Knees Up Mother Earth

45

Jim Pooley returned, in the company of John, to the pitch-side Brentford bunker bench/dugout jobbie. Jim would dearly have preferred to run far, far away. And then some more. But he knew that he could not. He owed a duty to the Brentford supporters, the thousands of them who had grown from the few when the season began.

The atmosphere in the great stadium had changed somewhat since the end of the first half. Word had clearly got around regarding the Brentford team’s departure – spread, no doubt, by William Starling. The Manchester supporters were thrusting their down-pointing thumbs in the direction of the Brentford fans and chanting, “Lo-sers, Lo-sers, Los-ers.” The Brentford fans appeared to be practising Primal Scream Therapy. Jim put his hands over his ears. This had to be the very worst day of his life.

Professor Slocombe joined Jim and John. Jim looked up hopefully into the old man’s face, but it was a face that was drained and grey. Professor Slocombe shook his head.

Across the pitch, upon the bench of the opposing team, William Starling raised a champagne flute in mocking toast to the men he had defeated.

Upon the field, the Manchester United players made victory signs, did walking-that-line swankings and turned the occasional somersault. With no Brentford team to play the second half, they would clearly win by default.

Up on high in the commentator’s box, Mr Merkin hollered into his oxygen-mask microphone. “Well, I told you that this was likely to be an FA Cup Final unlike any other,” he bawled, “and given that most remarkable first half, I think you’ll agree that so far it has been. But now there have been even more remarkable developments. Word has reached me that the entire Brentford team has quit the match and left the ground. The referee is on the pitch now, and yes, he’s signalling. He’s giving the Brentford team one minute to come on to the pitch or they will forfeit the game.”

“Professor!” shouted Jim, trying to make himself heard above the mad cacophony. And hunching his shoulders, too, as beer cans and toilet rolls began to rain down upon him. “What can we do?”

“Nothing, Jim. I’m sorry.”

“Should I go and speak to the ref?”

“If you think it might help.”

“I’ll do anything,” shouted Jim. “All these supporters – everything we’ve been through – we can’t just let everybody down now.”

Jim rose from the bench. The Brentford supporters catcalled and hurled abuse and the Man U fans did likewise. Amidst a hailstorm of empty beer cans, small change and the occasional seat-back, Jim made the walk of shame across to the centre of the pitch.

The referee addressed him sternly. “Are your team returning to the field of play?” he asked. “They have thirty seconds left to do so.”

“They’ve been taken sick,” said Jim. “The lunch. Food poisoning. We suspect that it was deliberate. I request a rematch at a later date.”

The referee glared at Jim and Jim saw the darkness, the terrible darkness filling the whites of his eyes. “Twenty seconds,” he said. “No team, you forfeit the match. That is final. That is that.”

“But,” said Jim, “please. I beg you. Please.”

“Ten seconds,” said the ref. “Nine … eight … seven … six … five … four … three … two …”

A mighty cheer suddenly went up – a mighty cheer that came from the throats of the Brentford supporters. So mighty was this cheer that it nearly had Jim off his feet.

Jim looked towards the dark, dark eyes of the referee. They were gazing widely beyond Jim towards the players’ tunnel beneath the south stand.

Jim turned and stared and Jim’s mouth fell hugely open.

Footballers were jogging on to the pitch. But they weren’t the circus performers. They were complete strangers to Jim. They were short and stocky, with short-back-and-sides haircuts and old-fashioned Brentford United strips, the shirts tucked into shorts that all but reached their ankles. They jogged forward with military precision.

Jim gawped at these footballers. “What is going on here?” he asked.

Mr Merkin bawled further words into his oxygen-mask mic. “Now this is beyond belief,” he bawled. “Brentford are apparently attempting to field an entirely new team for the second half, which is in absolute defiance of all the FA rules.

“The referee is in consultation with Mr Pooley. Officials are on the pitch. The crowd is in absolute uproar.

“Now wait, wait. Something is coming up on my monitor. I have a list of the team members and I certainly don’t recognise any of these names. Cottingham, Christie, Haigh, Gein, Denke, De Rais, Beane, Fish, Landru, Holmes and the team captain and centre forward, Jack Lane.

