Knees Up Mother Earth (19 page)

Bing and Bob made many “road” films, but they never made
The Road To Penge
. Although they should have, because it would have been a goodie.

There are so many exciting places to pass through on the road from Brentford to Penge. There’s Kew, Barnes, Putney, Wandsworth, Clapham, Streatham, not to mention West Norwood.

But as for Penge itself, well, what can be said about Penge? Well, it’s sort of Sydenham. And Sydenham is Crystal Palace, because the Crystal Palace was rebuilt upon the hill there when the original Crystal Palace in Hyde Park was demolished.

For those interested in the architecture of football stadia, the Penge ground was designed by Sir Giles Gilbert Scott, the legendary designer of the K2 red telephone box. Who also invented Blu-Tack, Velcro and the jumbo jet.
[27]

It is a truly magnificent stadium constructed from cast iron, teak and glass, with a saucer dome rising above four segment-headed pediments, reminiscent of the tomb of Sir John Sloane in St Pancras Churchyard and capable of seating nearly two people.
[28]

“Behold the stadium,” said Omally, as Big Bob drew up the big bus before it.

“My goodness,” said Jim, “but surely that’s a telephone box.”

“Next to the telephone box, Jim.”

“Ah,” said Jim. “That’s a fine-looking stadium.”

“Park the bus around the back please, Bob,” said John.

“I wilst in but a moment,” said Big Bob. “But first I’m going upstairs. If the professor doesn’t stop stomping his feet, I shall cast him forth from the bus.”

“Is it just me,” said Jim, “or do we live in rather weird times?”

“It’s just you,” said Big Bob. “I’ll park around at the back. Verily.”

Penge had been having a good run of luck over the last few seasons. They’d won games and managed to run at a profit and they’d used this profit to do what is all-important in the world of the football club: buy in top talent.

Over the preceding six months they had taken on a new barman, a new plumber in residence, a replacement Scottish groundskeeper (the old one having run away to join the circus) and still had enough money left over for the manager to acquire a new bungalow, a new Ford Escort and a new mistress, who was a blonde Swedish television presenter.

And they had really smart shirts and a really smart changing room.

The Scottish groundskeeper led Jim, John, the professor, the Brentford team, its substitutes and Big Bob Charker to his office. “You’ll have to change in here,” he told the team. “We dinna hav’ a visiting-team dressing room – we knocked the wall out and extended the bar.”

“Perk up,” Jim told the team, who looked anything but perked up (hence his telling). “It doesn’t matter where you change, it’s what you do on the pitch that counts.”

“I think I’ll probably throw up on the pitch,” said Alf Snatcher, waggling his waggly tail beneath his tracksuit pants. “Or even here, at a pinch.”

“Why is it that I lack for confidence?” Jim whispered to John.

“I’ve no idea, my friend. Shall I pop into the bar and get us in a couple of beers?”

“Good idea.”

“And a small sweet sherry for me,” said Professor Slocombe. “My feet are sore from all that stomping.”

Penge even had a resident jazz band. James Barclay’s Rhythm Boys, they were called. They were a marching band, and they marched up and down the pitch belting out a selection of tunes which might possibly have been penned by present-day authors who were hoping to break into the music biz, but, given the law of diminishing returns, were equally possibly just old Kenny Ball numbers.

“Wasn’t that an Anne McCaffrey tune?” Jim asked John, who now sat next to him “on the bench”.

“No,” said John. “And we’ll hear no more about it.”

James Barclay’s Rhythm Boys lined themselves up in the middle of the pitch and to the great applause of the crowd (which numbered between two folk and several thousand, depending upon where you happened to be sitting) heralded the arrival of the opposing teams.

“Showtime,” said John Omally, sipping on a pint of ale. “Rubbish ale, by the way.”

“Are we really going to be able to pull this off?” Jim asked Professor Slocombe, who sat next to him sipping sherry.

“You gave them the pep talk before you came out here, and most inspired it was.”

“Yes,” said Jim, “it was, wasn’t it? I don’t know how this stuff comes into my head.”

