“Cocktails will be served shortly,” said he, in an accent of the Glaswegian persuasion. “Then the chef de cuisine will call in with the menu for lunch. Might I recommend the salmon en croute and the filet mignon Americus. They go down a treat with a chilled Chablis.”
“How swank is this?” said Omally, gazing all around and about at the swankness of the changing rooms. They had recently been done out by a Mr Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen in the style of one of the Titanic’s upper decks, with steamer chairs and portholes, quoits and lifebelts and the ceiling painted all sky-blue, with cotton-wool clouds stuck to it. Rod Stewart’s voice sang “We Are Sailing” through hidden speakers and stuffed seagulls hung on nylon cords from the sky-blue ceiling above.
“A jungle theme,” said Jim. “Nice.”
“And if you and your entourage will follow me, Mr Pooley,” the groundskeeper continued, “I’ll lead you to where all the big knobs hang out.”
“The toilets?” said Jim.
The Scottish groundskeeper shook his tam-o’-shantered head. Indulgently. “Most amusing, Mr Pooley. I refer, of course, to the executive suite.”
“Of course you do,” said Jim. “Lead on.”
It was a bit like a film première. Not that Jim had ever been to a film première, but he had never seen so many famous people all together in one room at the same time. In fact, Jim had hardly ever seen any famous people at all, aside from some that he hadn’t recognised who had been pointed out to him during his visit to Stringfellow’s.
“Hello again, Jim,” said Peter Stringfellow, admiring Jim’s suit and shaking its owner by the hand. “Looking forward to the match?”
“Certainly am,” said Jim.
“Is that Irishman with you?” Peter asked. “That one who went off with two of my pole-dancers?”
“He’s over there,” said Jim, “chatting with Catherine Zeta-Jones.”
“I’ll go and warn Michael Douglas, then.” Peter left Jim to shake other hands.
And the first of these was a royal one.
“Mr Pooley,” said Prince Charles, “what an honour to meet you.”
Jim blinked his eyes. “You’re wearing—”
“A suit like your own,” said the prince. “Had my chap in Savile Row run it up for me. Have you met my sons?”
Jim shook further royal hands. And admired the matching suits.
“Could I have your autograph?” asked Prince Harry.
Jim made his way to the bar, where he ordered a large, stiff drink. A hand fell on his shoulder and Jim turned to find himself looking up into the face of a tall, slim, well-dressed fellow with a head of blondy hair.
“You have come a long way, Mr Pooley,” said this fellow.
“We haven’t been introduced,” said Jim.
“No, we haven’t, but I know you well.” The fellow put out his hand for a shake and Jim Pooley shook it. And then Jim Pooley shivered. “Your hand …” said Jim.
“A tad cold,” said the fellow. “Poor circulation. Would you care to step outside with me for a moment? There are certain pressing matters that I must discuss with you.”
Jim blew warmth on to his fingers and rubbed them on his tweedy plus-foured trouser leg. There was something very wrong about this tall, slim, blondy-haired fellow, something decidedly—
Jim shivered once again—
Decidedly evil.
“Well …” Jim said.
“I don’t think that would be a good idea.” Professor Slocombe smiled towards Jim. “In case you haven’t been introduced, this is Mr William Starling.”
Jim drew back – drew back, in fact, to a point that was somewhat to the rear of the professor.
“Fear not, Jim,” said Professor Slocombe. “He will not harm you. His moment has passed.”
“My moment has yet to come.” William Starling glared at the professor. His eyes shone glossy black and darkness appeared to form all about him.
Prince Charles said to Harry, “Your granny used to do that.”
“Rather public for this kind of thing, don’t you think?” The professor smiled on, placidly. Starling didn’t smile back.
“I now own the opposing team,” said Starling. “This is one game that you will not win.”
“We shall see,” said the professor.
Starling leaned close to Professor Slocombe. “You have caused me a considerable amount of inconvenience,” he snarled, his voice a harsh and rasping whisper, “but today comes the reckoning. When the final whistle blows, Griffin Park will be mine and, by tomorrow, all the world.”
The professor smiled on. “We shall see,” was all he had to say.
Starling glared, turned and stalked away. Upon reaching the doorway, he slipped upon a banana skin that appeared to have simply materialised and fell heavily to the plushly carpeted floor.
Jim looked at the professor.
“Whoops,” said that man.
“Hoops,” said Barry Bustard to the waiter in the sharp black suit. “I ordered spaghetti hoops.”
The team were tucking into their lunches in a swanky luncheon area. They sat at a long luncheon table; the Manchester United team sat nearby at another. The Manchester United team’s luncheon, however, kept being interrupted by members of the Brentford team asking them for autographs.
And it did have to be said that the Man U lads were finding it rather hard to keep straight faces, because for all of Brentford’s wondrous rising through the Cup qualifiers, the thought of playing the FA Cup Final against a team composed entirely of circus performers – well!
“Well,” said Professor Slocombe. “Doesn’t time fly. It’s half-past two already.”
Jim had just returned from the toilet, where he had made the latest of many trips.
“All right now?” the professor asked.
“I can’t keep my lunch down,” said Jim. “The quails’ knees in Canaletto sauce have done for me.”
“Courage, Jim,” said the elder. “We will prevail. Now best you go down to the changing rooms and give the team one of your inspirational pep talks.”
“But I can’t think of anything to say.”
“You will.” Professor Slocombe patted Jim’s shoulder. “Believe me, you will.”
The team sat in the changing rooms and the team looked most uncomfortable.
“What’s up?” Jim asked. “You all look a bit down. You didn’t eat the quails’ knees, did you?”
Long John Watson raised a mighty hand. “Boss,” he said, “Boss, they laughed at us.”
“Who laughed?” Jim asked.
“The Man U team, they mocked us.”
“Ah,” said Jim. “Take no notice of that. That is what they call a psychological tactic – psyching out the other team. I’ve read about that.”
“But they’re right,” said Barry Bustard, tucking into a bargain bucket of something highly calorific. “We can’t play against them. They’re a real team.”
“All the other teams you’ve played against have been real teams, and we’ve won every match.”
“But this is Wembley, Boss. Wembley is, well, sacred. We won by luck, by flukes, or by something,” said Barry.
“And we’ll win this.”
“No we won’t, Boss. This is real.”
Jim sighed. He knew exactly what Barry meant. This was well and truly real. “No, wait,” said Jim. “I have this,” and he pulled out the professor’s envelope. “Today’s tactics.”
“What?” said Loup-Gary Thompson. “Now? Noooooooooooooow?”
“Easy on the wolf calls,” said Barry. “But do you mean now, Boss? With no practising?”
“Trust me.” Jim put his thumbnail to the envelope. It shredded like rice paper. Jim unfolded the missive and read aloud from it.