Knees Up Mother Earth

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.

“Oh no,” burbled Jim and he buried his face in his hands once again.

“It will be all right.” The professor soothed the distraught manager. “Look, Mr Beckham’s personal hairstylist has come on to the pitch, and his manicurist, and his fashion consultant is bringing him a new pair of Ray Bans to replace the ones that got custard pie on them.”

“That’s a relief,” said Jim.

“The Manchester United fans don’t seem best pleased.” The professor ducked a flying starfish[50] that had been hurled in Jim’s direction. “They’re pelting the pitch.”

“We’ve known worse,” said Jim. “Remember Burnley?”

“I’m trying to forget it. Ah, Mr Beckham’s entourage have left the pitch. The ref is tossing the coin.”

And the ref tossed the coin into the air.

And the eyes of Professor Slocombe focused on that coin (for, like Old Pete, his eyesight was acute). And the eyes of William Starling also focused on that coin (though Starling’s eyes were black as death and glowed a little, too). And the coin rose and rose and reached its apogee.

And there it stayed.

The ref gawped up at the hovering coin, and the teams looked up, and those in the crowd with acute eyesight did also.

Then the coin twisted one way and then the other.

The professor’s eyes narrowed. Starling’s bulged from his head. And, curling and twisting, the coin descended.

To land upon its edge.

Although only the ref could see this, for it lay at his feet in the grass.

The ref waved his hand towards the Man U team.

“Hm,” said Professor Slocombe.

Now, one of the many interesting facts about football – and there are so many interesting facts. Facts, figures, things you didn’t know, there’s books and books and books about them. Far too many, in fact! – but one of those facts is that playing the game is very different from watching it.

Watching it on television or from the stands, the watcher receives an overview, seeing everything from above, spread out beneath. You get as near to the whole picture of what is going on as it really is possible to get.

Which is very unlike being there on the pitch, on the horizontal plane. There’s so much that the players and the ref can’t see[51]. And Wembley has such a BIG pitch.

And of course, being down on the bench, level with the pitch, the manager cannot see everything either.

“What happened there?” Jim asked. “Who took the kickoff?”

“Ricardo,” said Professor Slocombe. “And he’s passed to Rivaldo, who’s tapped it across the wing to Ronaldo. And Ronaldo to Rikkitikkitavio to Ravioli, back to Ricardo, who’s passed it to Ravishankar, to Beckham, to—”

“That’s not the way I see it,” said Jim. “It’s Bobo to Bustard, Bustard to Bon Julie, Bon Julie nice little chip to Clarence Henry who’s hopping with the ball, and he’s passed it to Zippy who’s sitting down on it as if he’s laying an egg. And Hampton’s kicked to Henry, carrying the ball to Admiral Peanut, who in turn is carried with it … oh, and Beckham’s got the ball again.”

“You’re both getting it wrong,” said Omally, who had his mobile phone to his ear. “I’m tuned to Five Live commentary – would you like to listen?”

“No thanks,” said Pooley, lighting a Dadarillo. “That thing will ruin your health.”

“And it’s Riviera …” said Omally.

“It’s Riviera,” bawled Mr Merkin, “to Riboflavino, brought down by Bustard who passes to the English twins, who seem to be arguing over whose legs should kick it, and it’s tackled away from them by Rikkilake, no it’s Ridleyscotto, who has his number-seven shirt on upside down, which made me think it was a number-ten shirt, to Rizlapapero to Risotto to Rivaleno to Rio Grande to Rip Van Winkle, across to Ringwormo, who passes it to Rocky Three (the one with Mr T out of the A Team in it).”

“Hang about,” said Jim. “How many players have Man U got on the pitch? I’m sure I can count about twenty.”

“Oh dear,” said Professor Slocombe. “Let me deal with this.”

“Robroyo,” bawled Mr Merkin, “to Robocopo – no, he’s lost the pass, it’s Loup-Gary Thompson now to Dopey, Dopey down the wing to Sneezy, who blows it across to Doc, across to Happy, over to Sleepy, who slowly dribbles it down the right wing to Bashful.”