Professor Slocombe tapped once more at his slender nose. “Enjoy the game, Jim,” said he. “Oh, and feel free to do a lot of shouting at the team as they play. They won’t be able to hear you, but they’ll appreciate it all the same. And it is expected of you.”

“What should I shout?” Jim asked.

“I expect you’ll think of something.”

And on they came, the Penge team resplendent in their colours of beige, light tan and buff (these being the new black this season. But as Wimbledon play in blue, which is often the new black also, it doesn’t really matter).

And the Brentford team in …

The crowd exploded into laughter.

“Oh my God,” cried Jim. “
What
are they wearing?”

“It’s the new kit,” said John. “I did a deal with Mohammed Smith at the sports shop.”

“They’re wearing kaftans,” said Jim. “They look like the cast of
Hair
.”

“I thought the cast of
Hair
were mostly naked,” said John.

“And what are those patches that are sewn all over the kaftans?” asked Jim.

“Advertising logos, Jim. Sponsorship deals, endorsements, you know the kind of thing. I needed kaftans to fit them all on. I’ve got almost every shop in Brentford signed up.”

“You crammed a lot of work into a single day.”

“The Miracle of the Mobile Phone.” John whipped this item from his pocket.

“Don’t put that thing near me,” said Jim.

The crowd had not ceased in its laughter at the Brentford team. And it looked very much as if the Brentford team was all for fleeing back to the groundskeeper’s office.

“They’re laughing at us,” said Jim.

“They’ll be laughing on the other side of their faces come half-time,” said John.

“How
do
you do that?” Jim tried to frown on the other side of his face but could not.

“One more pep talk required,” said Professor Slocombe. “Go to them, Jim.”

“What will I say?”

“You’ll find inspiration.”

And Jim did. He gathered the team about himself. He spoke honeyed words. Magical words. A very great many words. And they seemed to work. He even got one of those Maori war chant kind of jobbies on the go.

He patted backs and returned to the bench.

“I don’t know where I find it,” said Jim, “but I find it.”

“You certainly do,” said John, exchanging secret smiles with the professor.

And then the ref blew his whistle and the game was on.

To this day, no one knows
exactly
how it was done. The game was not recorded for television transmission and so no visual evidence remains to be analysed by football pundits. There were members of the press there, but they gave conflicting accounts of the game. And as for the crowd, well, a crowd of folk will rarely agree upon anything. Except to being stirred up by a single individual into doing something stupid.

And so
exactly
what happened upon that fateful afternoon in Penge must remain for ever a matter of debate.

Except for one detail.

And that one detail was beyond debate.

For that one detail was the final score.

It was the greatest defeat that Penge had ever suffered, greater even than the infamous “Day of Shame” when they were hammered five-nil by Orton Goldhay Wanderers. An occasion the ignominy of which was added to by Penge’s then manager and latterly convicted serial killer Wally “God-Told-Me-To-Do-It” Tomlinson, whose excuse for the team’s defeat was that they had contracted a dose of the King’s Evil at Madame Loveridge’s whorehouse in Pimlico.

“Eight-nil.” Jim Pooley counted eight goals on to his fingers. Jim was somewhat far gone in celebratory drink now. He was on the tour bus that Big Bob was driving back to Brentford. Big Bob was singing. The team was singing.

Up on the top deck, John, Jim and Professor Slocombe were drinking champagne.

“Eight-nil.” Jim counted his fingers again, just to be sure. “They were all hungover and they still thrashed Penge eight-nil.”

“I feel that we can chalk the tactics up as a success,” said Professor Slocombe.

“I think the kaftans helped,” said John.

“Impossible,” said Jim. “I must be dreaming this.”

“The price of endorsements upon the team’s strip has just doubled,” said John. “No, let’s be fair to the shopkeepers of Brentford – trebled.”

“I’m not sure that Paine’s Undertakers should have such a prominent position on the backs,” said Professor Slocombe.

“Eight-nil,” said Jim, losing count of his fingers. “Brentford won eight-nil.”

Scoop Molloy had not attended the match. He’d spent the day “following up leads” regarding the terrorist bombing of Norman’s lock-up garage and the queer events that had occurred at The Stripes Bar the previous night.

