Knees Up Mother Earth

11

Norman hadn’t slept at all the previous night. He couldn’t – he was far too excited. He just had to put the computer together. Peg had stomped off to the marital bed and she hadn’t called down for Norman to join her for a bit of rumpy-pumpy. Which had gladdened Norman, as he’d gone off all that messy stuff many years before.

Norman had been left to his own devices, which were devices of a constructional nature. And the construction details contained within the Babbage 1900 Series Computer Assembly Manual were most explicit and exact. They weren’t written in pidgin English, as were most of their ilk nowadays. These were written in good old Victorian down-to-Earth straightforwardness. They informed the constructor exactly where to stick each valve and screw on each big fat wire and locate every machined brass bolt, and how to glue and joint each section of the mahogany cabinet that housed the computer screen.

Just so.

And when dawn came up and the bundled newspapers were flung on to his doorstep, Norman was all but finished.

“It’s all in the numbers,” said the scientific shopkeeper, who knew what he was all about and what his quest was all about. “And if the numbers can be found through this, then I’ll find them.”

“And if you don’t number-up those newspapers, I’ll give you the smacking of your life,” said Peg, filling the kitchenette and bringing woe unto Norman.

And then of course there’d been the morning. And Norman had been weary. He’d wondered why Jim and John had not called in to purchase papers and cigarettes. And then he’d recalled how they had both been hospitalised. And he’d sold a box of chocolates to Bob the Bookie, who, at the mention of Jim’s incapacitation, had burst into paroxysms of laughter and purchased several cigars.

And he’d served this chap and the other and he’d really been dying to get back to his computer.

And then at last it was lunchtime.

And Norman turned once more the “open” sign to its “closed” side and took himself off to his kitchenette.

And plugged in his Babbage Nineteen-Hundred Series computer.

Then yawned and fell fast asleep.

And as Peg was out, he slept right through the afternoon.

“Ya canna sleep,” said Mahatma Campbell. “Ya haf ta up an’ awa’ wi’ th’ lads.”

“Ooh, ah, wah!” said Jim Pooley. “What time is it?”

“Seven o’clock in the evening. Ya drank ya sel’ to oblivion an’ on the firs’ day on the job. Y’ haf the makins of a firs’-class football manager.”

“I was resting my eyes,” said Jim, a-blinking them.

“Me too,” said John, a-rubbing at his.

“Ya drunken bastards.”

“That’s no way to speak to your employer.” Jim rose unsteadily from his seat. Before him, the table spoke of many beers. It spoke in the manner of many empty glasses.

“Did we get through all these?” Jim asked John.

“The barman helped, if I recall,” said John.

“Where is he?” the Campbell asked.

“Gone a-golfing,” said John.

Mahatma Campbell shook his turbaned head. “You tak’ yer shoes off when ya walk on m’ pitch,” he told Jim.

“I have no wish to walk upon your pitch,” said Jim.

“You’d better – it’s training night. The lads are oot there waiting fer instructions from their new manager.”

“Tell them to take the evening off,” said Jim. “In fact, tell them to join us in here for a drink.”

“I dinna think so.” Mahatma Campbell handed Jim an envelope.

“What’s this?” Jim asked.

“It’s for ya, yer name’s upon it.”

“It’s been opened,” said Jim, observing this fact.

“Correct. I opened it.”

“Why?” asked Jim.

“Because I’m nosy. It’s instructions from Professor Slocombe. You’d best be following them, I’m thinking.”[9]

“Ah,” said Jim. And, “Yes.”

“Let’s have a look.” Omally acquainted himself with the envelope, drew out a missive penned upon parchment and read it aloud.

And when he had finished with his reading, Jim said, “My golly.”

“Your golly?” asked the Campbell.

“Everybody’s golly,” said Jim. “How can I be expected to ask the team to do that?”

“I know not,” said the Campbell, “but for the love of myself, I’m really looking forward to seeing you try.”

The floodlights were on in Griffin Park. The Campbell had switched them on. And it does have to be said that there is a certain magic about a floodlit football pitch. In fact, more than just a certain magic. A floodlit football pitch is BIG MAGIC. Even if you have no liking for the beautiful game.

“Would you look at the size of that,” said John Omally.

“It’s grown,” said Jim. “It was never as big as this at lunchtime.”

“Here,” said John, nudging Pooley’s elbow. “There’s the team over there. Would you like me to give you the big build-up?”

