By Paddy Bostock
Fantasy, 346 pages
Cover art by Richard Stroud
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In his wildest dreams, Afghanistan war veteran Noddy Stoddart
fantasised about becoming king of Liverpool, even though his
brother, Knobby, told him he was crazy. But shooting government
minister St John Jaunston in the bottom with an air rifle on a visit
to the city leads bizarrely to Noddy’s dream coming true--as
president of the newly created People’s Republic of Liverpool.
Outraged as Noddy and his Goth/Punk girlfriend set Britain against
him through further “bottom blasting” and then
faux vampire actions before
escaping to a castle in France, the prime minister initially
threatens ancient punishments. But, facing Cabinet backstabbing and
the loss of a general election, he succumbs to realpolitik and
invites the miscreants home as voter bait.
Mistake, because that’s when—with a little help from his friends,
and the involvement of an elf and his dog, Noddy takes full
advantage.
Excerpt:
The Château de Chanteloire’s Great Hall had witnessed many
spectacular historic moments across the centuries—including the
bloody, ninth-century altercation between King Louis the Pious and
his renegade son, Lothar—and was closed to a general public unaware
of its existence. This because it was known only to its current
owner, Compte Lucien de Rubempré and his centuries-old pals Mordecai
and Arnaud, for whom a return to past glories was always “
à
disposition,” as he put it.
The size of an average tennis court and refurbished in largely
Renaissance style, the hall could seat forty-eight guests on
turquoise velvet-covered, high-backed chairs ranged along two
mahogany tables each stretching the length of the polished-pine
floor fifty feet below the beamed ceiling from which hung candle-lit
chandeliers on silver and gold chains. Further illumination was
provided by sconces on the gilt-varnished walls. In short, it was a
place fit for royalty to impress their neighbours. Also a place for
them to eat and drink to excess, canoodle, plot, and fight. Little
wonder, with
their humble origins, that Noddy, Meryl,
Knobby, Rodney, Anthea, Rollo and Ernie should have been gobsmacked
when ushered into it by an unctuous Compte Lucien.
“Holy shit!” said Knobby, for example.
But, accustomed to such surroundings, Mordy and Arnaud just smiled
and took their seats—Arnaud’s on a special dog chair—around the end
of one of the immense tables laid out for this evening’s small
party.
“Join us, chaps and chapesses,
do,” said Mordy, waving an
inviting arm at those still clustered at the doorway staring into a
room the like of which they had never seen.
And, one by one, they did. Sitting carefully in case they knocked
over one of the crystal goblets set before them, or besmirched any
of the gleaming silverware laid out for the entrée of spit-roasted
quail and then a main course of wild boar stewed in a sauce of
tomatoes and red wine, which would soon be placed before them by
three maids in white blousons with purple velvet
jupes.
“Just take it easy and re
lax,” Mordy advised. “It’s only a
junket after all.”
“
Rauf,
rauf,” said Arnaud, who would be served his
dinner in a special pewter bowl, on which was inscribed in gold
letters:
Chien.
“But first a toast,” Mordy said, standing on his chair and raising
his goblet of Pouilly-Fumé while the maids hurried to fill their
guests’ glasses with local Loire reds, whites, and rosés of their
choice.
Noddy, Knobby, and Ernie said they’d rather have a beer, thank you
very much, but Mordy wasn’t having any of that.
“When in Rome,” he said.
“We’re not
in Rome,” said Noddy.
“Manner of speaking,
mon ami.
Do try
a drop
of the Pouilly-Fumé. Put hairs on your chest. I can assure you it is
of the finest quality.”
So Noddy, Knobby, and Ernie did as advised, while Rodney, Rollo,
Anthea, and Meryl went for an assortment of Pinots, Chardonnays, and
Rosés d’Anjou.
“Jolly dee,” Mordy said when all the glasses were brimming and
everybody was standing expectantly at his or her place. “So, here’s
to us all!”
“Us all!” chorused the crews of both the Deux Chevaux and the Range
Rover Vogue Sport, swigging at their goblets.
“But es
pecially to Noddy and Meryl without whom this
celebration would never have taken place,” Mordy added, addressing
the pair sitting next to him.
“Noddy and Meryl!” echoed around the vast space, and then bounced
back off the fifty-foot ceiling.
“So now sit and enjoy,” said Mordy. “And, while you eat, you may
expect a little in-house entertainment,” he added, replacing his
goblet on the tablecloth and pointing to the far end of the hall,
where a screen of cinematic dimensions was sliding incongruously
into place.
“Porno?” said Noddy, who’d liked the Pouilly-Fumé so much he had
already had his glass refilled twice by Françoise, the prettiest of
the maids.
“One way of looking at it, old man. You will see... you will see.
Now
do pay these little quail chappies the attention they
deserve, eh?”
“
Rauf,
rauf,” said Arnaud, licking at his bowl.
“Prob’bly won’t be till we’re well past the boar and onto dessert
the PM will speak to us,” Mordy added.
“PM of France?” said Rodney Snipes, already the worse for wear after
three goblets of Pinot Noir.
“Of Great
Britain,
mon vieux. Who will shortly be
joining us with news I am sure will interest you.”
“
Biffo?” said Rodney.
“The same. Sources tell me he is about to make the speech of his
life.”
“And we’ll see it?”