“And there’s more. Well, I never knew this. Apparently the FA rulebook was supplemented in nineteen twenty-eight after the last Brentford victory. It states that ‘in the unlikely situation that a team in the FA Cup Final is composed entirely of circus performers, and these performers are unable to continue into the second half, the team may be replaced by a reserve team of the manager’s choosing’. Well, that is news to me. I thought I knew all the rules of soccer, but I never knew that. And yes, there’s a footnote. Apparently the rule was added by the temporary FA Cup committee chairman – chairman for one day only, apparently – a Mr Norman Hartnel, not to be confused with the other Norman Hartnel.”

There was much confusion on the pitch. William Starling was on the pitch, shouting at the ref. The ref was shouting at Jim Pooley. Jim Pooley was shouting back at all and sundry. Certain officials with copies of the FA Cup Rulebook were doing shoutings of their own.

The only folk not actually shouting were the players. The Man U fellows stared at the mysterious Brentford team. The Brentford team stood about, hands in pockets, nonchalantly smoking Wild Woodbine cigarettes.

The ref’s shouting diminished as the officials with the rulebooks demanded that he begin the second half. William Starling stalked from the pitch. Jim shrugged and returned to the bench where Professor Slocombe sat.

Norman sat with the professor and John Omally and a portly fellow that Jim knew to be Norman’s Uncle Herbert.

Jim Pooley viewed Norman and Jim Pooley blinked. Norman, it seemed, had grown a moustache. Surely you couldn’t do that in just ten minutes.

Norman put his thumbs up to Jim, who slowly sat down beside him.

“Sorted,” said Norman.

Jim Pooley shook his befuddled head. “You had something to do with this? How?”

“Don’t ask,” said Norman. “But it took a great deal of effort and a great deal of time.”

“But who are they?” Jim pointed towards the Brentford side, who were now doing knee-bends and arm-stretch exercises whilst still sucking on their Wild Woodbines.

“Surely you recognise them,” said Norman. “You’ve seen their photos in The Four Horsemen often enough. Back by popular demand, you might say. It’s the nineteen twenty-eight Brentford FA Cup-winning team.”

Jim shook his head once more.

“Actually,” said Norman, “you really have my Uncle Herbert here to thank. He let me borrow his, er, conveyance. Jim Pooley, allow me to introduce to you Mr H.G. Wells.

“You see, he’s not really my Uncle Herbert,” Norman continued. “He’s really Mr H.G. Wells, inventor of the Time Machine.”

The referee blew his whistle and the second half was on.

The Second Sponge Boy pulled a ski-mask down over his face.

“What is that?” asked Terrence Smithers.

“Disguise,” said Sponge Boy. “CCTV cameras and all. Here, I’ve brought one for you.”

“Thank you, Sponge.” Terrence donned the ski-mask.

“Positively Eddie ‘the Eagle’ Edwards.”

“How about one for the Campbell?”

Sponge Boy viewed the Highlander, who sat in the front seat of the Morris Traveller sharpening his claymore on an oilstone. “I don’t think a mask will help,” said Sponge Boy.

An alarm clock suddenly rang, putting the wind up Terrence and Sponge Boy. The Campbell plucked it from his sporran and beat it to silence with his oilstone.

“It’s time,” said he. “Let us go into action.”

It was all action at Wembley stadium. Mr Merkin was jumping about in his seat. “And it’s Lane, Lane to Haigh, a long chip to the outside, intercepted by Rivaldo, and Rivaldo brought down by Gein. The ref’s blown his whistle, he’s showing Gein the yellow card. Gein is bowing to the ref, he’s shaking the ref’s hand. Lane is shaking the ref’s hand also. Oh, and the ref didn’t see that, that was on his blind side – Holmes has kicked Ronaldo in what I can only describe as the testicles. Ronaldo is down, he’s complaining, but the ref hasn’t seen him, he’s calling for the free kick. And Rivaldo has taken it, to Beckham, Beckham to Rivaldo – a lovely cross there, and he’s inside the box and he’s scored! Oh yes. A beautiful goal. A magnificent goal. Three-two to Manchester United.”

