Knees Up Mother Earth

7

Jim Pooley was returned to consciousness through the medium of Professor Slocombe’s soda siphon, applied towards his laughing gear through the medium of John Omally’s hand control.

“Oh,” went Jim. And, “Get off there,” and, “Oh no,” and, “Oh no,” again.

“Oh yes,” said the professor, nodding enthusiastically.

“Oh no,” said Jim once more, spitting soda as he did so.

“You are indeed the man for the job.” Professor Slocombe nodded decisively.

“I’m not,” flustered Jim. “Believe me, I’m not.”

“Oh yes you are.”

“Oh no I’m not.”

“Are,” said the professor.

“Not,” said Jim. “Not times squared, to infinity.”

“I’ll take the job,” said John, “if you’re offering it.”

“I’m not offering it,” said the professor, “Neville is.”

“He won’t offer it to Jim.”

“No,” said Jim, “he won’t.”

“I’m sure he will if I put in a word for you.”

“Hm,” went Jim, wiping soda from his face. “This is indeed true. But I don’t want the job, Professor. I know nothing about football.”

“So much the better still, the team will not know you.”

“But many of the borough will. I’m not unknown in this area.”

“Then so much the better even stiller. You will be applauded as a local hero, a fearless fellow taking on what most would consider an impossible, indeed, a preposterous task.”

“I number myself amongst these considerers,” said Jim.

“Champagne?” Omally asked. “Gammon brought in a bottle.”

“I can’t do this.” Jim was on his feet now and preparing for the taking of his leave.

“You can.” Professor Slocombe poured champagne. “And you will. I will guide your every step. I will, how shall I put it, invest you with a certain charisma. Under my guidance you will lead the team to victory.”

“Truly?” Jim asked, with more doubt in his voice than there are zeros in a googol, or coughs to get it right if you’re unsure.

“Absolutely,” said Professor Slocombe.

“No,” said Jim, a-vigorously shaking of his head. “I can’t do it. I’m a nobody. It wasn’t my idea to come here, it was John’s. I don’t want to be involved in this.”

“You’d rather just stay as you are, then?” Professor Slocombe fixed Jim with a stare.

“I’m happy as I am,” Jim said.

Professor Slocombe shrugged. “Yes,” he said, “I suppose that you are.”

“I know I don’t amount to much.” Jim accepted the glass of champagne John offered to him. “But I have my dreams. One day I’ll win through. One day my ship will come into port.”

“This ship being of the variety that runs upon four hooves at Ascot?”

“Amongst other places.” Jim slurped champagne. “I have tactics of my own. And winning formulas, in theory at least.”

“I’m offering you a chance to really succeed.” Professor Slocombe raised his glass to Jim. “To do something really special that would benefit you as well as the borough as a whole. What do you have to lose in taking on this challenge?”

Jim Pooley shrugged, slowly and thoughtfully. “Nothing specific. Although—”

“Although what?” the professor asked.

“My freedom?” Jim suggested. “Football management is a full-time job and full-time employment has never sat altogether easily down to dine with me. In fact, it’s generally departed prior to the pudding course and without paying the bill.”

Professor Slocombe nodded once more. “But imagine what might happen if you saw this job through to its successful conclusion. How much did you lay out upon bets with Bob the Bookie this morning, Jim?”

“The usual,” said Pooley. “A fiver. And if the horses come in, then that five pounds will multiply itself to nearly half a million more pounds of a similar nature.”

“I’ll tell you what.” Professor Slocombe put his glass aside. “I’ll buy your betting slip from you now for – what shall we say? – one hundred pounds.”

“One hundred pounds?” said Jim.

“One hundred.”

“No.” Jim shook his head. “This slip could be worth half a million.”

“I’ll bet you one hundred pounds that it isn’t.”

“You’re getting me all confused,” said Jim, finishing his champagne.

“Me too,” Omally agreed. “Where’s this leading?”

“It is leading this-a-ways,” the professor said. “Jim has the courage of his convictions. He believes in what he does, even though others – specifically, in Jim’s case, Bob the Bookie – do not. Jim presses on, day upon day, certain that eventually he will succeed.”

“I will,” said Jim. “Please do not deny me my dreams, Professor.”

“I would do no such thing. That would be unthinkable and it would be cruel and callous. What I am saying, Jim, is that you are a man of conviction. You persevere. You stick to your guns and to what you believe.”

“Indeed so,” Jim agreed. “I do that.”

“So you will bet again tomorrow, should you fail today.”

“I will,” Jim agreed also.

“Then why not bet upon a sure thing?”

“I fail to understand you, Professor.”

“What odds do you think Bob would give you against Brentford winning the FA Cup?”

Jim shrugged and grinned and laughed a little also. “I’ve no idea. One hundred thousand to one, at the very least.”

Professor Slocombe raised a snowy eyebrow.

“Oh,” said Jim. “Then you really think …”

“I’m sure of it.” Professor Slocombe now raised a thumb to go with his eyebrow. “In fact, the more I think about it, the more certain I become. The two of you have added a certain piquancy, a certain spice to a day otherwise bland. I am prepared to apply myself to this project. I cannot force you to take up this challenge. I can, however, ask whether you have faith in my judgement.”

“Absolute faith,” said Jim, because he did.

“Then let us drink to success.”

Jim shrugged. “To success,” he said.