But he wasn’t getting anywhere.

He did, however, receive an “on-the-pitch” account of the match from the
Brentford Mercury
’s new self-appointed roving sports correspondent, Mr John Vincent Omally, via John’s mobile phone, from the top deck of Big Bob’s bus. It was a very full and glowing account of Brentford’s remarkable victory.

Scoop would have loved to tell the
Mercury
’s editor to hold the front page, but the
Mercury
didn’t come out on Sunday, so there really wasn’t any point.

But word of the victory did reach Brentford before the team returned. Omally made copious phone calls, and the team returned to an impromptu victory parade.

True, few of the revellers who had attended the Benefit Night at The Stripes Bar were there to wave Union Jacks and throw rose petals, but the plain folk of Brentford, the plucky Brentonians who had been hoping and praying a little, too, thronged the streets. And the bunting was up.

“Good grief,” said Jim, making a bewildered face at the cheering crowds lining the Ealing Road. “This is beyond belief.”

“Take a bow, Jim,” said John, waving somewhat. “You’ve played your part in this triumph.”

“I really don’t think I have.”

“The only way is up,” said John. “We’ll triumph.”

“Take a bow, Jim,” said Professor Slocombe.

Jim rose unsteadily from his seat and bowed towards the crowds.

“I know my opinion isn’t worth much,” said a casual observer peering up from the roadside, “but isn’t that Bertie Wooster?”

There was dancing in the streets of Brentford upon that Saturday night, and the team all got very drunk again.

John and Jim did what came naturally to them and headed off for a drink. They bade their farewells to Professor Slocombe, but, to Jim’s alarm, found themselves now in the company of the Campbell.

“I’ll come along, if it’s all right with you,” said the mystical highlander.

“It’s not,” said Jim.

“It is,” said John.

“It is?” said Jim.

“It is – the Campbell is now your, er,
minder
, Jim. A successful football manager always has a security man to protect him.”

“From
what
?” Jim asked.

“Oh, you know, overattentive fans, the gentlemen of the press. You’d be surprised.”

Jim Pooley shrugged. “So where are we drinking? The Stripes Bar, our own personal pub?”

“Ah, no,” said John. “The Stripes Bar is currently undergoing renovations.”

“Would this be something to do with the fire and chaos that you seem disinclined to speak to me about?”

“Possibly so,” said John. “Let’s go to The Flying Swan.”

“The Swan? But we’re barred from The Swan.”

“My, my,” said John, “by what would appear to be sheer chance, we find ourselves right outside that very pub.”

“He’ll club us down,” said Jim. “He will employ his knobkerrie once again.”

“Have a little faith, Jim,” said John. “I’ll sort it.”

Jim took out his packet of Dadarillos and lit one up.

“You smoke too many of those,” said John.

“They calm my nerves and keep me mellow.”

“You chain-smoke the damn things.”

“Let’s go somewhere else,” said Jim.

“No, my friend, we’re going in here.”

“But we’ve got our own pub and you said—”

“I can’t be having with loose ends,” said John. “Nor can I bear to be barred from any bar in Brentford. It’s a matter of principle.”

“Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear,” said Jim.

Trade was good in The Flying Swan. Saturday night was always Neville’s busiest, but tonight surpassed the usual. Neville was hoping it would make up for the previous night, when he had done precisely
no trade at all
.

Neville did not own any Brentford Football Club team flags, but he had managed to find, in the beer cellar, a number of Charles and Diana wedding flags and these now hung behind the bar. And as there had been no time to take on extra bar staff, Neville was very busy. And
very busy
can sometimes mean
very stressed
.

This was one of those sometimes.

Neville espied the approach of Jim and John, closely followed by the Campbell, and Neville’s good eye widened. And as John and Jim reached the bar counter, Neville’s mouth did also.

“Out of my bar,” quoth the part-time barman.

“Let’s not be hasty, now,” said John.

“Empty,” said Neville. “Last night my bar was empty.”

“It’s pretty full now,” said John.

“It will be emptier by two in just a moment. No, make that
three
– take that weirdo with you.”