Jim looked towards the professor. “They scored,” he cried. “You let them score.”

“I’ll take no part in this, if Starling does not,” said the professor.

“What are you saying?”

“Let’s allow a little bit of sportsmanship here, Jim. Holmes clearly fouled Ronaldo behind the ref’s back.”

“But he’s on our side, Professor.”

“Yes, but this is Wembley.”

“But we have all the world to play for.”

“The game’s not over yet, Jim. Football is a game of two halves, you know.”

Jim shook his head towards John. Who shrugged.

Jim lit up a cigarette. “I could do with a beer,” said he.

“I’ll go and get a round in,” said Norman. “Any particular decade you favour? I’ll be back before you even know I’m gone.”

“Go! Go! Go!” shouted the Campbell. Sponge Boy kicked the Traveller’s rear doors open and he and Terrence hefted their awesome weaponry into the Consortium building’s car park. The Campbell flung himself from the vehicle, wielding his sacred claymore.

The two men and the man who was no man at all advanced in haste across the car park. Terrence aimed and fired his minigun, and the rear doors of the building exploded into shattered fragments.

“Into the building,” ordered the Campbell.

Alarm bells started to ring.

“Some alarm here from the Brentford supporters,” Mr Merkin bawled into his mask-mic. “An easy goal there for Manchester United, the Brentford offensive formation showing its weakness there. I see Mr Pooley, in his distinctive attire, shouting out to his team and they’re changing positions. He’s put De Rais on the right wing, and has moved Beane to centre half. But having never seen this particular side play, I can’t say whether that’s a good move or not. But the ref’s blown his whistle and Lane is taking the kickoff. And it’s Lane to Holmes to Denke, a neat little pass there, Denke dribbles the ball, and in a fashion we don’t see any more. The Brentford team’s tactics seem positively pre-war.”

“Positively ripping,” said Sponge Boy as he, Terrence and the Campbell burst into the Consortium building.

Professor Slocombe cast his ancient eye across the pitch towards William Starling. Starling had a mobile phone against his ear and he was shouting into it. As the professor looked on, Starling rose from the bench and took his leave.

“He’s going,” said Jim. “Why is he leaving?”

“I believe he has received an alarm call from the Consortium building,” said the professor.

“But he’s going to leave the match? Knowing that you—”

“Knowing that I must follow him, Jim. He is confident that his team will beat ours. After all, didn’t his boys just score that easy goal?”

“Ah,” said Jim, “I see. But about the team …?”

“Have confidence, Jim. I must go.”

“Then I must go with you.”

“No, Jim, you stay here, advise the team on tactics. You’re better at it than you think.”

“But I should be with you.”

“I’ll be fine, Jim. All will be well”

Professor Slocombe rose from the bench and he, too, took his leave.

Jim looked towards John. John shrugged once again.

Norman appeared with a trayload of beers. “Circa ninteen-thirty,” he said, “from the first-class bar of the Mauritania.”

“First-class shooting, Sponge,” said Terrence as the Second Sponge Boy strafed the foyer of the Consortium building, bringing down fixtures and fittings that spoke, sang and in some cases chanted of distant classical folderol.

And also the elfish receptionist, who was watching the match on a portable TV.

“A bit harsh on the dwarf,” said Terrence.

“But he was a baddie,” said Sponge Boy.

“Point taken. Shame you shot the TV, too. On to the next level then, is it?”

“The next level, Terrence. Positively Street Fighter Two.”

“A level playing field,” bawled Mr Merkin, “and everything to play for now. Landru across to Denke. Intercepted by Rivaldo, and nicely, too. Down the left wing, and at a most remarkable speed, to Ricardo, across to Beckham. And they’re making another run towards the Brentford goal. But Gein is there – nicely acquired, across to Fish, up that left wing again. And across to Lane and no one’s defending. And yes! Beautiful goal. Brentford equalise, it’s three-all.”

“I’m going after the professor,” said Jim.

John looked towards the field of play. “I’m coming with you,” he said.

“But lads,” Norman cried, “I thought we’d go medieval next round. Mugs of mead and all that.”

“And all to play for,” bawled Mr Merkin. “This is the big one. Just listen to the crowd.”

