“‘The show must go on,’” he read.
Jim paused and reread this, silently and to himself, then turned over the parchment sheet. The other side was empty of words. Jim turned the sheet back over and read it silently once more.
“The show must go on,” said Admiral Theodore Peanut, the thirty-inch-high right mid-fielder.
“The show must go on,” said Clarence Henry, frog-boy and midfielder.
And the words were passed from fellow to fellow. And “Ah,” said Jon Bon Julie, the half-man, half-woman centre-half. “The show must go on, I see.”
“You do?” asked Jim.
“Of course,” said Long John Watson, whose head was on high amongst the stuffed seagulls. “You know what he means, lads, don’t you?”
Blank faces slowly became those of the enlightened.
“The show must go on,” said Bobo, juggling three half-time oranges. “It’s a masterstroke. It’s inspired.”
“Ah yes. Ah yes.” Heads began to nod. And voices turned into cheers.
Jim did gawpings all around. “The show must go on,” he said. Blankly.
“You’re a genius, Boss,” said the human half of Humphrey Hampton. “That is the one thing that every performer understands – the sacred code of the performer. We won’t let you down.”
“I’m so pleased,” said Jim.
“And the modesty of the man,” said Don to Phil. “Coming up with something like that and not even wanting to take the credit.”
“The man’s a saint,” said Phil. “The show must go on.”
And Don and Phil cheered heartily, and so did the rest of the team.
Pooley shook his head and all manner of hands. “Good, because you’re on in two minutes. I just have to use the toilet.”
Professor Slocombe awaited Jim outside, in the corridor.
“How went the pep talk?” he asked.
“The show must go on,” said Jim.
“Then all will be well. And Jim?”
“Yes, Professor?”
“We will succeed.”
Jim Pooley went off to the toilet.
John Omally sat upon the turf-side bench, in the dugout (as it is oft-times called) that was reserved for the Brentford team. Beside him sat Big Bob.
“Verily I say unto you,” said the big one, “this is one hell of a stadium.”
Big Bob had to raise his big voice above the chantings of rival supporters and the brass outpourings of the Iain Banks Big Band that marched up and down on the pitch. The atmosphere was, as they say, electric. Because there is truly no place like Wembley.
Truly electric it was.
“Electric, you see,” said Terrence Jehovah Smithers. “The barrels spin and six thousand rounds per minute come out of them.”
“They’ve very heavy guns,” said the Second Sponge Boy, “and this is a very cramped little van.”
“It’s not a van,” said the driver, one Mahatma Campbell. “It’s a Morris Traveller – a half-timbered classic piece of automotive history famous for its light petrol consumption and its top speed of sixty-five miles per hour.”
“And running like a dream through these empty streets of Chiswick,” said Sponge Boy. “Positively downstream.”
“I will park around the back of the Consortium building. We can then storm the premises from there.”
“Storm the premises,” said Terrence. “I like that.”
“And you have the explosives?” Sponge Boy asked the Campbell.
“I have enough Semtex here to blow the Dread Cthulhu’s tentacles so far up his unholy arse that—”
“The building’s ahead,” said Terrence, pointing. “And my sweet Lord, look at the size of it.”
“Size isn’t everything, Terry,” said Sponge Boy. “It’s what you do with it that counts.”
“And we’re counting down to the big match,” shouted world-famous, soon to be knighted for his services to commentating, five times voted bestest BBC commentator at the FA Cup and lovely fellow who spends most weekends with his family and to whom no taint of a scandal would ever attach itself, Mr Mickie Merkin. He sat in the commentary box, holding one of those special microphones that look like an oxygen mask over his face, probably in an attempt to stifle out the roaring of the crowd and the other commentators who shared the box and shouted into theirs. “And what a match this is going to be. Giant-slayers Brentford United up against the other United, Manchester, fielding today a team unsurpassed in its history in terms of finance. Multimillionaire William Starling, who purchased the club this week, has spared no expense bringing in the very cream of the world’s talent.
“A quick run-down on that line-up. We have Ronaldo, Rivaldo, Ricardo, Riviera, Rivaleno, Risotto, Rikkitikkitavio, Riboflavino, Ridleyscotto, Rizlapapero and Sir David Beckham. This is possibly the most formidable side ever fielded in footballing history.
“And their opponents, what can you say about their opponents? As extraordinary as it might seem, not a single member of the original Brentford United team who began this sensational season will be playing today. This team is composed entirely of performers from Count Otto Black’s Circus Fantastique. Today they are fielding:
“Clarence Henry, frog-boy.
“Bobo the clown.
“Zippy the pinhead.
“Don and Phil English, conjoined twins.
“Loup-Gary Thompson, wolf-boy.
“Barry Bustard, fattest man south of the Wash.
“Admiral Theodore Peanut, smallest man who ever lived.
“Humphrey Hampton, half-man, half-hamburger.
“Jon Bon Julie, half-man, half-woman (no hamburgers, bacon sandwich, hair pie).
“Harry the Human Holdall.
“And Long John Watson, their giant goalkeeper, nine feet tall and with a reach of over ten feet.
“The FA Cup Final has certainly never seen a team like this before, and frankly, the mind boggles. I tried to catch a word with their manager earlier, the now legendary James ‘Mr Bertie Wooster’ Pooley, fashion icon and team’s inspiration, but he had to rush off to the toilet. I spoke instead to his personal assistant, John Omally.”
“Run VT,” said the director, who lurked unseen, somewhere or other.
“Mr Omally,” said Mr Merkin to John, in the executive suite. John had his arm around the shoulder of a certain blonde female Swedish TV presenter. “Mr Omally, this has been a remarkable season for Brentford United.”
“It’s been a very special season for us,” said John. “The last time Brentford won the FA Cup was in nineteen twenty-eight, when Jack Lane captained the team to its second successive victory.”
“And you really think that Brentford can do it again?”
John grinned broadly towards the camera. “Are we not men?” he said. “We are Brentonians.”
“Would you care, then, to make a prediction?”
John’s hand tweaked a buttock of the blonde female Swedish TV presenter. “We’re going to score,” said he.
“We’re going to score,” said Mickie Merkin. “And who is going to doubt them? And yes, the teams are coming on to the pitch. The crowd is in uproar. This is the time and this is the place and history might well be made once again here for underdogs Brentford.
“And yes, they are lining up for the national anthem. And yes …
“Oh dear.
“Bobo the clown has just custard pied Sir David Beckham.”
43
Jim Pooley buried his face in his hands. “He pied David Beckham,” he said. “The game hasn’t even started and …” Jim looked up. “Oh no, the ref’s showing Bobo the yellow card.”
“And what’s Bobo showing the ref?” Professor Slocombe asked.