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Nostradamus Ate My Hamster

Robert Rankin

This book is dedicated to a very good friend of mine Graham Theakston the now legendary director of Tripods. Let’s see you direct this one, sucker!

It also owes a debt of thanks to Mr Sean O’Reilly, without whose strange dreams it would never have been possible.

Thanks, Sean.

A WORD TO THE WISE

This book contains certain passages that some readers might find deeply disturbing. Due to the questionable sanity of the author and the convoluted nature of the plot, it is advised that it be read at a single sitting and then hidden away on a high shelf.

1

Oh Little Town of Brentford

All along the Ealing Road the snow fell and within The Flying Swan a broad fire roared away in the hearth.

Neville the part-time barman whistled a pre-Celtic ditty as he draped the last tired length of tinsel about the lopsided Christmas tree. Climbing down from his chair, he rooted about in the battered biscuit tin which stood upon the bar counter. Herein lay the musty collection of once-decorations and the wingless fairy that had served The Swan well enough for some fifteen Christmas-times past. Neville considered that the jaded pixie still had plenty of life left in it, should The Swan’s Yuletide revellers be persuaded to keep their malicious mitts off her.

Drawing the elfin relic into the light, Neville gently stroked the velvet dust away. She was a sad and sorry specimen, but tradition dictated that for the next two weeks she should perch upon her treetop eyrie and watch the folk of Brentford making the holy shows of themselves. Being a practising pagan, Neville always left dressing the tree until the very last night before Christmas.

That its magic should work to maximum effect.

Clambering once more onto his chair, the barman rammed the thing onto the treetop, thinking to discern an expression of startled surprise, and evident pleasure, flicker momentarily across the wee dolly’s countenance.

Climbing carefully down, Neville stepped back to peruse his handiwork through his good eye.

“Blessed be,” said he, repairing to the whisky optic for a large measure of Christmas cheer.

The Guinness clock above the bar struck a silent five-thirty of the p. m. persuasion and an urgent rattling at the saloon bar door informed the barman that at least two of the aforementioned revellers, evicted a scant two hours before, had now returned to continue their merry-making. Neville drained his glass and smacked his lips and sauntered to the door.

Click-clack went the big brass bolts, but silently the hinges.

Upon the doorstep stood two snowmen.

“Looks like filling up out,” said one.

“God save all here,” said the other.

“Evening, Jim, John,” said Neville, stepping aside to allow The Swan’s most famous drinking partnership entry. Jim Pooley and John Omally (both bachelors of the parish) shook the snow drifts from their shoulders, rubbed their palms together and made towards the bar.