“Right,” said the ref. “I’ll toss the coin and if your centre forward doesn’t get up and call, then win or lose I’ll give Burnley the kickoff.”
“Do your worst,” shouted Omally. “We’re not afraid.”
“We’re not?” Jim couldn’t manage another shout.
The ref stalked away to the centre of the pitch and flung his coin into the air. The crowd momentarily stilled as the dazzling disc spiralled up and spiralled down again to fall upon the snoring face of Ernest Muffler. The ref looked down at the snoring face, shrugged his shoulders and awarded the toss to Burnley.
The Burnley supporters screamed their approval. The Burnley centre forward took the kickoff.
High up in the commentary box, John the ex-Blue Peter boy spoke into his mic. “And it’s Burne-Jones to Morris and Morris has chipped it to Rossetti and Rossetti has passed it back to Burne-Jones and the Brentford team are just lying there, there’s no defence, no attack, no nothing at all. It’s Burne-Jones over on the wing to Holman Hunt and Millais is inside the box and he scores! Oh, yes. He scores! And the crowd are on their feet once more. One-nil to Burnley.”
The ref blew his whistle. “Offside,” he said.
“There,” said Omally. “Cunning tactics, eh?”
Pooley squinted. “You mean they can’t score?” he said.
“Yeah, well, they can – they won’t go so far into the box next time.”
And they didn’t.
“One-nil!” announced the ref.
Jim Pooley buried his head in his hands. “We’re doomed,” he blubbered. “Doomed.”
“Three-nil,” said John (the John in the commentary box). “And this is really absurd. Burnley are just walking the ball around now. They’re having a laugh. Oh look, they’re heading it backwards and forwards now. The crowd are loving it.”
“It’s not fair,” said Sam. “The ref should stop it. Look at poor Bertie, he’s all downcast.”
“Give me a pistol, John,” Jim shouted into John Omally’s ear, “or a sword that I might fall upon. I have had enough of life. This is all too much.”
“I have to confess,” John shouted back, “that things look rather discouraging. I’m afraid, my friend, that only a miracle can save us now.”
“Four-nil,” shouted the John in the commentary box.
“A miracle,” said Jim. “It’s going to take more than a miracle.”
“More than a miracle?” John took out his mobile phone.
“Of course, that’s it,” said Jim. “Zap them with microwaves.”
“Give me a moment.” John tapped out digits and put his free hand over his phone-free ear. And then John began to shout into his mobile phone.
“What is the score, Jim?”
“It’s six-nil, Professor. We’re doomed.”
“Never say die, Jim.”
Jim’s eyes did sudden startings from their sockets. His mouth did droppings open and his voice did stumbled speakings.
“Professor?” said Jim, turning on the bench towards the ancient scholar. “Professor, you’re here.”
“I’m sorry I’m a little late. I got a bit held up.” The professor spoke softly, but his words were clear to Jim even above the howlings of the crowd.
“They’re killing us, Professor. This fiend of a barkeep got the team drunk. Look at them out on the pitch.”
Professor Slocombe scratched at his ancient chin. “A difficult situation, I agree,” said he. “And oh dear me, they are approaching the Brentford goal once again.”
And they were. And they were laughing with it. Burne-Jones passed the ball to Ford Maddox Brown (the Burnley striker and five-times winner of the Freshest Whippet on the Block Competition (Northern Chapter)). Ford Maddox Brown took a lazy kick at the goal.
And up from the turf rose Loup-Gary Thompson, professional wolf-boy (and eater of whippets), up from the turf and into furious action. He stopped the ball dead and then took a monumental kick.
The ball soared high into the air. Incredibly high. Fantastically high. It soared and it soared and then it fell downwards, downwards, onward and onward. And straight into the Burnley goal.
Which was undefended, as the goalie was reading a newspaper.
The crowd did not erupt into applause. The crowd became silent and still.
“That was a goal, wasn’t it?” said Professor Slocombe. “Would you care to join me, Jim, in a Mexican wave?”
“Well this is new,” said the John in the commentary box. “I’ve never seen anything like this before. There never seems to be more than one Brentford player standing at any one time. One jumps up, kicks the ball, then flops back to the turf. And then another one jumps up, passes the ball then he slumps back down. And, oh my lord, it’s another one for Brentford. That’s—”
“It’s six-all,” said Sam. “Impossible comeback and the ref is blowing his whistle for half-time.”
The Burnley team sat in their top-notch changing room, sucking their oranges and playing their mandolins. Merridew Fairweather waddled up and down before them.
“You clowns,” he shouted, “we could have been thirty goals ahead by now, fiddle-de, fiddle-dum, but you took them for granted. You can’t take these Southern nutters for granted.”
“But the fix was in, Boss,” said John Roddam Spencer Stanhope, the goalie and three-times winner of the Flattest Flat Cap Competition (Northern Chapter). “I thought your brother at The Slaughtered Lamb had taken care of them, as he has done with all the other teams we’ve thrashed at home this season.”
“Hush your loquacity,” counselled Merridew. “We need this win. You go out there and do whatever you have to do – if you get my meaning.”
“What about the ref?”
“He is our referee in residence,” said Merridew. “And he is my other brother.”
The Brentford team did not repair to the changing room come half-time. They apparently chose to remain resting on the pitch.
Jim Pooley downed another pint of water. Some degree of sobriety was returning to him.
“I don’t know how you’re doing it, Professor,” said Jim, “but please just keep on doing whatever you’re doing.”
“I don’t know what you’re implying, Jim.” The professor made the face of mock-wounding. “The team are trying their best and playing their hearts out.”
“I particularly liked the way that the English twins managed to kick in that last goal without having any of their feet actually touching the turf,” said John. “The way they just sort of hovered above the ground.”
“Skilful players,” said the professor. “Very light on their feet.”
The folk who watch Sky TV – those toffs in aeroplanes, perhaps – no doubt enjoyed the second half of the match.
Assuming, of course, that they were not Burnley Town supporters.
Those toffs probably enjoyed all the news that followed also. It was Sky News and it was very thorough. The reporter “on the ground” who covered the carnage was an ex-BBC topical news quiz presenter who had just lost his job at the BBC after getting into a spot of bother involving cocaine and hookers. His name was Angus[45] and he had to wear his special Sky News protective helmet and flak jacket. The mass rioting that followed the Brentford victory and culminated in the burning down of, amongst other things, the Stadium of Earthly Delights (which happily resulted in no actual loss of life, although many were hospitalised) made for excellent television.