“The big what?” Pooley scratched at his head and squinted into the floodlights. “I think I’ve gone blind,” he added.

“I’ll give you an introductory speech. You’d better take this,” and John handed the professor’s missive to the blinking Jim and strode off to address the team.

The team sat on “the benches”, which is where they sit when they’re not doing anything – if they’re substitutes, or reserves, or injured players, or whatever. They sit in other places, too, of course, such as the locker room, where they receive their half-time tellings off and their oranges to give them vitamin C. And they also sit in that terrible, Hellish, scary place known as the communal shower (or tub), which it is better not even to think about.

Unless you are of a particular persuasion.[10]

John Omally strode over the pitch and approached the sitters on the benches. The sitters on the benches watched Omally’s approach with guarded gazes. One of them spat on to the pitch. Two others stubbed out their cigarettes.

“Brentford United,” said John Omally, bowing low before the sitters. “I greet you.”

“And who are you, mister?” asked one of Brentford United. The one with the goatee beard.

“I am Mr Pooley’s personal assistant,” said John, returning his head to the vertical plane. “Mr Pooley is your new manager.”

“Oh,” said one of Brentford United. The one with the many tattoos. And he shrugged towards his goateed team-mate, who shrugged right back at him. “Well, I’ve never heard of him.”

So much the better, thought John. “Then you are all in for a wonderful surprise,” he continued. “Mr Pooley is the man who is going to take you on to victory this season. To whit, the winning of the FA Cup.”

There was a moment of silence.

This moment was followed by—

“Stop!” shouted John, but his shout was lost amidst the laughter that echoed across the empty pitch, throughout the empty stands and onwards up to Heaven, so it seemed.

Pooley chewed upon his bottom lip and considered having it away upon his toes.

“Stop!” commanded John. “Cease this frivolity. It is possible for you to win the cup in a mere eight games.”

Between the gales of laughter, the words, “We all know that, but it’s not going to happen,” came from this mouth and that.

“Silence please,” shouted John. Eventually the team came to some semblance of silence. The two smokers took out their fags and lit up once again.

“Wouldn’t you like to win the FA Cup?” John asked.

Heads went down and shoulders sagged. “Every player in every team would love that,” said one of Brentford United. The one with the waggly tail.[11] “But we know we’re beaten. We haven’t won a match in two seasons. Our contracts run out at the end of this one and those of us who can’t get into other teams will be quitting the game for good.”

“I’m thinking of opening a sports shop,” said one of these fellows. The one with a nose like an engineer’s elbow.

“I’m hoping to do some crisp commercials,” said another with very large ears.

John Omally smiled upon the sorrowful, dejected team. “Imagine,” said he, “just imagine what would happen if you did win the FA Cup. Imagine big cash bonuses. Imagine transfer fees and lucrative merchandising deals, imagine celebrity status, appearing on TV chat shows, opening supermarkets. Imagine those beautiful blonde-haired women who really go for successful professional footballers.”

“I prefer brunettes,” said the one who preferred brunettes, who also happened to be the one with the goatee beard.

“Fame and fortune await you,” said John. “And bear this in mind – you have nothing whatsoever to lose.”

“Except the next match.”

“Who said that?” John asked.

“I did,” said the one who did.

“Sorry,” said John. “I didn’t see you there.”

“People rarely do,” said the player known as Alan Berkshire, brother to David Berkshire, who served on Brentford Borough Council.

“You are not going to lose the next match,” John informed them. “Nor the one after that, nor even the one after that. This season you are going to win every FA Cup qualifying game you play. This season you will win the FA Cup.”

“Are you that bloke off the telly?” asked one of Brentford United. The one who was having a patio built at the back of his bungalow, but was currently in dispute with the builder regarding the escalating costs.

“What bloke off the telly?” queried John.

“Britain’s favourite practical joker,” said the same one. “Does that Game For A Laugh show where he pretends to electrocute peoples’ cats and execute their wives, to great comic effect.”

“Jeremy Paxman,” said the one with the goatee beard.

“Jeremy Irons,” said the one with the nose like an engineer’s elbow.

“Iron Maiden,” said the one with the tattoos.

“It doesn’t matter who he is,” said John. “I’m not him.”

“You look a lot like him,” said the one who was having his patio built.

“No he doesn’t,” said the one with the tattoos. “He looks like the lead singer of Iron Maiden – Jack Nance.”

