Brassed Off Calendar Girls do the Full Monty in Camelot (22/22)
Chapter Summary:
OK folks, let's knuckle under, we have a contest to prepare for. Go ABBA!
'Edwin was living up to his reputation as the Band Bore. He had Mithian cornered. “Ah yes,” he pontificated. “I believe that it was in 1978 that Mercia Mills last won the Championship section. ‘Aristophanes’ was the test piece. Andrew Loudmouth was the Euphonium soloist as I recall. Of course, he learned his technique from Bob Gracenote. Superb technician, Bob was. Cut his teeth in the Salvation Army. They don’t make ‘em like that any more.” He adjusted his cloth cap and took a sip of his tea.'
When both Arthur and Merlin turned up, uncharacteristically early, to Thursday’s rehearsal, nobody remarked on it, but the mood in the band room perked up considerably, and even further when, 2 minutes later, Uther strode into the room, cornet in hand, and sat in Mordred’s recently vacated Third Cornet chair. With one week to go before the contest there was finally a full complement of 25 brass players, 3 percussionists, and a musical director in the band room. Kahill beamed from ear to ear.
Before the rehearsal started, Gwen, beaming, brought out a package wrapped in gold wrapping paper and presented it to Percival. To the accompaniment of whoops and more traditional Yorkshire round of applause, Percival accepted the package and ripped into it enthusiastically. He pulled a shiny new soprano cornet out of the instrument case, and kissed it soundly before holding it up into the air like a trophy. “Yes!” he crowed. “I name this sop… Hermione!”
Leon rolled his eyes. “That’s as close as you’ll ever get to Emma Watson, Perce, you gurt big loon,” he muttered.
When they ran through “Harmony Music” without a glitch, Kahill’s eyes were suspiciously moist.
Merlin had been a little apprehensive about the rehearsal, wondering whether people would be treading on eggshells around him, or making pointed remarks about his “gold-digging” propensities, and not sure which would be worse. He sat and fiddled with Gloria’s valves and tuning slides, trying to ignore Gwaine who was waving and mugging to get his attention. In the end he steeled himself and turned to meet Gwaine’s enquiring gaze.
“Wassup?” said Merlin.
“It’s my birthday next week,” said Gwaine, sniggering, “And I wondered if you wanted an idea for a present? Because to be honest, I read in the paper that you were about to come into some money, and some bastard has walked off with my lipstick, I wondered if you wouldn’t mind buying me some new…!”
Merlin snorted. Trust Gwaine to make an inappropriate remark. And to be honest, if Gwaine couldn’t make an inappropriate remark at rehearsal, then there’s something very wrong with the world.
“Gwaine,” he said, “Whoever took that lippy had your own best interest at heart. Shameless Scarlet isn’t really your colour. I’ll get you some Cheeky Cherry instead.”
“Cheeky Cherry?” said Lance, ears pricking as he joined the conversation. “More like Raunchy Raspberry!”
“Ribald Rose?” suggested Percival.
“Smutty Strawberry,” said Leon.
Gwaine stuck his tongue out at them all. Merlin laughed, gratefully.
The band congregated in the Rising Sun after rehearsal, and Merlin inhaled the familiar, mingled scent of stale beer and cheese-and-onion crisps with a sense of homecoming. It felt like a lifetime since he had last set foot in its shabby interior. Cara stood behind the bar polishing glasses and Gwaine was the first to order Merlin a vodka and cranberry. “You’re paying, moneybags,” he winked. Merlin laughed.
Gwen sidled over, uncharacteristically quiet until Merlin elbowed her in the ribs and said “how’s it going, oh great leader!” which earned him a grateful dimple.
“As it happens, Merlin,” she said hesitantly, “It’s going really well. We can’t seem to keep up with demand for the calendar actually!”
“That’s great,” said Merlin.
“I can’t help feeling a little bit guilty,” said Gwen biting her lip. “I’m pretty sure we wouldn’t have sold anywhere near as many if it hadn’t been for all the publicity. You know.” Merlin knew all right. He wasn’t quite sure how to deal with this, and filed it away in his head under “later”.
