’s car, because Wingarde’s car has made a slight diversion. Wingarde has spent the afternoon at the house of his chauffeur. Where, with permission from The Voice, he has been engaging in certain things which need not concern us here.
And what about Inspectre Hovis? Well, he is still in the hovering helicopter, scanning the crowd. But has he caught sight of Geraldo and his pals? He has not. And have the plain-clothed constables caught sight of Geraldo and his pals? No. They have not.
And what is Dr Trillby up to? And where, for that matter, is Prince Charles, who was expected to make a spectacular arrival in a hot-air balloon, but has so far failed to appear. Who knows?
So things just haven’t happened. Things have been waiting to happen. And things will happen. Happen all at once, they will.
And happen with a bang.
The bang, when it happened, was a good’n. A right royal belter of a bang. It tore the outside wall from Norman’s cell and flung it in pieces across the prison yard and through the wire perimeter fence.
Norman, cowering beneath mattresses in Small Dave’s cell, raised a smiling, if now slightly smoke-blackened face. “That went rather well,” said he.
Small Dave, who had been cowering under Norman, said, “I tend to agree. And now, if you’ll take the advice of one who knows these things, we had better do some running.”
Sirens wailed, alarm bells rang. They upped and did some running.
Inspectre Hovis was running out of patience. “I’ve had enough of this,” he shouted and he kicked the instrument panel. The surveillance telescreen rocked on its mounts and then displayed a curious image.
“What is that?” Hovis asked.
“You appear to have, er, nudged it into infra-red mode, sir. Those are the heat images of the people in the crowd.”
“I can see that,” said Hovis. “But look at that little group there, gathered by the front of the stage. Why are their images different from everybody else’s?”
“Oooooh, yes,” said the pilot, peering at the telescreen. “That is strange. They appear to be radiating some unusual form of energy. It’s almost as if they’re vibrating at a different frequency from everyone else. Faster, somehow.”
“Vibrating faster? It’s them! Take us down at once.” Inspectre Hovis snatched up his police walkie-talkie and bawled into it at the top of his voice. “Attention plain-clothed unit!” he bawled. “Suspects are grouped together directly in front of the concert stage. Move in and make immediate arrests. At once, do you hear me? At once!”
And all at once Soap Distant awoke, by falling from his chair. He scrambled up in the usual confusion and almost checked the time on his watch. “Oh no,” cried Soap, gawping up at the surveillance screens. “The Beatles are on. I’ve been asleep. And oh—” He paused. “It’s Geraldo. Down at the front by the stage. And oh—” He paused once more. “It’s the plain-clothed policemen and they’re heading in his direction.”
Soap kicked his fallen chair across the control room and Soap sprang into action.
And John Omally ceased kicking his heels and sprang to attention. Wingarde’s limousine came cruising through the open gates, with Wingarde at the wheel.
John stepped into its oncoming path and sought to flag it down.
“Down!” cried Hovis to the pilot. “Land this thing at once.”
“But, sir. There’s nowhere to land. Unless I fly us out to the back of the crowd.”
“No!” Hovis pointed. “Land there! Land on that!”
“What, on top of the stage canopy, sir? You mean land directly above the stage?”
“Why not? It looks strong enough.”
“But, sir. The Beatles are about to perform. We can’t interrupt the Beatles.”