“That’s more like it,” said Jim. “But that was only six of the seven dwarfs.”

“Nobody knows all seven,” said Professor Slocombe. “It’s like knowing all Ten Commandments or the Seven Wonders of the World. No one knows the name of the seventh dwarf.”

“It’s Baldy,” said Jim.

“It’s Horny,” said John.

“Tommy?” said Jim.

“Timmy?” said John.

“Jonny?” said Tim.

“Jimmy,” said Tom.

“I’m getting all confused now,” said Jim. “I don’t want to do any more dwarfs.”

“That will please Snow White,” said John. “And who’s that?”

“That’s Grumpy,” said Professor Slocombe. “And yes! He’s scored for Brentford!”

And the Brentford portion of the crowd went mad.

But the ref shook his head.

“He’s disallowing it,” said John.

“Why?” asked Jim.

“Probably due to something in the rule book that says you can only have eleven men in your team.”

“They started it,” said Jim.

“I don’t think that matters,” said John.

“These things matter,” bawled Mr Merkin. “Rules are rules. And it’s coming up on my monitor screen now: ‘Eleven men only shalt thou have, nor aided shall they be by familiars, divers demons, succubae or Walt Disney™ characters.’ Dates back to medieval times, that rule, apart from the last bit, which means nothing to me, oh Vienna.”

“Man U seem to be back to their original eleven players again,” said Jim.

Professor Slocombe rubbed his wrinkled palms together. “I’m really quite enjoying this,” he said.

“I could do with a beer,” said Jim.

“Me, too,” said John. “I’m far too sober for this kind of excitement.”

“I shalt geteth them in,” said Big Bob Charker. “Beers all round?”

“Why not?” said Professor Slocombe.

“Right then, I shall not be a moment.”

Big Bob returned with a tray of beers. “Didst I miss anything?” he asked.

“One-all,” said Jim.

“One-all?” said Big Bob. “How happeneth that so fast?”

“Only kidding,” said Jim.

“Thank the Lord for that.”

“It’s two-one – we’re winning.”

“Now thou art talking.” Big Bob raised his glass in toast.

William Starling glared with his black eyes at the field of play. It was true – the Brentford side were literally running rings around his own players. And he just couldn’t see how they were doing it.

“Exactly how are you doing it?” Jim asked Professor Slocombe.

The old man tapped at his sinewy nose. “I have to concentrate,” said he.

Jim turned to John. “It’s not right, all this,” he said. “This is Wembley, the very cathedral of the beautiful game. This should be sport. This is all wrong.”

John nodded thoughtfully. “You do have a point,” said he. “So shall we suggest to the professor that he stops doing whatever it is that he’s doing? And we’ll let Starling’s team win the FA Cup and Starling demolish Griffin Park, release the Serpent of Eden and bring damnation to all the world as we know it?”

Jim gave the matter some thought.

“Come on, you Bees!” he cheered.

William Starling put on his sunglasses.

They were very special sunglasses.

They filtered the incoming light through a process involving the transperambulation of pseudo-cosmic anti-matter. And they’d cost him an arm and a leg, although not his.

William Starling peered through these special sunglasses and observed that each Brentford player on the pitch appeared to be enclosed within a glittering transparent dome known in occult circles as a cone of protection, and in SF circles as a force field.

“So,” said Starling, and he spoke in the words of a language older than time.

Barry Bustard swung his foot to boot the ball Man-U-goalward, then suddenly stumbled and all but vanished into a hole in the ground.

“Starling,” said Professor Slocombe, “has us, as our American cousins care in their fashion to put it, ‘rumbled’.”

“Barry Bustard’s fallen into a hole,” said Jim.

“And there goes Zippy,” said John.

“And Don and Phil and Jon Bon Julie.”

Professor Slocombe raised his hands and spoke many words of his own. The Brentford players, who were sinking like golf balls on a par-one pitch-and-putt, rose once more to set their studded boots upon terra firma.

But it was all too late and Beckham passed to Rivaldo and Rivaldo hammered in the equalising goal.

And then the ref blew his whistle.

And it was half-time in the match.