Manne Becomes More Cheerful

 

Greetings! I liked your profile. I’m just going to send you my pic.

I have many interests. I am cheerful, pleasant, cheerful and sincere girl.

I’m sure we can find common cheerful interests. I like sports, sea, beach.

I am from Rus, I am twenty seven years old.

I guess I’m the only girl who still believes in fairy tales and waits for the prince on a white horse.

I have my job and many friends.

But there is only loneliness in my heart is still with the lack of fine feeling.

I want to get acquainted with you to have a pen pal and to rely on the possible relationship in real life. I’ll have to believe and hope that you will write me back to my personal e-mail: kadyrochka@moscowmail.com I hope that my message remained noticed you and you appreciate my pictures. I only hope to become your friend. I’ll wait for your letter and pictures with great hope for further communication.

Take care of yourself sincrely Tatyana.

—ooo—

It had been a rollercoaster year for Manne.  With the death of the pub cockatoo, a failed e-romance and an unsuccessful stint as Neville Cole’s key grip, things needed to look up or Manne’s face would slide off the front of his head into a puddle on the bar.

Manne’s woes had not gone unnoticed. But he was not entirely alone.  Foodge, had (putting it politely) not been overwhelmed by work since the pre-Christmas infidelity rush – his traditional stocking-filler and he’d used his time since then in quiet contemplation in the front bar, breaking in the new fedora that ‘Shoe had found abandoned at the First Dog on the Moon book launch.  The lid gave Foodge an air of sleuthful indolence, although Merv observed that “slothful” indolence better characterised Foodge’s growing bar tab.

Something had to be done to break the impasse.

Foodge sidled up to the bar at a comfortably “not-too-intimate-but amiable” distance from Manne and ordered “a Pink for me, a pink for my man Manne here and have one for yourself” – gesturing vaguely towards Merv.

It was becoming a stretch of Merv’s tolerance and he was scouting around for some kind of mind-broadening and life changing experience for Manne.  Merv needed Manne to remove his little grey cloud of glum from the pub.  He was putting off the other patrons – nobody had heard or seen VoR for weeks.  Gregor had reportedly taken a job as a gag writer for Watchtower and mumbled something about Manne and dis-inspiration just before he dis-appeared.

The phone calls to Lord Bunter had not been returned and there was a shortage of thistles at Gez and Helvi’s new abode.

The last straw for Manne was the non-appearance of Tatyana – the last of a long string of Russian girls who had shown a considerable e-interest in Manne, or possibly in the cash Manne earnt from casual bar-useful work in the pub.  He had, at her behest, transferred the price of an Aeropflogge ticket into a Moscow bank account on the promise of her speedy trip to meet “the man of her dreams”.  It was probably on the strength of the photograph Manne had sent her – as Foodge noted “taken from Manne’s good side on a good day, running downhill with a tailwind”.  So it was with a particularly long face that Manne returned from the anticipated airport rendezvous alone with the new-found knowledge that there was no airline called “Aeropflogge”.

Merv served the two pinks and marked up another entry in Foodge’s conga line bar tab when the door of the front bar flew open and a gentleman of indeterminant (and possibly indifferent) height clad in an outfit that fairly shouted “I’m on Holidays”, stormed the pub.

His needs were immediately apparent.  He made them so.

“Ouzo !”

Merv extracted the cork from a bizarre-looking bottle in the shape of a still.  The label read ‘Pitsiladi’ which looked Greek to Merv.  He poured the new chum a shot – much to the delight of the visitor.  “AHA ! “ he said. “From the island of Lesvos. Some of my best friends are Lesvians”.

“Ouzo for all !  And a plate of olives.  And some dolmades.  And how’s the kitchen for souvlakia ?”  Merv looked doubtful.  “I reckon granny could whip up some wedges and tzatziki”.

“Excellent !  Praise be to Dionysis”.

“Another ouzo…… er ….” Said Merv.

“But of course !  My name is Atomou, but my friends call me ‘Mou’ for short”

“I was going to avoid calling attention to your height, ‘Mou” said Merv.

The bon-vivant index of the pub was rising steadily with the exception of a small grey cloud sitting next to Foodge at the bar.

“What’s with the long face young man” inquired ‘Mou.

“Arr this Russian shiela stood him up, mate” Foodge cut in – his usual helpful self.

“There’s only one thing for it” said ‘Mou.  “It’s time that you went on an Odyssey”.

“I’ve been in Emmjay’s Zephyr” responded Manne.

“No, I mean it’s time for you to travel far, conquer your fears, slay your wild beasts and make your rite of passage and become a hero amongst the patrons of the Pig’s Arms.”

Manne looked just like someone contemplating a sickie.

“Now listen, it is said that the Goddess Demeter was wont to go and swim amongst the pigs.  The legend has it that she was fond of surfing the point break at Wherethefarkarwee” near Swine Lake and that she was wooed and bedded there by Captain Goodvibes who had taken the form of the mythic surfing pig.  Goodvibes it is said was fatally attractive to women, possibly because he had a limitless supply of scoobs, cans of VB and a board in the shape of a hammerhead shark”.  No wait, it might have been a head in the shape of a bored hammer.  No wait, it might have actually BEEN a hammerhead shark”.

A flash went through Merv’s head.  It was an opportunity to kill two birds with one stone.

“That’s it, our sage ‘Mou.  An odyssey.  We will send Manne and Foodge on an odyssey – to surf the point break at Wherethefarkarewee near the Swine Lake.

“There will be monsters”, said ‘Mou.

Merv reached under the bar and placed before Manne his trusty Purdey under and over shotgun.

Merv filled the shot glasses and broke open another Lesvian spirit.

“A toast to Manne’s Swine Lake Odyssey” !

“Yasas!” hooted ‘Mou.

Granny brought the wedges and as the pub regulars began to file in, the feast began…….