Novel Extract

WAITER, THERE'S A MARTIAN IN MY Y-FRONTS

Extract: THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT

The Three Kings would have had a hell of a time this evening - camels aren't designed for heavy snow.

Fortunately, little in the way of spiritual significance was happening this far north, for tonight was the Eve of the Pulling Down of the Storefront Shutters and the Night of the Weary Sigh.

There would be the briefest of breaks tomorrow - the Day of Unnecessary Presents, Television Specials and Great Aunt Emily Hitting the Sherry. The following day, the annual Retail Riots that had been going on for the past two months would start again. This time for real.

If their quest for a miracle had brought them to this Nation of Shopkeepers, the Wise Men would have been smarter to take the easy way northwest by tethering their camels to the nearest convenient palm tree and buying a 747.

They could then have relaxed in specially-widened seats with their bejewelled sandals resting on flip-up footrests, listening through luxury headphones arcing over their crowns to a vast range of music, from the primitive rhythms of recently-discovered tribesmen banging rocks and bits of animals together to Norway's newest rapping megastar.

Or they could have watched one of the sixty movies stored on CD deep in the bowels of the Boeing, all specially selected for their seasonal content - from earliest monochrome Dickens, through yet another remake of Miracle on 34th Street ... all the way to a Bollywood version of Scrooged.

Or they could have just whiled away the hours deciding which of the nine different gourmet meals on the inflight menu to enjoy - if not all nine - and continually pushing the stewardess call button for more champagne until the great silver bird touched lightly down onto the only runway open tonight at the Capital's Eastern Airport.

The motorway running parallel to runway seven would normally have provided the three sovereigns with access to many inns at which to stop and make their seasonal search, each with its own neon star flashing intermittently above, announcing to the world such attractive features as hourly rates, unisex sauna and coin-operated vibrating beds.

But the sheer volume of the current snowfall had halted all but the most urban of urban traffic, which had problems of its own. Thanks to the reoccurrence of a computer virus left as a token of appreciation by an outgoing programmer - around the time of Capital Traffic Control's inevitable privatisation - all the traffic lights in the nine-hundred-square-mile area it covered had stayed on red since one this morning. So their Majesties would have to use another form of transport.

This would involve sheltering for a time in the airport bookshop, flicking through certain magazines on the top shelf, and then proceeding to the bus stop. For the last remaining taxi at the rank would have been commandeered by a brace of Japanese marketing consultants with an urgent appointment in Piccadilly, and would, even now, be struggling through the snow towards Harrow.

At the bus stop, the three rulers would shiver and stamp their bejewelled sandals in the snow, wishing they had listened to their mothers and worn some thick woolly socks and a thick woolly hat (so much more practical than that silly crown, darling) and made space in their luggage for some warmer raiment, until quite some time after the appointed hour at which the airport bus was due to take them to the outermost station of the CentralTrak East underground railway line.

Here they would purchase three bright blue printed tickets granting them access to the welcoming warmth of the gaily-decorated train carriages. They would then while away their trip into town peacefully reading, with a glow of goodwill to all mankind, the colourfully-scrawled and equally colourfully-phrased handwritten messages festooning the walls, windows and what little remained of the seat-coverings, wishing newcomers to the country a safe and speedy return to the nations from whence they came.

Two thousand cubits short of the thin longditudinal line that officially separates East from West, the underground tracks come to an abrupt halt. As, in the majority of cases, do the trains.

One hundred and twenty-five cubits away, at the western end of the station - which is a long way to carry a weighty selection of glistening jewels, precious metals and any oriental spices that haven't been impounded by customs officials - our three puffing potentates would then have to stand at the back of the procession leading to the CentralTrak West ticket booth. Or, on a more practical basis, unsheath their scimitars and hack their way through the subterranean scrimmage of seasonal shoppers, all gladly rejoicing that they'd saved enough on tatty presents for friends and relatives to go spend some real money on themselves the day after tomorrow.

Either way, their Majesties would eventually acquire three separate CentralTrak West tickets, fashioned in bright red cardboard, entitling them to journey the remaining one thousand, eight hundred and seventy-six cubits to where they could all agree that they'd travelled from East to West once more, found nothing again this year, turn round and go home to curl up with a concubine and a nice hot cup of cocoa.

This would have been the normal state of affairs, and in accordance with the word of the girl at the travel information desk.

But since there'd been no airport bus service for the past three days because of a flu bug ...

... and because the staff of CentralTrak East had chosen last Monday to come out in sympathy with their colleagues at CentralTrak North ...

... who had, the previous Thursday, walked off the job to express solidarity with their comrades at CentralTrak South ...

... who'd felt hard enough done by to vote, the Monday before, overwhelmingly in favour of industrial action because they didn't see why they should have to get up and work in the cold and dark ...

... when those buggers at CentralTrak West had managed to find an excuse to shut down their line and go home ...

... on the whole, the Three Kings would have been much wiser staying home and watching the Coronation Street Christmas Special.

END