“Jack Nance was a science fiction writer,” said the one with the strange ways about him, who hadn’t spoken before. “You’re thinking of Jack the Hat McVitie.”

“No I wasn’t, I—”

“Stop!” This “stop” came not from John Omally but from Jim Pooley, who quite surprised himself with the shouting of it.

“Stop now!” shouted Jim.

And they actually stopped.

“Your new manager,” said John, bowing once more and stepping aside.

Jim cleared his throat and thrust out what he had of a chest.

“Gentlemen,” said he, “my name is James Pooley and I am your new manager. I am aware that things have not gone well for the team in the past, but these days are behind you now. There is to be a new dawn. A new era. A return to the greatness of former times. If you follow my instructions, I will lead you to victory. Have no doubts regarding this. My word is my bond. I promise that you will win the cup.”

And then further words poured from Jim’s mouth, a veritable torrent of words. Mighty words were these, words of a truly inspirational nature. Above Jim, clouds parted in the heavens and a shaft of light beamed down upon him. The words rolled on and on and all who heard these words became transfixed.

The silence that followed these wondrous words was of the variety known as stunned.

John looked from the face of Jim unto the faces of the team. The face of Jim fairly shone and those of his watchers and listeners put John in mind of a painting he had once seen in The National Gallery – The Adoration of the Shepherds by Guido Reni.

“Any questions?” Jim asked.

Team heads now shook and team shoulders shrugged.

“Exemplary,” said Jim. “Now that I have introduced myself to you, I would be grateful if you would reciprocate.”

Heads now nodded. Shoulders, however, still shrugged.

“I’d like to know your names,” said Jim, “your names and the positions you play.”

“Ah.” Heads now nodded enthusiastically. Looks of enlightenment appeared upon the faces of these heads.

And so Jim Pooley was introduced to the players that were Brentford United.

Ernest Muffler (goatee beard, wife being visited on Saturday afternoons by John Omally). Centre forward and captain of Brentford United.

Horace Beaverbrooke (tattoos). Left-winger.

Billy Kurton (patio). Right-winger.

Alf Snatcher (waggly tail). Centre mid-fielder.

Morris Catafelto (nose like an engineer’s elbow). Right midfielder.

Dave Quimsby (very large ears). Left mid-fielder.

Charlie Boxx (the one with the strange ways about him). Left back.

Trevor Brooking (not to be confused with the other Trevor Brooking). Right back.

Alan Berkshire (brother to David Berkshire on the council). Centre half.

Sundip Mahingay (the Indian of the group). Centre half.

Ben Gash. Goalkeeper.

Substitutes:

Don and Phil English (Siamese twins). (Super-subs.)

Barry Bustard (fat bloke).

Loup-Gary Thompson (wolf-boy).

Humphrey Hampton (half-man, half-hamburger).

Jim shook each member of the team by the hand.

And Jim beheld the substitutes.

“Are you the regular substitutes?” he asked.

Don and Phil shook their heads. “We’re on loan from Count Otto Black’s Circus Fantastique,” they said.

“Explain?” Jim asked Ernest Muffler.

“The club’s broke,” Ernest explained. “None of us are expecting to get paid this season. We’re only playing because it would be unprofessional to do otherwise. We can’t afford any substitutes. These lads volunteered to substitute for free, for as long as the circus is in town.”

Jim managed a smile at this. “I think,” said he, “that it’s more than a matter of not wanting to be unprofessional. You all love the club. I know that you do.”

“We do,” said Billy Kurton, “but we also know a lost cause when we see one. Or,” he paused, “or, at least we did until now.”

“Just so,” said Jim. “Our cause is not lost. And you will all be paid this season. Full pay.”

A cheer went up from the Brentford team.

“Er, Jim.” Omally nudged Jim’s elbow with his own and whispered into Jim’s ear, “Jim, there isn’t any money to pay these lads with. All the available money is paying our wages.”

“Then we’ll take a cut in salary,” said Jim.

“What?” Omally made a horrified face.

“And as my personal PA, whose job it is to take the burden of everyday matters from my shoulders, it will be your job to see that we raise sufficient funds each week to pay the lads.”

“WHAT?”

“A special cheer if you will for Mr Omally,” said Jim to the team, “the man who will be organising the financial wherewithal to pay your wages.”