“We’re wandering if there was some charity we could donate the extra proceeds to,” she went on. “We thought maybe Camelot Rape Crisis?” and she peered up at him from under her eyelashes to gauge his reaction. He nodded and pursed his lips.
“OK,” he managed to say. “That’s good, I think?”
On the day of the contest the band felt confident and well prepared. The coach delivered them at an ungodly hour in the morning to the concert hall, a grand venue, the entrance of which was packed with a veritable Aladdin’s cave of trade stands selling sparkly new instruments and unplayed music. Merlin hovered, entranced, near a stand selling second-hand flugelhorns until Arthur dragged him away.
“Come on,” he said. “We can’t have you flirting with those like a lovesick puppy, Gloria will get jealous.”
All ten competing bands would be playing the same test piece. To prevent adjudicator-nobbling, or other underhand tactics, the adjudicators would sit behind a curtain and listen to the bands play in a random order, so that they could not identify who was playing, and would judge each band, without bias, on its performance alone. Once the adjudicators were hidden away a random draw determined the playing order.
Naturally each band prayed for an early draw. The earlier they played, the earlier they could go to the pub and quaff vats of local beer. But there was a sting in the tail; the first drawn band would have to play the National Anthem, as well as the test piece. Opinion was divided as to whether this constituted a useful warm-up opportunity, or inevitable defeat.
This time-honoured set up was well known to all three hundred or so Championship-section bandsmen at the venue, not to mention their assorted hangers-on-wives, husbands, wives, significant others, children, and the occasional whippet. In addition, there were further contests for less accomplished bands, who were also competing for prizes in their own sections and the opportunity to be promoted and, if everything went swimmingly, be crowned national champions. So all in all, there would be about 1500 thirsty bandsmen jostling for a position at the bar by the end of the day, which made the early draw all the more important.
So it was that Leon, Percival, Elyan and Gwaine were to be found sitting in a huddle, cups of “Taylors of Harrogate Yorkshire Tea” in hand, with their fingers crossed. “We’re hoping to be drawn 2 or 3,” they explained. Merlin nodded and passed round a packet of Jammy Dodgers. They munched appreciatively, brushing crumbs from their band uniforms. The band uniform consisted of a dress jacket in bright blue, with gold piping. Merlin and Arthur, as new members of the band, had picked up the uniforms left by previous players-which meant that they didn’t really fit. Arthur’s uniform was a bit tight round the shoulders, while Merlin’s had been stretched in the chest area by a previous owner, and hung off him rather loosely. Nevertheless, Arthur couldn't help noticing how the blue of the jacket brought out the colour of Merlin's eyes.
Meanwhile, Edwin was living up to his reputation as the Band Bore. He had Mithian cornered. “Ah yes,” he pontificated. “I believe that it was in 1978 that Mercia Mills last won the Championship section. ‘Aristophanes’ was the test piece. Andrew Loudmouth was the Euphonium soloist as I recall. Of course, he learned his technique from Bob Gracenote. Superb technician, Bob was. Cut his teeth in the Salvation Army. They don’t make ‘em like that any more. ” He adjusted his cloth cap and took a sip of his tea. Mithian, eyes slightly glazed and vacant, was nodding. He took this as encouragement and carried on.
“Yes, the Principal Cornet player at Mercia - who was it now?” he racked his encyclopedic brain for a moment. “Ah yes, Mimi McDiddlySquat. She won the soloist prize. Terribly controversial. She played a Beeswax Gargleblaster Assymptote, with a Vickery Doodlepants size 21B mouthpiece. Extraordinary depth of tone.” And to Merlin’s growing amusement at Mithian’s expression, Edwin started to demonstrate, sans instrument, in an off-key voice, the articulation and fingering for “Aristophanes”, holding Mithian’s gaze all the while.
