Eventually Truscott is satisfied that everybody knows what they are doing – or more precisely, what he wants them to do – and trips off to the bar to bore the knickers off the nippons, while Sid and I retire to check over the Golden Nugget – the only one we have ever found that works. It still seems to be functioning to a standard beyond the manufacturer’s wildest dreams, so we leave well alone and join Truscott at the bar for a pre-conference sup-up and suck-up. He is stumbling fitfully into top form and quickly slips his arm round Spring Fragrance’s waist.
‘Eh, darling,’ he says with a round of winks, ‘do you know what “jig jig” means?’
‘Yes,’ she says disdainfully removing his hand, ‘it is crude euphemism for “fuck”.’
Most men might have been a bit taken aback by that but Truscott thinks it is marvellous. He is the kind of bloke who reckons a girl fancies him if she only tells him to piss off. He goes on getting more and more plastered and by the time lunch is over he is staggering about like a dying buffalo – or in his case, overweight doormouse. He must be the only bloke in the room who would have to stand on a soap box to give Spring Fragrance a goodnight kiss.
A section of the dining area is screened away behind a curtain and, when I peer through, I can see rows of chairs which are beginning to fill up with what are obviously salesmen. You can tell that by the expression of bored resignation that haunts their dead eyes. They are men who have heard it all before and know they are going to have to listen to it again.
‘Right. Into battle, lads,’ says Truscott, slopping half a glass of brandy onto the carpet. ‘I’ll say a few words and then it’s on with the dancing girls, eh? Your Jap bloke gone to put his creamola on, has he?’
‘Yes, he’ll be down in a couple of minutes,’ says Sid looking at me for confirmation. I nod.
‘Well, I’ll get on with it then.’ He is about to push through the curtains when he turns and puts down his glass. ‘Don’t want the lads to think I’ve been drinking,’ he winks.
The ‘lads’ are probably able to come to this conclusion without the aid of props because Truscott trips over the curtain as he makes his entrance and staggers into the lectern which topples over slowly to hit the floor with a loud crash. Truscott’s restraining hand arrives seconds too late. Two salesmen crack their heads together scrambling to retrieve the lectern and Truscott raises his hand for the silence which is already his own undisputed property.
‘Right lads, I’ve got a few surprises for you today and that was one of them. Now, I expect some of you are saying, “Hello, here cooms old ugly mug with another load of rubbish about getting your calls in and using your point of sale material”.’ Truscott looks into his audience’s faces enquiringly. ‘Well, you are, aren’t you? It’s no good saying nowt. I know what you boogers are thinking!’ The expression on their faces does not change. ‘Well, it isn’t rubbish! This firm spends a fortune on point of sale material and I expect you to use it. Not light bonfires with it, or give it to your kids to make patterns with. Anyroad, it’s a subject I’ll return to later so don’t think you’ve heard the last of it. Now, for those surprises I was talking about. As you know I’ve always prided myself on my eye for a product with sales potential and I think that what you’re going to see in a minute will persuade you that I’ve coom oop with another winner. I cood go on for hours about it but I’m certain you’re getting tired of my voice – who said that? ! !’ His eyes probe the room. ‘Watch it! Watch it! It’s not a good time to be looking for a job, especially with the references I give.’ He glares at his audience for a full minute before continuing. ‘Now, if you’ve all got yourselves under control, I’d like to introduce you to some charming young ladies who have a few things they’d like to say to you.’ He waves an arm behind him and the Daughters of the Cherry Blossom come on singing the Nugget song.
The audience’s reaction goes through a stage of amazement to one of delight and I confirm this fact to Mr. Truscott who has surrendered the stage and is swigging brandy beside me.
‘They’re great, aren’t they? Great!’ he says. ‘Tell you who’s going to like them – Sam Hideyoshi.’ He indicates the third row of salesmen and I see that there indeed is a besuited, bespectacled male nippon looking so like his fellows that I would have failed to notice that he was not a son of Albion unless it had been pointed out to me. ‘He’s my best salesman that one. Works like a black—eh! Did you hear that? No, but seriously, he’s a good ’un. Hard as bleeding nails. He’d slap his own moother in the clink if she got behind with her payments. Sometimes, when he’s messing about with the lads, he’ll pile half a dozen competitive products on top of each other and cut through the lot of them with one swipe of his bare hand.’
‘Fantastic,’ I say admiringly.
‘Aye, it is. Hello, look who’s here. It’s your old Japanese Samovar. Did you see that picture on the telly? Marvellous. I fell asleep, mind you, but it was very good. They put them on too late, you know.’
Ishowi is looking mean as a one-penny tip and I notice that his jaw is twitching again. That, and his rolling eyes could make you decide not to hire him as the entertainment at your kiddy’s birthday party.
‘Eeh, but he looks a proper caution, doesn’t he?’ says Truscott giving me a playful dig in the ribs. ‘He’s going to wake them up all right.’
I do not know it then, but Truscott has just uttered one of the great understatements of history.
‘Alright lad, you’re on,’ says Truscott, shoving Mr. Ishowi towards the stage. ‘Get out there and wow them!’
Ishowi crouches like a crab and putting one hand on the scabbard of his sword, clasps the hilt menacingly with the other.
‘Yu! Yor! Yoo! Y-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-w ! ! !’
As the battle cry wells up from his belly he launches himself through the curtains and I watch the eyes of everybody in the first three rows open wide with terror. Well, nearly everybody in the first three rows. Sam Hideyoshi merely leans forward unbelievingly in his seat.
‘Yoh huh! ! Yoh huh! ! Yoh huh! !’ Ishowi is now hacking lumps out of the air and puffing himself up like a lovesick bullfrog. Beside me, Sidney clasps the Nugget to his bosom and prepares to step forward.
‘YE-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-ow! !’
The roar does not come from Ishowi but from row three. Hideyoshi has leapt to his feet and his face is purple.
‘Yor! Yor! Yor!’
At this point things start to happen fast. Hideyoshi charges the stage and Ishowi drops his sword and snatches Sidney’s Nugget. Why he should decide to cast down his weapon in the presence of an enraged attacker is soon explained when Hideyoshi snatches up the sword and connects with a double handed blow that should make Ishowi two different people. Instead there is a noise like somebody being slapped across the chops with a wet flounder and it becomes obvious that Ishowi’s samurai sword is as phoney as an eight-day week. Our boy is much better off with the Nugget and he delivers a nifty backhander that sends Hideyoshi staggering back into the fast retreating audience. Undeterred, Sam rips a steel-framed chair apart with his bare hands and goes for Ishy again.
While this unseemly agro is reducing the room to a shambles both Nippons are screaming at each other at the tops of their voices and the Daughters of the Cherry Blossom are flitting in and out of the action like agitated butterflies. Truscott and Sid are hiding under a table. Quite what is happening is perhaps best described by trying to reproduce the interchange between Ishowi and Hideyoshi as it is subsequently reported to us:
H. ‘YE-O-O-O-W!! Your face is known to me, unworthy dog.’
I. ‘I think there must be some mistake –’