William Starling heard the crowd. “Another goal for Man U,” he said, as he stalked across the posh-persons’ exclusive car park towards the night-black limo that stood awaiting, his chauffeur at the wheel. An electronically operated rear door opened before him and William stepped into the car.

“To the Consortium building?” asked the chauffeur.

“In just a moment.”

Professor Slocombe issued, panting, into the car park.

“Now?” the chauffeur enquired.

“Give him just a moment. His cohorts will join him.”

A moment passed.

John and Jim did issuings.

“Now,” said William and the limousine slid away.

“Go back,” the professor told Pooley and Omally. “I can deal with this.”

“I don’t believe that you have a car,” said John. “Do you number levitation and swift flight amongst your remarkable achievements?”

“I’ll hail a cab.”

“Not necessary,” said John, spying Norman’s van. “We’ll take this one.”

“Second level secured,” called Sponge Boy. “Let’s take the third.”

Up the stairs they went. And down the stairs came Hellish things to greet them. Hellish dark things, darker than dark, of a blackness that had no specific name: the dark and scaly minions of the dread Lord Cthulhu. Sponge Boy and Terrence blazed away, and bullets blessed by the professor and coated with Old Pete’s sacred herbs issued from their weapons at six thousand rounds per minute. Dark things melted into light and were gone.

“Get a move on, John,” shouted Jim. “He’s gone. We’ve lost him.” John, Jim and the professor were squeezed into the front seat of Norman’s van. John was frantically attempting to hot-wire this van.

“It won’t start,” cried John. “I don’t know what’s wrong with it. Bloody van!”

Norman’s van burst into life and did its brrrm, brrrm, bmmming.

Unnoticed by John, Jim or the professor, a mysterious figure with a large carrier bag scuttled across the car park, opened a rear door of Norman’s van and slipped inside, closing the door soundlessly behind him.

John Omally put his foot down. “Go on, you beauty,” he cried.

The engine of Norman’s van spluttered and died.

“Bastard!” cried Omally.

Norman’s van burst into action once again.

“I recall Norman telling me about this,” said Jim. “You have to shout at the van. It works on road rage, or something.”

“Move on, you *****,” and John Omally’s language took a turn for the deepest blue.

And Norman’s van got a hurry up and hurtled in hot pursuit of William Starling’s limousine.

William Starling was on his mobile phone. “Building compromised?” he was saying. “Intruders now on level ten? Speak up, damn you. I can’t hear your voice above the alarms.”

Alarm bells were ringing in the Brentford Nick. Lights were flashing also upon a sort of hi-tech emergency board that had been installed there by a sort of hi-tech emergency technician who worked for the Consortium.

“Turn that damn thing off,” Constable Meek told Constable Mild. “I’m trying to watch the FA Cup Final here.”

“I’m trying to watch it, too,” replied Constable Mild. “You go and turn it off.”

Chief Inspectre Sherringford Hovis looked up from his viewing of the match. “Which lights are flashing?” he asked.

Constable Mild said, “Emergency ones – it’s the Consortium building in Chiswick High Road. There’s a pink light flashing, too. It has the words ‘TERRORIST ATTACK’ printed beneath it.”

Inspectre Hovis yawned. “Tricky,” said he.

“So what should we do, sir?” asked Constable Mild. “Press the panic button? Alert the lads from Scotland Yard?”

“Well …” Inspectre Hovis suddenly leapt from his seat. “Goal!” he cried.

Jim Pooley fiddled with Norman’s car radio. “Did you hear the word ‘goal’?” he asked. Static fizzings dissolved into the voice of Mr Merkin, live on Five Live.

“Four-three,” he bawled. “Incredible.”

“Four-three to who?” Jim asked. The radio fizzed into static once again.

“Bloody useless radio!” swore Jim.

Norman’s van leapt forward with renewed vigour.

There was a great deal of vigorous gunwork going on at the Consortium building. Black and ugly shapes bulged from black marble walls, minigun barrels rotated and spat bullets by the bucketload. The Campbell hacked down incoming darksters, the going was hideous and fire was beginning to take hold of the building.

