Jim took John aside. “This is a disaster,” he said. “We now have a team composed entirely of circus performers. Not a single member of the original team remains. We have a clown as centre forward. This is a mockery of the beautiful game.”
“It’s unorthodox, I agree,” said John. “Do you have any other suggestions?”
“I seem to recall going on and on at you over the last few months about buying in new players.”
“With what? We’re broke. And with all those damages claims against us and—”
“What damages claims?”
“Nothing,” said John. “Shall we have a pint before we set off?”
“Ludicrous,” said Jim, throwing up his hands. “This is all totally ludicrous. A team of circus performers taking on the most famous football club in the world. I can’t see how even the professor’s magic is going to get us through this.”
“Jim,” said John. “Jim, you are my bestest friend and I love you dearly, but if I hear one more pessimistic word come out of your mouth, I swear that I will remodel your beak with my fist.”
“I’m quietly confident,” said Jim.
“Boss,” said Jon Bon Julie, the half-man, half-woman and centre mid-fielder to boot since Alf Snatcher had gone missing before the Arsenal game. “Sorry to interrupt you, but Bobo wanted me to ask – is it okay if he sits upstairs on the bus above the driver and stomps his big boots until the driver comes up and threatens to chuck him off?”
Big Bob Charker sat in his driving seat, brrming the engine of the great big bus. The great big bus looked splendid. It had been resprayed in the team’s colours at Big Bob’s own expense. Bunting hung along its sides and Big Bob himself had put aside his normal cap in favour of a woolly bobble hat knitted in the team colours by the mother who loved him. As Jim led the team towards the big bus, the crowd beyond the gates cheered wildly. Big Bob smiled to himself.
Professor Slocombe wasn’t smiling. The professor’s face was grave. Before him in his study, to either side of the fireplace, sat Terrence Jehovah Smithers and the Second Sponge Boy.
“The time is upon us,” the professor said. “Today what must be done, must be done. After the events of last night, I implore you to be on your guard.”
“You will be attending the match?” said Terrence.
“I must,” said the professor. “Our adversary will be there, that is for certain. If I fail to make an appearance, he might suspect my plans.”
“I wish I was going,” said Sponge Boy. “Seeing Man U getting its arse kicked is always a joy to us Southern boys.”
“I’ve set the video,” said Terrence. “We’ll watch it this evening. Assuming—”
“That you survive?” asked the professor.
“Something like that, yes.”
“But you trust me?”
“Of course we trust you, Master,” said Terrence.
“Then follow the plan to the letter and all will be well. The team bus will arrive shortly to pick me up. When I have gone, go at once to Griffin Park. The Campbell will be waiting for you. He will arm you as necessary and at the time agreed you will proceed to the Consortium building and lay waste to it and the evil that dwells within. There should be no loss of innocent life, as all the streets will be deserted. All eyes on the match, as it were.”
“You said that the Campbell will arm us,” said Sponge Boy. “Will we be having big guns?”
“You will,” said the professor. “I have arranged for certain munitions to be made available to you.”
“Uzis?” said Terrence, miming the use of an Uzi. “Will we have Uzis?”
“Kalashnikovs,” said Sponge Boy. “Kalashnikovs are better than Uzis.”
“No,” said the professor. “You will have neither Uzis nor kalashnikovs.”
“Aw,” went Terrence.
“Shame,” said Sponge Boy.
“No,” said the professor. “I have ordered for each of you a 7.62mm M134 General Clockwork mini-gun.”
“A 7.62mm M134 General Clockwork mini-gun,” said Dave Quimsby.
“A what?” asked Jim Pooley.
“It’s a rotary machine gun,” Dave explained. “I just overheard someone talking about it. Perhaps it’s a link, or a continuity thing, or something.”
“It would be very poor continuity, then,” said Jim, “because you’re not even on the bus with us.”
“Oh yes,” said Dave. “You’re right.” And he vanished away.
Omally nudged Jim’s elbow. “You look like you’re in a trance,” said he. “What are you thinking about?”
Jim stirred from his reverie. “Guns, for some reason,” said he. “I hope that’s not a bad omen.”
The big bus stopped outside Professor Slocombe’s home and Big Bob left his cab to help the ancient aboard.
“Morning, sir,” called Omally.
“Going upstairs?” asked Jim.
“I’ve my best boots on, John. I thought I’d get in some stomping over Big Bob’s head.” Professor Slocombe went upstairs and evicted Bobo from his seat.
The great big bus set off towards Wembley.
“Something very bad happened last night,” said Jim. “I think I should go upstairs and talk to the professor about it.”
“Let it be, Jim,” said John. “Just concentrate upon victory. We’re on the road to Wembley.”
Now, Bob and Bing never starred in The Road to Wembley. And it had been a good many decades since a Brentford team had. But the sun shone down on Big Bob’s bus and at length the great stadium appeared on the skyline in all its Art Deco splendour.
“Would you look at that,” said Omally.
“Now that is big,” said Jim.
“And I understand that there are plans to pull it down, too. So Heaven knows what biblical nasties might lie beneath that one.”
“You’re supposed to be cheering me up,” said Jim.
“True,” said John. And he called out to the team, “Let’s sing the team song, lads.”
“Team song?” said Jim.
“Team song,” said John. “It’s an oldey but goody.”
And the team sang “Knees Up, Mother Earth”.
42
Neville had purchased a reproduction Brentford United team kaftan, and he did not look out of place as he sat in one of the many coaches that had been chartered to ferry plucky Brentonians to the match. Neville sat down next to Small Dave, the postman, and waved a greeting to Archroy, Soap Distant, Old Pete, Councillor Doveston, Jack Lane and Bob the Bookie (who had come along hoping to watch a crushing defeat of the local team).
All and sundry set off upon the Road to Wembley, leaving most of Brentford and Chiswick deserted.
Wembley was far from deserted. Thousands streamed towards the stadium, vast legions in the colours of Manchester United, but many also in those of Brentford. For say what you will and say it how you’ll say it, this glorious nation of ours loves an underdog.
John and Jim were on the top deck of the big bus now, up at the front with the professor. The entire team was up there also, waving to the crowds. Below, Big Bob clung on to the steering wheel. “Maketh Barry Bustard and Long John Watson sit down!” he shouted up to Jim. “Or they’ll have the bus over. Verily and so.”
The crowds before the stadium parted before the big bus and Wembley’s Scottish groundskeeper waved it into the special enclosure reserved exclusively for big team buses. And from there he led Jim, John, Big Bob, the professor and the team towards and to the changing rooms.