“Oh,” said John. “Ouch,” and he clutched at his forehead.

“That’s where you’ll get it,” said Neville, “if you don’t leave now.”

“That’s where I have already received it,” said John. “My solicitor is suggesting that I sue for damages. I found the figure
he
suggested preposterous, but then considering that I have always wanted to live the now legendary life of ease, I am tempted to let him go ahead with the lawsuit.”

“Do your worst,” said Neville.

“So you are really throwing us out?” said John.

“Do you have any doubt about this?” Neville sought his knobkerrie.

“I’m leaving,” said Jim. “I don’t wish to be smote a second time.”

“You stand your ground,” John told him. “Neville, I know we have had our differences, but—”

“Differences?” The part-time barman’s face began to turn that terrible whiter shade of pale once more.

“But there is nothing to be gained by petty feuding and the holding of grudges. Hence, I am willing to forgive and forget,” John continued.

Pooley flinched and Neville ground his teeth, loosening yet another filling to add to the previously loosened one, which had not as yet received the attention of the dentist.

“What I am saying to you, Neville,” John continued, “is that you should be thanking us rather than behaving in this discourteous manner.”

“
Thanking
you?
Thanking
you?”

“Can I have some service over here?” asked a lady in a somewhat charred straw hat.

“Thanking us.” John risked a lean across the bar counter and a conspiratorial tone. “Thanking us for saving your bacon.”

“My
bacon
?” Neville shook and rocked and the sound of the grinding of his teeth was hideous to the ear. One hundred yards away in The Four Horsemen, Dave Quimsby heard them and shuddered.

“Think about this, Neville,” said John. “Who was it who appointed Brentford’s new manager? The manager who has led them to an eight-nil victory over Penge?”

“Eh?” said Neville.

“You,” said John. “And look, here is Brentford’s new manager offering to favour this particular bar, out of all the bars in Brentford, including
his own
. What kudos, having the Brentford manager patronise your pub.”

“What?” said Neville, in a creaky kind of voice.

“An absinthe spritzer and a pale ale and Pernod,” called the lady in the charred straw hat. “And make it snappy, or we’ll take our business elsewhere.”

“You should take your due credit,” said John to Neville. “You deserve praise. And to be honest, I don’t know how well it would go down with the locals if they were to find out that you’d barred Brentford’s manager. Excuse me, madam,” John said to the lady, “but did I hear that you were thinking of taking your business elsewhere, because—”

“Stop!” cried Neville. “Enough. Enough.”

John viewed the trembling barman. He wasn’t enjoying doing this to Neville. Well, actually he was, because Neville
had
bopped both he and Jim upon their heads. “What do you say?” John asked, sticking his hand out for a shake. “Let bygones be bygones and all prosper from the glories that lie ahead for the team and the borough?”

Neville sighed. It was a deep and tragic sigh, but if all the truth was to be told, Neville was very pleased to have John and Jim once more in his bar.

“Bygones be bygones,” said Neville wearily and with that he shook Omally’s hand.

“And Jim’s, too,” said John. And Neville shook Pooley’s hand also.

“Splendid,” said John, a-rubbing of his palms together. “Then three pints of Large, please Neville.”

“All right,” said Neville and he set to pulling the pints. “But there is only one thing that I want to know.”

“Which is?” asked John with caution.

“Why is Jim dressed as Bertie Wooster?”

And so the celebrations proper began, much to the pleasure of Jim Pooley, who found his hand being endlessly shaken, his back being endlessly patted, pint after pint being placed before him and kisses being planted on his cheeks by numerous female football fans. John, who was not averse to bathing in a bit of reflected glory, engaged the kiss-planters in conversation and added several numbers to his telephone book.

At a little after nine, Norman Hartnel entered The Flying Swan. Norman was carrying two duffel bags and Norman had a big grin on.

“Evening, John, Jim, Neville,” said Norman when he had fought his way to the counter.

Heads nodded and glasses were raised. “You look very full of yourself, Norman,” said John. “Come to toast the team’s success and buy the men who brought it to fruition a pint or two?”