“Yes, she preferred the tataka tataka triple tonguing technique rather than the takata takata technique,” Edwin droned on. “Of course, in Aristophanes, this can trip up even the most accomplished player. I remember my old friend Siegfried Ubersignificant from Shameless Namedrop Band, national champions in 1962 of course, old Siggy always used to say, around bar 562 of the piece, it’s really critical to use more of a ‘dadaga’ than a ‘tataka’ articulation. Like this: ‘dadaga dadaga da, dadaga dadaga GAH’…”
Elena took pity on Mithian at this point. “Come along Mithian,” she said, hurriedly, before Edwin could treat Mithian to a bar-by-bar account of the entire 1978 test piece played in two contrasting styles. “Time to erm. Oil. Our valves.”
As Mithian was dragged away, Edwin looked around for another victim, and his gaze lit upon Gwen. With a happy smile he edged closer to her. She hurriedly got up. “Just got to go and find Lance…”
Arthur and Merlin were brimming with mirth at this entertaining display when Arthur’s eyes widened, and he became totally still, focussing on something over Merlin’s right shoulder. Merlin turned to see what Arthur was looking at and found himself staring up into a pair of green eyes.
“Morgana,” said Arthur, nodding icily. “Mordred.”
They were clad in Mercia Mills band jackets-purple with gold piping. Morgana ignored Arthur and approached Merlin directly. She looked strangely uncertain when she spoke.
“Merlin Emrys? I don’t believe I have had the pleasure?” She stretched out a hand for him to shake.
Merlin nodded his head, but put one hand in his pocket, and held on to Arthur’s with the other. She withdrew hers, sighing.
“I wish to apologise to you. I used you to get back at Arthur, and it was not the right thing to do. I had hoped you could forgive me, but I understand if not.” Her voice tailed off and she started walk away, but then turned back to them.
“Arthur?”
Arthur returned her gaze, his eyes unflinching. She swallowed and looked down at her immaculate nails. “I’m sorry,” she said, looking up, and then turned away again. At that point Gaius returned to the room and the Albion Brass Band Amateurs straightened their pink-and-gold “ABBA” ties, awaiting his announcement. He held up two fingers. “Second,” he crowed. Leon punched the air. Elyan jumped up and hugged Gwaine.
ABBA would be the second band to play. This was excellent news. Albion would not have to play the national anthem, and with any luck they would have finished playing by noon, which meant they could have a liquid lunch. By the time the prizes were announced they would all be knee deep in Best Bitter, in the finest Yorkshire tradition, with the possible exception of Merlin, who would probably be knee deep in some vile pink concoction.
The performance of the test piece was strangely anticlimactic after all the preparation and drama of the last few weeks. Albion played as Kahill had required them to do; the only major fluff came from Perce, who split a top note on Hermione, his new soprano cornet. After the final note had finished ringing round the room, while the audience surged to their feet in a cacophony of applause, Kahill frowned at Percy and mimed “Your round!”
And then there was a good 3 hour interval in which very little other than steady drinking was able to occur. At one point a game of poker broke out in a corner, but as the bar became busier with drunken bandsmen from all 5 sections, pretty soon it was standing room only.
By 3 o’clock, when they all shuffled back into the auditorium, the band were looking decidedly dishevelled. Shirts were untucked, jackets were unbuttoned, ties were skewiff.
Gaius went up onto the stage with the other contest secretaries to wait for placements to be announced. This year’s prize would be presented by a well-known brass banding celebrity called Bert Wigwam, from the illustrious Wigwam family. When he stood up on the stage the audience gradually hushed, which was impressive given the volume of beer that was in every single gut in the room. He held up an unsteady finger.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, it is my great pleasure to announce, in reverse order, the names of the bands that have performed so splendidly as to deserve a prize today,” he began, rocking onto his patent-leather clad heels, and thrusting his impressively sized beer belly forwards towards the audience.
“In third place, with 85 points, the band that was drawn number 5, Mercia Mills Brass Band. Well done Mercia! And here to collect the prize is the band secretary Ms Morgause Avalon. Well done Mercia!”