Inspectre Hovis took hold of the telephone receiver. “Scotland Yard?” he said. “Sherringford Hovis, Brentford Constabulary, here. We have a Code One at the Consortium building in Chiswick High Road.”

“A code ten?” said the telephonist at Scotland Yard. “That would be a price request, would it?”[52]

“Terrorist attack!” bawled Hovis. “Cross it to Lane, don’t hog the ball.”

“What?” asked the receptionist.

“Don’t let him do that. Foul, referee. That was a foul. What is the matter with you?” said Inspectre Hovis.

“I’m going to put the receiver down now,” said the telephonist.

“No,” said Hovis, “terrorist attack, Consortium building, Chiswick High Road. Send everything you have. Send ZZ9. My God, ref, are you blind?”

“Who is this, again?” asked the receptionist.

“Where is he?” asked the professor.

“Up ahead,” replied John. “I can see him heading on the road to Brentford.”

Now, The Road to Brentford, Bob and Bing never made that one. Which is a shame, because—

“Catch up and run him off the road,” said the professor.

“Professor,” said John, “this is a weedy A40 van. They have a limousine. It’s probably bulletproof.”

Jim Pooley tinkered further with the radio, then took to thumping it. “Stupid piece of rubbish!” he shouted.

Norman’s van accelerated.

“Oh and this is fast!” Mr Merkin was out of his seat once more and straining his voice into the mask-mic. “Landru to Lane and back to Landru again. Intercepted by Ricardo, no, it’s Rivaleno. Oh no, it was Ricardo. But to no good.

“Landru back to Lane. And Lane is on course, but no, Lane is down, brought down by Beckham. The crowd are on their feet. The ref is showing Beckham the yellow card. It’s a free kick for Brentford just outside Manchester’s penalty area.”

“Nice area,” observed Jim. “Is this Penge again?”

“It’s Southall,” said John, “but there are many similarities. Hold on tight, everyone. And get a move on, you useless piece of ****!”

The A40 van drew level with the limo. On the wrong side of the road, though, to the great consternation of oncoming traffic. Cars swerved and mounted the pavements, ploughing into kerbside displays of exotic fruit and electrical goods and saris and socks and Blu-Tack.

John slammed the van into the side of the limo.

A blackly tinted window swished down. The chauffeur’s hand appeared and offered John a finger gesture that in America is known as “flipping the bird”.

“Bastard!” shouted John.

Norman’s van gained speed.

“Have at you!” roared John, swerving in front of the limo and applying the brakes. The rear of the van struck home, upending its mysterious hidden occupant. Headlights shattered on the limo, but it accelerated, thrusting Norman’s van forward at alarming speed.

Ahead were red lights. Van and limo rushed through them. Vehicles with the right of way swerved and applied their brakes and mashed into one another.

“Exciting this, isn’t it?” said Professor Slocombe.

Jim Pooley cowered and ducked his head, still twiddling the radio’s dials as he did so.

John clung on to the steering wheel. “He’s going to have us off the road.”

They were approaching a junction, one of those T-junctions where you can turn either left or right, but there is nowhere to go straight ahead. Except directly into a building. A Gas Showroom, upon this occasion.

One of those junctions.

“Turn left here, I think,” said the professor.

“I can’t,” shouted Omally. “We’re going too fast. We’re going to crash.”

Behind them and grinding into the van’s rear bumper, the limo pressed onward, gathering speed. The driver’s eyes shone that blackest of blacks. His teeth ground together, teeth that were blacker than the blackest of blacks. His foot (in a green driving shoe, because he had verrucae) pressed further down upon the accelerator pedal.

“Left, please,” said the professor. “Left, please – now, I think.”

Omally, both feet on the brake and telling Norman’s van what a lovely van it was, heaved the steering wheel portside.

The van hit the junction, swerved and then rolled.

The limo rushed on towards the Gas Showroom building before it.

“Ooooo!” went John and Jim and the professor and the mysterious stowaway in the back as Norman’s van rolled over and over, scattering pedestrians and cyclists and oncoming cars and cats and dogs and a casual observer.

The limousine struck the Gas Showroom building before it.

A mighty explosion occurred.