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'Excuse me bishop,' said the barman, hurrying over to Kelly.

'A quadruple sprout brandy and a red wine please.'

A great roar of laughter went up from the crowd. Old Pete had made another funny at Derek's expense and the poets who tolerated Derek, while knowing his poems were crap, chuckled and chortled away.

The barman set to pouring out sprout brandy, Kelly turned back to Big Bob. 'Are you all right?' she asked. 'Do you need to sit down? You don't look well at all.' She reached out her hand towards him.

'Don't touch me.' Big Bob took a step backwards. 'I am infected. I carry the contagion. I shouldn't have come into this crowded place. Whatever made me do it?'

And then Big Bob realized what had made him do it. The idea to come here had never been his. Something had put it into his head. Something that was inside his head. 'You sneaky little bastards.'

'Pardon me?' said Kelly.

'No, I don't mean you. It's inside my head. It tricked me once again.'

'A quadruple brandy and a red wine,' said the barman. 'Blimey, it's you, Big Bob. I heard that you'd been Raptured.'

'Raptured?' said Big Bob.

'It doesn't matter,' said Kelly. 'But we must talk. You must tell me what happened to you.'

'I'm infected,' said Big Bob. 'I've got a bibbly bobbly wibbly wobbly, oh shit and salvation.'

'What?' said Kelly.

Big Bob snatched his drink from the counter and emptied it down his big throat. 'It's messing with my speech, trying to prevent me from telling you what happened to me.'

'Say it slowly,' said Kelly. 'Try to think about each word.'

'Computers,' said Big Bob, slowly, and struggling to do so. 'Mute Corp. Remington Mute. The Mute-chip. The computers th- No!'

Kelly reached forward, but Big Bob flapped his arms and backed away. He bumped into the wandering bishop, knocking the drink from his hand and drenching a pimply youth.

'Easy there bish,' said the youth. 'You've spilled your drink all over my grubby black T-shirt.'

'Sorry my son,' said the bishop. 'But it wasn't my fault, it was this great oaf,' and he turned and cuffed Big Bob lightly on the chin.

'No!' cried the big one. 'Don't touch me.'

'Pipe down over there,' called Old Pete, from along the bar. 'We're trying to take the mickey out of this young buffoon on the rostrum.'

'Some of us are trying to listen,' said a badly dressed poet, who wasn't really trying, but was all for keeping up appearances.

'Stay back,' shouted Big Bob. 'Don't anybody touch me.'

The wandering bishop stared at his wandering hand. His hand tingled strangely now and tiny needle pricks were moving up his arm beneath his colourful vestments.

For they do have some really colourful vestments, do those wandering bishops.

'Mr Charker,' said Kelly. 'We should get out of here.'

'Aaagh!' cried Big Bob. 'It's having a go at my poor left toe. Oh the pain, oh the pain.' And Big Bob took to hopping about in a disconcerting manner.

And the bar was crowded. Really crowded. Even though Big Bob had quite a respectable circle of space all around himself. Well, he had made a very fierce entrance and he was a very big bloke.

'Put a blinking sock in it,' called Old Pete. 'We can't hear the young buffoon.'

'Why don't you shut up, you old fart,' said a pimply youth. 'We want to get that idiot finished so we can hear another poem from the woman with the cat called Mr Willow-Whiskers.'

'How dare you address your elders and betters in that insolent fashion!' said Old Vic. 'I was a POW. We'd have executed young whippersnappers like you. Privately and in the shower block. One at a time, each of us taking turns.'

'Let's all keep it down,' said the barman. 'This is an orderly bar.'

'Leave my bloody foot alone,' howled Big Bob, toppling backwards and bringing down two large and moustachioed poetesses.

'Is this a proposal of marriage?' asked one of them, kissing Big Bob on the cheek.

The wandering bishop jerked about. Strange thoughts were suddenly entering his head. Strange thoughts that were not entirely his own.

Big Bob struggled to get to his feet, but he was hampered in his struggles by affectionate poetesses. Affectionate poetesses whose hands and lips were now tingling rather strangely.

'Leave me be!' shouted Big Bob. 'You fat ugly cows. No sorry, that wasn't me. I didn't say that.'

'It sounded like you,' said a badly dressed poet.

'Keep out of it, you scruffy twat. No, that wasn't me either.'

'You may be a big fellow,' said the badly dressed poet, rolling up his badly dressed sleeves. 'But I happen to be trained in the deadly art of Dimac and I take an insult from no man.'

'That is not the Dimac Code,' said Kelly.

'Kindly keep out of this, you blonde floozy,' said the poet.

'How dare you,' said Kelly.

'Behold the Antichrist!' shouted the bishop, which drew quite a lot of attention.

'Give me a chance,' called Derek from the rostrum. 'I've only got twenty-two verses left. And some of them are pretty saucy. I kid you not.'

'Get off!' heckled Old Pete.

'Shut up, you old fart,' said the pimply youth once again.

'Right that's it,' said Old Vic, drawing out his service revolver.

Big Bob fought with the amorous poetesses. The badly dressed poet put the boot in.

'Oh no,' said Kelly. 'I'm not having that.' And she stepped out of her holistic footwear and smote the martial poet.

'Fight!' cried Old Pete. This bloke started it,' and he pointed to the pimply youth, who was trying to wrestle Old Vic's gun from his tough and wrinkly hand.

'This man is the Antichrist!' The bishop had his holy water bottle out. 'Destroy the Antichrist. Grind his bones into the dust.'

'Are you sure about that?' asked the barman, as fists began to fly in all directions. 'I'm sure he's just Big Bob.'

'The Whore of Babylon, cross-dressed as a barman,' cried the bish. 'Destroy this one too, he bears the mark of the Beast on his wanger.'

'I bloody do not,' said the barman, dodging a flying pint pot. 'My wanger bears a small tattoo. You're pissed, get out of my bar.'

Outside in the car park two coaches drew up side by side. One contained the Brentford Constabulary darts-team eleven, lately returned from a humiliating hammering at the points and flights of the Chiswick Constabulary darts-team eleven, playing on their home turf.

The other contained the Brentford Firefighters hurling team, lately returned from a similarly humiliating trouncing at the pucks and sticks of the East Acton Brigade, playing on their home turf.

Both coaches contained downhearted men, in very poor spirits. Men who, only a day before, had engaged in conflict with one another, regarding who should be first on the scene and take overall control of the situation. That situation being a certain bus crash in Brentford High Street.

Both coaches disgorged their downhearted cargoes at the same moment. And the sounds of battle ensuing from within the Arts Centre and borne upon that gentle zephyr, which brought the scent of lilies and antique roses too across the Thames from the gardens of Kew, reached the ears of these downhearted cargoes at the selfsame moment.

And, being professional men, these downhearted cargoes pricked up their respective ears at the sounds of battle. And processed these sounds.

And reached a decision.

'We'll take charge of this,' said the firemen.

'No, I think we will,' the policemen said.

13

It had always been a matter for heated debate amongst scholars of human behaviour. 'What makes for a really classic punch-up?'

Certainly the ingredients have to be exactly correct. The margin of error is paper-dart slim. Too much of this, too little of that, and the whole thing goes to pot.