The audience, with the pointed exception of the area in which the Albion players were gathered, clapped politely. The Albion contingent crossed their arms and scowled - no mean feat after 8 pints of Timothy Taylor’s potent magic potion.
“In second place, with 86 points, for a cash prize and for the privilege of playing at the National Finals at the Albert Hall in October, the band that was drawn number 2. Would the secretary for Albion Brass Band Amateurs, Mr Gaius Apotek, please come and collect the prize?”
Loud, raucous cheers and drunking shushing noises, Gaius went to collect the prize money and stand, slightly lopsidedly, eyebrows arched, next to Morgause.
“And in first place, with 87 points, the band who will be holding aloft the trophy, and taking home a substantial cash prize, not to mention the opportunity to compete at the National Finals in October, a surprise win for the band drawn 9th, DAB, newly promoted from the First Section this year! Congratulations to DAB for this impressive achievement. Would the band secretary Mr Matthew Crawley please come and collect your prize!”
Albion band members and Mercia band members alike exchanged baffled looks. They had assumed that this was a two-horse race. Who were these upstarts DAB, newly promoted from the First Section? Merlin cast a puzzled look across at Leon, who leaned over and whispered “Downton Abbey Band. Rumour has it they play cricket?”
Merlin was none the wiser. Oh well, he thought. You win some, you lose some. And at least we get to play at the national finals.
At the bar afterwards, Albion immediately resumed their celebrations. After all, even though they had no trophy, they had a fat cheque, and they had beaten Mercia Mills, and they would be going to the national finals in September.
Gwaine, Elyan, Percival, Lance, and Arthur led the singing.
"Albert Hall!" they sang lustily in an approximation of five part harmony, "Albert Hall! We're the famous Albion Brass Band Amateurs and we're going to the Albert Hall!"
“All right everyone,” shouted Leon above the din. “How are we going to pay for the coach down to London then eh?”
“I know,” yelled Merlin. “How about a naked, Abba-themed magic show?”
Arthur stared at him, mid-flow, mouth open in horror.
“Only kidding,” said Merlin, nudging Arthur with his elbow and smirking into his pink drink.
~#~
THE END
OK folks, let's knuckle under, we have a contest to prepare for. Go ABBA!
'Edwin was living up to his reputation as the Band Bore. He had Mithian cornered. “Ah yes,” he pontificated. “I believe that it was in 1978 that Mercia Mills last won the Championship section. ‘Aristophanes’ was the test piece. Andrew Loudmouth was the Euphonium soloist as I recall. Of course, he learned his technique from Bob Gracenote. Superb technician, Bob was. Cut his teeth in the Salvation Army. They don’t make ‘em like that any more.” He adjusted his cloth cap and took a sip of his tea.'
When both Arthur and Merlin turned up, uncharacteristically early, to Thursday’s rehearsal, nobody remarked on it, but the mood in the band room perked up considerably, and even further when, 2 minutes later, Uther strode into the room, cornet in hand, and sat in Mordred’s recently vacated Third Cornet chair. With one week to go before the contest there was finally a full complement of 25 brass players, 3 percussionists, and a musical director in the band room. Kahill beamed from ear to ear.
Before the rehearsal started, Gwen, beaming, brought out a package wrapped in gold wrapping paper and presented it to Percival. To the accompaniment of whoops and more traditional Yorkshire round of applause, Percival accepted the package and ripped into it enthusiastically. He pulled a shiny new soprano cornet out of the instrument case, and kissed it soundly before holding it up into the air like a trophy. “Yes!” he crowed. “I name this sop… Hermione!”
Leon rolled his eyes. “That’s as close as you’ll ever get to Emma Watson, Perce, you gurt big loon,” he muttered.
When they ran through “Harmony Music” without a glitch, Kahill’s eyes were suspiciously moist.
Merlin had been a little apprehensive about the rehearsal, wondering whether people would be treading on eggshells around him, or making pointed remarks about his “gold-digging” propensities, and not sure which would be worse. He sat and fiddled with Gloria’s valves and tuning slides, trying to ignore Gwaine who was waving and mugging to get his attention. In the end he steeled himself and turned to meet Gwaine’s enquiring gaze.
