Waiting for Clarkson (Jan C/W)

Those deck chairs were a waste of time. There we were sitting out all night to be first in the queue for signed copies of Jeremy Clarkson’s new book, eating our packed lunches, chasing away scavenging foxes and arguing with late-night revellers as they mocked us on the way past.
“Where are your sunglasses?”
“The Germans are up early as usual”.
Now it was two in the afternoon and we were still the only two people to have turned up at W.H.Smith’s so far. We were standing at the back of the shop in front of an empty desk set up for the promotion; we had folded the deck chairs and placed them in front of Louise Doughty’s books; I don’t know anyone that would ever read that heap of compost. At least in an hour’s time the great man was scheduled to appear.

A sales assistant called Rose told us that last week there was more at the Monty Don book signing. Rose said five women had turned up and they all looked like Daily Telegraph readers. I had a good idea who they would have been. Green fingers, my gangrenous big toe. Can’t see the point in gardening, me. The pot heads must be smoking those flowers.

I looked back at the long line of nothing behind us. Maybe Clarky had gone a book too far. It wasn’t even a new book he was promoting this month; it was his Greatest Hits collection. Ordinarily a GH tour would be a sure-fire hit but the readership hadn’t materialised. Clarky’s compilation had a lot of number ones and number twos in there beside the lesser known quips.
“This car has got all the figures you could possibly want. If it were a woman, it would be Rachel Riley.”

Book signings are still in vogue though there will come a day when they become an anachronism. It’s all that e-reader nonsense. What’s the script with e-book signings? How can you get the autograph into your Kindle? Advancement, my varicose veined left leg. I’ll stick to paperbacks. A paperback is a more useful tool on a desert island. It doesn’t need charged up for a start and could save your bacon if your message in a bottle gets to the right authorities. Kindle in a bottle, I don’t think so.

“Why don’t they just play with a sweeper?” My companion in the queue Chibber had picked up a rugby book. “Think about it. If they take one of their players out of the forward line and let him sweep at the back nobody would ever score a try.”
I’ve told Chibber umpteen times they don’t score tries any more; they get their goals by shooting over the bar. He must have forgotten.

“This guy on the cover has got a crumpled ear and his nose is on the back of his head, so why is he wearing a gum shield?” Chibber has hated rugby players ever since that time at school when the P.E lesson was a game of rugby. One of the big posh rugby types with a funny voice gave Chibber a hand-off. Chibber returned the compliment by punching the chap’s head off. I had to steer the conversation onto a less confrontational subject to calm my friend down.

“Tom and Jerry or Itchy and Scratchy?” I asked. Chibber grabbed me in a head lock and answered. “Clouseau and Cato were the best.” Impromptu wrestling was one of his favourite pastimes. This importune time was fortunate in the fact that there was no one around to see our childish grapple. To relieve his grip and send him into a catatonic state I had to stupefy him by mentioning the most vicious feud in the world of high-brow fictional literature I could think of to perplex him.
“It’s Rufino and Galileo Gall for me”. He quietened down, let me go and stared into the abyss.

It was past three now and still there was just the two of us in the queue. This reminded me of the last time we went to a book signing. We waited ages for God to arrive and personalise copies of his up dated bible. I always had the feeling that God was a bit of a diva, while waiting for Him I could see the writing on the wall and sure enough, He never turned up. Clarky wouldn’t leave us in the lurch, would he? Clarkson isn’t God, he’s better than that.

In my mind I made excuses for his tardiness. Possibly, he’s stuck in a traffic jam or maybe he’s looking for somewhere to park. Thirdly, what if he’s had a minor car accident and is exchanging details with another motorist. Damn. I cursed the lucky fellow that was involved in the shunt with Clarkson. He would get Clarky’s autograph without buying his book. As if reading my thoughts Chibber piped up.

“He’s probably driving a Red Bull.” For comfort we opened out the deck chairs. Luckily, I found a piece of uneaten cauliflower from our midnight feast squashed into the seat. Before Chibber could ask for a bite, I swallowed the edible plant. Share and share alike, my arthritic right shoulder. After this, we closed down for a rest.

This spell was broken by a tannoy announcement that was inaudible. Here we are in the twenty-first century and still public address systems are rooted in the age of Jackie Stewart. Everything else has advanced. There’s radiators made of glass that pour reflections into your room, warming up the place like a glass house. Automatic doors have been around as long as Star Trek. So how come nobody wants to update loudspeakers? All they get are a bad press. The PR of PA systems is at an all-time low and no wonder. The tannoy made another indistinguishable sound.

“I think it said something about prawn crackers,” said Chibber.

There was a clanging sound of doors closing followed by the unmistakable jangling metallic rasp of rusty roller shutters winding, presumably downwards. Next catastrophe to befall us was the lights going out. The shop was plunged into darkness. Looking on the bright side Chibber said at least we’ll have plenty to read.