“Brentford for the cup,” said John Omally.

And they drank.

And later they walked, away from the professor’s house and back along the tree-lined drive to the everyday sprawl that was present-day Brentford.

Jim had his head down as he walked. His unfailing cheerfulness was definitely failing him. John Omally was sprightly enough.

“There are many pennies to be made out of this,” he told the cheerless Jim. “I can see the two of us prospering greatly from this fortunate appointment of yours.”

Jim ceased his walking and glared pointy knives at his bestest friend. “You have got me into some messes in the past,” he said, “but nothing on the scale of this.”

“You’ll be fine.” Omally made a bright and breezy face. “With the professor behind you and me at your side, what can go wrong?”

Jim dug into his pockets and sought out his fags.

“And that reminds me,” said John Omally.

At length, they reached The Flying Swan. It was at a greater length than the usual walking distance from The Butts because the journey had taken in the Brentford allotments, where John had displayed to Jim the fruits of his morning’s business. To whit, the five hundred packets of Dadarillos he had acquired that morning from the fellow in The Plume Café.

“Wallah,” went Omally, whipping back the potato sack to reveal the hoard.

“Oh, splendid,” said Jim. “As if things couldn’t get any worse, you have secreted a hoard of stolen cigarettes in my allotment shed, along with your horrible bike. Perfect. How can I ever thank you?”

“They are not stolen,” John explained. “And as I purchased them with our shared entrepreneurial business funds, you are entitled to half of the profits, as soon as you have sold them all.”

“Oh lucky man me,” said Jim Pooley.

The at-length to The Flying Swan was also increased by Jim Pooley making his second visit of the day to the business premises of Bob the Bookie.

At least Jim had a smile back on his face when he left these business premises. As evidently did Bob, whose loud and joyous laughter followed Jim on his way.

“It is going to be such a pleasure to take his money,” Jim told John as they proceeded on their journey.

John patted Jim upon the back and at that greatened length they reached The Flying Swan.

It was lunchtime now and The Swan was going great guns in the trade department. Young pale-faced business types, who toiled away in the nearby Mowlems building at jobs which probably involved computers, spoke noisily over their halves of cider and Lighterman’s lunches.[7] John and Jim elbowed their way towards the bar counter.

“Two pints of Large, please, Neville,” said John. “Jim is in the chair.”

“I’m penniless,” said Jim, “so I am not.”

Neville looked his patrons up and down, then up and down once more.

John and Jim looked back at Neville.

“Would you both just mind turning full circle?” Neville asked.

“Excuse me?” said Jim.

“Humour me,” said Neville. “A little twirl, but slowly, if you’ll be so kind.”

“All right then.” Jim shrugged and did a little twirl, but slowly.

John shrugged also and joined him in this curious perambulation.

“Happy now?” Jim asked.

“Absolutely,” said Neville. “I just wanted to get a really good look at you both, from all angles, as it were.”

“I see,” said Jim. “But why?”

“Because it is the last look at the both of you that I will ever be taking. You’re both barred for life!”

“What?” Jim’s jaw fell, to land with a palpable clunk upon his chest. “Barred?”

“Barred!” quoth Neville. “Now kindly get out of my pub.”

“Hold on there, Neville.” John made a cheesy grin. “That is not at all funny. Look at poor Jim, the colour’s gone right out of his chops.”

“Barred,” said Neville and he bared his teeth. “Traitorous, devious dogs. Out of my pub now or I’ll take my knobkerrie to the both of you.”

“Five more halves of cider over here,” called a pale-faced business type.

“Be with you in a moment, sir,” said Neville. “As soon as I have evicted these two undesirable elements from the establishment.”

“Neville,” said John, “have you become bereft of your senses? It’s us – John and Jim, your favourite patrons.”

“Curs and rapscallions,” cried Neville, reaching below the counter for his knobkerrie.

“Neville, please.” John raised calming palms. “Whatever is going on? What is all this about?”

“You know full well. You put him up to it, I know you did.” Neville glared at Jim with his good eye.

“What did I do?” Jim Pooley clutched at his heart.

“I’ve just had a phone call from Professor Slocombe,” said Neville.

“Ah,” said John.

“‘Ah?’ Is that all you have to say, ‘Ah?’” Neville now raised his knobkerrie.

“I think I’ll be heading back to the office,” said the pale-faced business type.

“It’s not my fault,” wailed Jim. “I didn’t volunteer for the job. It was all Professor Slocombe’s idea.”

“I trusted you.” Neville waggled his knobkerrie in Jim’s direction. “And I trusted this Irish ne’er-do-well. And what do you do? Stab me in the back, that’s what you do.”

Jim Pooley shook his head. “Never,” he said. “We never did. We never would.”

“Manager!” Neville had a good old shake on now. His good eye bulged from its socket. “You couldn’t manage a knees-up in a whore house.”

“Neville, calm yourself.” John leaned forward across the bar counter. “This could really work to your benefit. Allow me to explain. You see—”

But John Omally said no more, as at that moment Neville swung his knobkerrie and bopped him on the head. John’s eyes crossed and then they closed and John sank slowly to the carpet.

Jim looked down in horror. Words tried to form in his mouth, but could not. He raised a bitter gaze towards Neville and prepared to leap across the counter and exact a bloody revenge.

But Neville swung his club once more.

And Pooley hit the deck.