“Wassup?” said Merlin.
“It’s my birthday next week,” said Gwaine, sniggering, “And I wondered if you wanted an idea for a present? Because to be honest, I read in the paper that you were about to come into some money, and some bastard has walked off with my lipstick, I wondered if you wouldn’t mind buying me some new…!”
Merlin snorted. Trust Gwaine to make an inappropriate remark. And to be honest, if Gwaine couldn’t make an inappropriate remark at rehearsal, then there’s something very wrong with the world.
“Gwaine,” he said, “Whoever took that lippy had your own best interest at heart. Shameless Scarlet isn’t really your colour. I’ll get you some Cheeky Cherry instead.”
“Cheeky Cherry?” said Lance, ears pricking as he joined the conversation. “More like Raunchy Raspberry!”
“Ribald Rose?” suggested Percival.
“Smutty Strawberry,” said Leon.
Gwaine stuck his tongue out at them all. Merlin laughed, gratefully.
The band congregated in the Rising Sun after rehearsal, and Merlin inhaled the familiar, mingled scent of stale beer and cheese-and-onion crisps with a sense of homecoming. It felt like a lifetime since he had last set foot in its shabby interior. Cara stood behind the bar polishing glasses and Gwaine was the first to order Merlin a vodka and cranberry. “You’re paying, moneybags,” he winked. Merlin laughed.
Gwen sidled over, uncharacteristically quiet until Merlin elbowed her in the ribs and said “how’s it going, oh great leader!” which earned him a grateful dimple.
“As it happens, Merlin,” she said hesitantly, “It’s going really well. We can’t seem to keep up with demand for the calendar actually!”
“That’s great,” said Merlin.
“I can’t help feeling a little bit guilty,” said Gwen biting her lip. “I’m pretty sure we wouldn’t have sold anywhere near as many if it hadn’t been for all the publicity. You know.” Merlin knew all right. He wasn’t quite sure how to deal with this, and filed it away in his head under “later”.
“We’re wandering if there was some charity we could donate the extra proceeds to,” she went on. “We thought maybe Camelot Rape Crisis?” and she peered up at him from under her eyelashes to gauge his reaction. He nodded and pursed his lips.
“OK,” he managed to say. “That’s good, I think?”
On the day of the contest the band felt confident and well prepared. The coach delivered them at an ungodly hour in the morning to the concert hall, a grand venue, the entrance of which was packed with a veritable Aladdin’s cave of trade stands selling sparkly new instruments and unplayed music. Merlin hovered, entranced, near a stand selling second-hand flugelhorns until Arthur dragged him away.
“Come on,” he said. “We can’t have you flirting with those like a lovesick puppy, Gloria will get jealous.”
All ten competing bands would be playing the same test piece. To prevent adjudicator-nobbling, or other underhand tactics, the adjudicators would sit behind a curtain and listen to the bands play in a random order, so that they could not identify who was playing, and would judge each band, without bias, on its performance alone. Once the adjudicators were hidden away a random draw determined the playing order.
Naturally each band prayed for an early draw. The earlier they played, the earlier they could go to the pub and quaff vats of local beer. But there was a sting in the tail; the first drawn band would have to play the National Anthem, as well as the test piece. Opinion was divided as to whether this constituted a useful warm-up opportunity, or inevitable defeat.
This time-honoured set up was well known to all three hundred or so Championship-section bandsmen at the venue, not to mention their assorted hangers-on-wives, husbands, wives, significant others, children, and the occasional whippet. In addition, there were further contests for less accomplished bands, who were also competing for prizes in their own sections and the opportunity to be promoted and, if everything went swimmingly, be crowned national champions. So all in all, there would be about 1500 thirsty bandsmen jostling for a position at the bar by the end of the day, which made the early draw all the more important.
