The Fun Factory Read Online Free Page A

he said, “then me. Crikey, I was hoping not to be so early. You’re midway through, after the clog dancing.”
    The fear gripped me once again. The fear of failure, of making a fool of myself, and in front of these people, who already held me in such low regard (if indeed they gave me a second thought).
    Mr Browes completed a hurried headcount of the boaters-and-blazers,and then, satisfied, bounded past us and up onto the stage. The piano player tinkled to a little flourish of an ending and shut up, which is more than you could say for the packed and sozzled crowd.
    “Gentlemen! Gentlemen, if you please!” Browes bellowed, and gradually heads began to turn in the direction of the little dais and the hubbub slowly subsided.
    “Gentlemen,” Browes began, in a more conversational tone now he had their attention. “Thank you for patronising our little entertainment this evening. It is still not too late to participate if you feel so inclined. See me during the interval and if you have your sheet music, or if Edward knows the ditty you have in mind, then I’ll happily squeeze you into the second half.” There were one or two lewd haw-haws at this, though quite where the double-entendre they thought they had spotted was lurking was beyond me. “And now,” Browes went on, “let the revels commence!”
    The first part of the evening went past in a blur. I think the opening item was a song by the chaps in boaters, accompanied by the pianist, a jolly little ditty about why you should always have champers in your hampers. There was a verse in it about all the different ways of popping your cork which they were inordinately proud of.
    Then it was Mr Luscombe’s turn.
    “Wish me luck!” he grinned, and then stepped out into the light. His Lady Marjorie started a touch uncertainly, it seemed to me, but once he got his first big laugh under his belt – actually, for the bit of business that we’d devised together in his rooms – his confidence grew. By the end he was getting uproarious laughter every time Lady Marjorie opined that somethingwas “Good for the blood!”, and he left the stage to a thunder of applause.
    Flushed and triumphant, he bustled into the wings and grasped me by the hand.
    “My dear chap!” he whispered, “what tremendous fun! And I have you to thank, you know! Yes indeed!”
    I was happy for him, and naturally pleased that my contribution had made a difference. Mostly, though, I was envious. He had finished.
    The jovial mood that Luscombe’s performance had generated in the room gradually dissipated during the next few acts, which were not, it has to be said, the absolute apex. One, I remember, was a rather mournful poet delivering sorry odes on the theme of lost love. Fellows were not just yawning as he droned on, they were actually shouting the word “Yawn!”, but the drip didn’t take the hint.
    Then there was the clog dancer. Everywhere you looked people were holding their ears and uttering oaths with absolute impunity. One or two were caught out by the suddenness of the cloggist’s finale and so he was greeted with a bellow of: “…ost confounded bloody racket I ever … oh, he’s stopped.”
    Beside me in the wings Browes was frowning at his running order. The evening was spiralling helplessly down the drain, and we both knew it.
    “Right-o,” he hissed as clog boy traipsed off with derision ringing in his ears (ours were just ringing). “You’re next…”
    Browes hopped up onto the stage and held his hands up for quiet (ever the optimist).
    “I am sorry to have to tell you, gentlemen, that the college authorities have informed me that your behaviour so far this evening has left something to be desired…”
    A choral “Oooooh!” rose from the audience, half-pleased with themselves for the raucous good time they were having, half-outraged that anyone might dare to criticise them for having it.
    “And …
and
… they have instructed me to make way for our esteemed head