“Come to do a bit of celebrating myself,” said Norman, “on my own account, for I shall shortly be rich beyond the dreams of Avril.”

“It’s avarice,” said John.

“Then you haven’t met my cousin Avril,” said Norman. “But enough of that. I have, but yesterday, taken out five original patents. You had best shake my hand now, because it will be far too busy receiving awards in the future to be available for shaking then.”

“I am intrigued,” said John.

“Me, too,” said Jim.

“And what happened to you last night?” Norman asked Jim. “You missed all the mayhem and magic at The Stripes Bar.”

“I did?” said Jim, casting a suspicious glance towards Omally.

“Forget all that,” said John. “Tell us what you’ve been up to, Norman.”

“I heard your lock-up was blown up by Al Qaeda,” said Neville, sticking two olives into a pale ale and Pernod.

“Al who?” Jim asked. “What team does he play for?”

“We’re not on one of those right now,” said John. “Tell us what’s what, Norman.”

“About the lock-up?” asked the shopkeeper. “It doesn’t matter, it was insured.”

“About whatever you’ve invented that is going to bring you untold wealth,” said John.

“Ah, that.” Norman unshouldered his duffel bags and placed them upon the bar counter. “Wireless transmission of electricity,” he said. “Which is to say, electricity without cables beamed from one place to another upon a carrier wave. It will literally revolutionise everything.”

Neville the part-time barman scratched at his head with a cocktail stick and nearly put his good eye out.
Wireless transmission of electricity
? That rang a bell somewhere. Someone had mentioned something about that to him recently. Neville tried to recall just who it had been.

“Does this involve microwaves?” Jim asked fearfully. “Like in portable telephones?”

“No,” said Norman. “It’s all very simple. Would you care for me to demonstrate?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” said John, as yet another young woman came forward to offer Jim a kiss.

“I’ll be getting all that soon,” said Norman, unpacking his duffel bags. “A king’s chaff is worth other men’s corn. And I’m thinking of getting one of those special wheelchairs like Stephen Hawking has, with the voice box and everything.”

“Why?” John asked, as he watched Norman setting up strange contraptions upon the bar counter.

“Just trying to think of things to spend my money on.” The strange contraptions that Norman was now setting up were mostly constructed from Meccano. They resembled two little towers surmounted by silver Christmas-tree decoration balls. One of the little towers had a hand-crank attached to it and what looked like a tiny generator. The other was simply attached to a light bulb on a stand.

“Put that one at the other end of the bar,” Norman told Omally.

“Is this safe?” Neville asked. “There won’t be any explosions or loss of life or anything? I can’t be having with that in my bar.”

“It’s perfectly safe.” Norman took hold of the little tower with the hand-crank. “I will turn this handle and charge up this tower, and the electricity will be transmitted to the other tower and light up the light bulb.”

“No offence, Norman,” said John, “but that is
most
unlikely.”

“Nevertheless it will occur, as surely as a trained dog needs no whistling.”

The crowd in The Flying Swan, which had been conversing and hubbubbing and singing, too, and chanting
Brent-Ford, Brent-Ford
from time to time also, had been doing less of the conversing, hubbubbing and so on and so forthing also with the setting up of Norman’s little towers.

The crowd was growing
interested
. Heads were turning, elbows nudged elbows. A certain hush was descending upon the saloon bar of The Flying Swan.

“It seems you have an audience,” said John.

“Wonderful,” said Norman and he turned to address the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “what you are about to witness is something that you will never have seen before, something that will change the very face of civilisation: the wireless transmission of electricity. I will crank up this tower here. The crank powers this little generator, which in turn charges up the capacitor. When it’s completely charged up, I throw this switch.” Norman turned and pointed and turned back once more. “And the electricity will be transmitted through the air to that tower at the other end of the bar and will light up the light bulb.”

“For what it’s worth,” said a casual observer. “I—”

“Are we all ready?” Norman asked.

Heads nodded. The word in the bar was yes.

“Then I shall crank.” And Norman cranked. He cranked and he cranked and then he cranked some more. And then he said, “That should be enough. Would you like to count me down? It makes it so much more exciting.”