So it was that Leon, Percival, Elyan and Gwaine were to be found sitting in a huddle, cups of “Taylors of Harrogate Yorkshire Tea” in hand, with their fingers crossed. “We’re hoping to be drawn 2 or 3,” they explained. Merlin nodded and passed round a packet of Jammy Dodgers. They munched appreciatively, brushing crumbs from their band uniforms. The band uniform consisted of a dress jacket in bright blue, with gold piping. Merlin and Arthur, as new members of the band, had picked up the uniforms left by previous players-which meant that they didn’t really fit. Arthur’s uniform was a bit tight round the shoulders, while Merlin’s had been stretched in the chest area by a previous owner, and hung off him rather loosely. Nevertheless, Arthur couldn't help noticing how the blue of the jacket brought out the colour of Merlin's eyes.
Meanwhile, Edwin was living up to his reputation as the Band Bore. He had Mithian cornered. “Ah yes,” he pontificated. “I believe that it was in 1978 that Mercia Mills last won the Championship section. ‘Aristophanes’ was the test piece. Andrew Loudmouth was the Euphonium soloist as I recall. Of course, he learned his technique from Bob Gracenote. Superb technician, Bob was. Cut his teeth in the Salvation Army. They don’t make ‘em like that any more. ” He adjusted his cloth cap and took a sip of his tea. Mithian, eyes slightly glazed and vacant, was nodding. He took this as encouragement and carried on.
“Yes, the Principal Cornet player at Mercia - who was it now?” he racked his encyclopedic brain for a moment. “Ah yes, Mimi McDiddlySquat. She won the soloist prize. Terribly controversial. She played a Beeswax Gargleblaster Assymptote, with a Vickery Doodlepants size 21B mouthpiece. Extraordinary depth of tone.” And to Merlin’s growing amusement at Mithian’s expression, Edwin started to demonstrate, sans instrument, in an off-key voice, the articulation and fingering for “Aristophanes”, holding Mithian’s gaze all the while.
“Yes, she preferred the tataka tataka triple tonguing technique rather than the takata takata technique,” Edwin droned on. “Of course, in Aristophanes, this can trip up even the most accomplished player. I remember my old friend Siegfried Ubersignificant from Shameless Namedrop Band, national champions in 1962 of course, old Siggy always used to say, around bar 562 of the piece, it’s really critical to use more of a ‘dadaga’ than a ‘tataka’ articulation. Like this: ‘dadaga dadaga da, dadaga dadaga GAH’…”
Elena took pity on Mithian at this point. “Come along Mithian,” she said, hurriedly, before Edwin could treat Mithian to a bar-by-bar account of the entire 1978 test piece played in two contrasting styles. “Time to erm. Oil. Our valves.”
As Mithian was dragged away, Edwin looked around for another victim, and his gaze lit upon Gwen. With a happy smile he edged closer to her. She hurriedly got up. “Just got to go and find Lance…”
Arthur and Merlin were brimming with mirth at this entertaining display when Arthur’s eyes widened, and he became totally still, focussing on something over Merlin’s right shoulder. Merlin turned to see what Arthur was looking at and found himself staring up into a pair of green eyes.
“Morgana,” said Arthur, nodding icily. “Mordred.”
They were clad in Mercia Mills band jackets-purple with gold piping. Morgana ignored Arthur and approached Merlin directly. She looked strangely uncertain when she spoke.
“Merlin Emrys? I don’t believe I have had the pleasure?” She stretched out a hand for him to shake.
Merlin nodded his head, but put one hand in his pocket, and held on to Arthur’s with the other. She withdrew hers, sighing.
“I wish to apologise to you. I used you to get back at Arthur, and it was not the right thing to do. I had hoped you could forgive me, but I understand if not.” Her voice tailed off and she started walk away, but then turned back to them.
“Arthur?”
Arthur returned her gaze, his eyes unflinching. She swallowed and looked down at her immaculate nails. “I’m sorry,” she said, looking up, and then turned away again. At that point Gaius returned to the room and the Albion Brass Band Amateurs straightened their pink-and-gold “ABBA” ties, awaiting his announcement. He held up two fingers. “Second,” he crowed. Leon punched the air. Elyan jumped up and hugged Gwaine.