“Three cheers for Mr Omally,” said Ernest Muffler. “And make them loud ones, lads.”

And loud ones they were.

Omally glared pointy daggers at Jim.

But Jim wore the face of an angel.

“And so,” said Jim, “to the training and tactics. For tonight is, after all, a training session, and in order that we dispose of all rival teams that stand between us and the championship, we shall be employing entirely new tactics – tactics that have never previously been employed. We shall take each of our opponents by surprise. Put your trust in me and prepare yourselves for victory.”

Horace Beaverbrooke lit up a cigarette. Jim stepped forward and plucked it from his fingers. “Not during training sessions,” he said. “Now, if you would kindly divide yourselves up into two teams, substitutes included. A short kick-around is in order so that I can gauge your relative skills.”

The team didn’t move.

“Go to it,” said Jim and he clapped his hands together.

And so the team went to it.

John and Jim settled on to the bench and watched them go to it. Jim lit up a Dadarillo Super-Dooper King.

“Your speech was truly inspired, Jim,” said John. “I wouldn’t have thought you had it in you.”

“I don’t think I did,” said Jim. “The words just came out of my mouth.”

“As did the ones about me raising the funds to pay the team.”

“John,” said Jim, “we have our own pub now, and our own gift shop. I feel confident that you will find ways to provide for the team.”

“I wish I could share your confidence.”

“We’ll succeed,” said Jim. “I just know that we will. Now, let’s watch our team doing its stuff.”

And so they watched.

And so they flinched.

If a special prize was to be awarded for ineptitude and downright uselessness in a football side, there was no doubt in the minds of either John or Jim that this special prize would be unanimously awarded to the lads of Brentford United.

“They’re useless,” said John, as sportsmen blundered into one another, tripped over the ball and avoided every tackle as if it were a beast of prey. “They can’t play at all. The fat bloke from the circus just put the ball past the Brentford goalie.”

“There are certain weaknesses,” said Jim.

“Certain weaknesses?” hooted John. “These lads couldn’t kick a hole through an ozone layer.”

Jim produced from his pocket a whistle. An Acme Thunderer.

“Where did you get that from?” John asked.

“My pocket,” said Jim, and he put it to his lips and blew.

Play came to an end and the players limped from the pitch, puffing and panting and looking for the most part near to death.

“Well done,” said Jim. “Five minutes to gather your breath and then we will work upon the new tactics.”

“We usually go to The Stripes Bar for a pint about now,” said Trevor Brooking[12]. “It’s a dangerous thing to overtrain. You could tear a hamstring, or pull a ligament or get a groin strain, or something.”

“That seems reasonable,” said Jim. “When do we play the first FA Cup qualifying match?”

“Saturday,” said Ernest. “Against Penge.”

“Saturday?” Jim all but swallowed the cigarette he was puffing upon. “This coming Saturday?”

“It’s an away game,” said Ernest. “We’ll need to hire a coach.”

Jim looked at John.

And John looked at Jim.

“Best make a note of that,” said Jim wearily. “Hire a coach, John.”

John made a note of that.

“So,” said Jim, as brightly as he could, “the pints will have to wait. Back on to the pitch and we’ll get straight to work on the tactics.”

“But, Boss,” said Alf Snatcher, whose waggly tail was troubling him. And although Jim liked the sound of “boss”, he did not like the sound of the “but”.

“But me no buts,” said Mr Pooley. “We have a match to win.”

High in the corner of the south stand, unseen by team and boss alike, Professor Slocombe sat and watched the tactics being put into operation.

And Professor Slocombe smiled unto himself, leaned upon his ivory-topped cane and whispered, “Good boy, Jim. We will succeed.”

And high in the corner of the north stand, equally unseen and even unsensed by the professor, another sat. He sat half-in and half-out of the floodlight’s glare. The half of him that was in shadow was not to be seen at all, but the half of him that was to be seen, the lower half, was all in black, a blackness that was two shades darker than the blackest black yet known. And this blackness came and went, as if going in and out of focus. And strange unearthly sounds issued from the half that was not to be seen. Coming from the mouthparts. Probably.

And the sounds that were issued were the sounds of words.

But not of any language known to man.

The translation of these words, had a translator been present to do the translating thereof, would have been as follows, for they came in answer to those spoken by the professor. To whit, “We will succeed.”

And these words that came in answer, in this unknown tongue, meant, “Oh no you won’t.”