ABBA would be the second band to play. This was excellent news. Albion would not have to play the national anthem, and with any luck they would have finished playing by noon, which meant they could have a liquid lunch. By the time the prizes were announced they would all be knee deep in Best Bitter, in the finest Yorkshire tradition, with the possible exception of Merlin, who would probably be knee deep in some vile pink concoction.
The performance of the test piece was strangely anticlimactic after all the preparation and drama of the last few weeks. Albion played as Kahill had required them to do; the only major fluff came from Perce, who split a top note on Hermione, his new soprano cornet. After the final note had finished ringing round the room, while the audience surged to their feet in a cacophony of applause, Kahill frowned at Percy and mimed “Your round!”
And then there was a good 3 hour interval in which very little other than steady drinking was able to occur. At one point a game of poker broke out in a corner, but as the bar became busier with drunken bandsmen from all 5 sections, pretty soon it was standing room only.
By 3 o’clock, when they all shuffled back into the auditorium, the band were looking decidedly dishevelled. Shirts were untucked, jackets were unbuttoned, ties were skewiff.
Gaius went up onto the stage with the other contest secretaries to wait for placements to be announced. This year’s prize would be presented by a well-known brass banding celebrity called Bert Wigwam, from the illustrious Wigwam family. When he stood up on the stage the audience gradually hushed, which was impressive given the volume of beer that was in every single gut in the room. He held up an unsteady finger.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, it is my great pleasure to announce, in reverse order, the names of the bands that have performed so splendidly as to deserve a prize today,” he began, rocking onto his patent-leather clad heels, and thrusting his impressively sized beer belly forwards towards the audience.
“In third place, with 85 points, the band that was drawn number 5, Mercia Mills Brass Band. Well done Mercia! And here to collect the prize is the band secretary Ms Morgause Avalon. Well done Mercia!”
The audience, with the pointed exception of the area in which the Albion players were gathered, clapped politely. The Albion contingent crossed their arms and scowled - no mean feat after 8 pints of Timothy Taylor’s potent magic potion.
“In second place, with 86 points, for a cash prize and for the privilege of playing at the National Finals at the Albert Hall in October, the band that was drawn number 2. Would the secretary for Albion Brass Band Amateurs, Mr Gaius Apotek, please come and collect the prize?”
Loud, raucous cheers and drunking shushing noises, Gaius went to collect the prize money and stand, slightly lopsidedly, eyebrows arched, next to Morgause.
“And in first place, with 87 points, the band who will be holding aloft the trophy, and taking home a substantial cash prize, not to mention the opportunity to compete at the National Finals in October, a surprise win for the band drawn 9th, DAB, newly promoted from the First Section this year! Congratulations to DAB for this impressive achievement. Would the band secretary Mr Matthew Crawley please come and collect your prize!”
Albion band members and Mercia band members alike exchanged baffled looks. They had assumed that this was a two-horse race. Who were these upstarts DAB, newly promoted from the First Section? Merlin cast a puzzled look across at Leon, who leaned over and whispered “Downton Abbey Band. Rumour has it they play cricket?”
Merlin was none the wiser. Oh well, he thought. You win some, you lose some. And at least we get to play at the national finals.
At the bar afterwards, Albion immediately resumed their celebrations. After all, even though they had no trophy, they had a fat cheque, and they had beaten Mercia Mills, and they would be going to the national finals in September.
Gwaine, Elyan, Percival, Lance, and Arthur led the singing.
"Albert Hall!" they sang lustily in an approximation of five part harmony, "Albert Hall! We're the famous Albion Brass Band Amateurs and we're going to the Albert Hall!"
“All right everyone,” shouted Leon above the din. “How are we going to pay for the coach down to London then eh?”
“I know,” yelled Merlin. “How about a naked, Abba-themed magic show?”
Arthur stared at him, mid-flow, mouth open in horror.
“Only kidding,” said Merlin, nudging Arthur with his elbow and smirking into his pink drink.
~#~
THE END