Knees Up Mother Earth (35 page)

Professor Slocombe wasn’t smiling. The professor’s face was grave. Before him in his study, to either side of the fireplace, sat Terrence Jehovah Smithers and the Second Sponge Boy.

“The time is upon us,” the professor said. “Today what must be done, must be done. After the events of last night, I implore you to be on your guard.”

“You will be attending the match?” said Terrence.

“I must,” said the professor. “Our adversary will be there, that is for certain. If I fail to make an appearance, he might suspect my plans.”

“I wish I was going,” said Sponge Boy. “Seeing Man U getting its arse kicked is always a joy to us Southern boys.”

“I’ve set the video,” said Terrence. “We’ll watch it this evening. Assuming—”

“That you survive?” asked the professor.

“Something like that, yes.”

“But you trust me?”

“Of course we trust you, Master,” said Terrence.

“Then follow the plan to the letter and all will be well. The team bus will arrive shortly to pick me up. When I have gone, go at once to Griffin Park. The Campbell will be waiting for you. He will arm you as necessary and at the time agreed you will proceed to the Consortium building and lay waste to it and the evil that dwells within. There should be no loss of innocent life, as all the streets will be deserted. All eyes on the match, as it were.”

“You said that the Campbell will
arm
us,” said Sponge Boy. “Will we be having big guns?”

“You will,” said the professor. “I have arranged for certain munitions to be made available to you.”

“Uzis?” said Terrence, miming the use of an Uzi. “Will we have Uzis?”

“Kalashnikovs,” said Sponge Boy. “Kalashnikovs are better than Uzis.”

“No,” said the professor. “You will have neither Uzis nor kalashnikovs.”

“Aw,” went Terrence.

“Shame,” said Sponge Boy.

“No,” said the professor. “I have ordered for each of you a 7.62mm M134 General Clockwork mini-gun.”

“A 7.62mm M134 General Clockwork mini-gun,” said Dave Quimsby.

“A what?” asked Jim Pooley.

“It’s a rotary machine gun,” Dave explained. “I just overheard someone talking about it. Perhaps it’s a link, or a continuity thing, or something.”

“It would be very poor continuity, then,” said Jim, “because you’re not even on the bus with us.”

“Oh yes,” said Dave. “You’re right.” And he vanished away.

Omally nudged Jim’s elbow. “You look like you’re in a trance,” said he. “What are you thinking about?”

Jim stirred from his reverie. “Guns, for some reason,” said he. “I hope that’s not a bad omen.”

The big bus stopped outside Professor Slocombe’s home and Big Bob left his cab to help the ancient aboard.

“Morning, sir,” called Omally.

“Going upstairs?” asked Jim.

“I’ve my best boots on, John. I thought I’d get in some stomping over Big Bob’s head.” Professor Slocombe went upstairs and evicted Bobo from his seat.

The great big bus set off towards Wembley.

“Something very bad happened last night,” said Jim. “I think I should go upstairs and talk to the professor about it.”

“Let it be, Jim,” said John. “Just concentrate upon victory. We’re on the road to Wembley.”

Now, Bob and Bing never starred in
The Road to Wembley
. And it had been a good many decades since a Brentford team had. But the sun shone down on Big Bob’s bus and at length the great stadium appeared on the skyline in all its Art Deco splendour.

“Would you look at
that
,” said Omally.

“Now
that is big
,” said Jim.

“And I understand that there are plans to pull it down, too. So Heaven knows what biblical nasties might lie beneath that one.”

“You’re supposed to be cheering me up,” said Jim.

“True,” said John. And he called out to the team, “Let’s sing the team song, lads.”

“Team song?” said Jim.

“Team song,” said John. “It’s an oldey but goody.”

And the team sang “Knees Up, Mother Earth”.

Neville had purchased a reproduction Brentford United team kaftan, and he did not look out of place as he sat in one of the many coaches that had been chartered to ferry plucky Brentonians to the match. Neville sat down next to Small Dave, the postman, and waved a greeting to Archroy, Soap Distant, Old Pete, Councillor Doveston, Jack Lane and Bob the Bookie (who had come along hoping to watch a crushing defeat of the local team).

All and sundry set off upon the Road to Wembley, leaving most of Brentford and Chiswick deserted.

Wembley was far from deserted. Thousands streamed towards the stadium, vast legions in the colours of Manchester United, but many also in those of Brentford. For say what you will and say it how you’ll say it, this glorious nation of ours loves an underdog.

John and Jim were on the top deck of the big bus now, up at the front with the professor. The entire team was up there also, waving to the crowds. Below, Big Bob clung on to the steering wheel. “Maketh Barry Bustard and Long John Watson sit down!” he shouted up to Jim. “Or they’ll have the bus over. Verily and so.”

The crowds before the stadium parted before the big bus and Wembley’s Scottish groundskeeper waved it into the special enclosure reserved exclusively for big team buses. And from there he led Jim, John, Big Bob, the professor and the team towards and to the changing rooms.

“Cocktails will be served shortly,” said he, in an accent of the Glaswegian persuasion. “Then the
chef de cuisine
will call in with the menu for lunch. Might I recommend the salmon
en croute
and the filet mignon
Americus
. They go down a treat with a chilled Chablis.”

“How swank is
this
?” said Omally, gazing all around and about at the swankness of the changing rooms. They had recently been done out by a Mr Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen in the style of one of the
Titanic
’s upper decks, with steamer chairs and portholes, quoits and lifebelts and the ceiling painted all sky-blue, with cotton-wool clouds stuck to it. Rod Stewart’s voice sang “We Are Sailing” through hidden speakers and stuffed seagulls hung on nylon cords from the sky-blue ceiling above.

“A jungle theme,” said Jim. “Nice.”

“And if you and your entourage will follow me, Mr Pooley,” the groundskeeper continued, “I’ll lead you to where all the big knobs hang out.”

“The toilets?” said Jim.

The Scottish groundskeeper shook his tam-o’-shantered head. Indulgently. “Most amusing, Mr Pooley. I refer, of course, to the executive suite.”

“Of course you do,” said Jim. “Lead on.”

It was a bit like a film première. Not that Jim had ever been to a film première, but he had never seen so many famous people all together in one room at the same time. In fact, Jim had hardly ever seen any famous people at all, aside from some that he hadn’t recognised who had been pointed out to him during his visit to Stringfellow’s.

“Hello again, Jim,” said Peter Stringfellow, admiring Jim’s suit and shaking its owner by the hand. “Looking forward to the match?”

“Certainly am,” said Jim.

“Is that Irishman with you?” Peter asked. “That one who went off with two of my pole-dancers?”

“He’s over there,” said Jim, “chatting with Catherine Zeta-Jones.”

“I’ll go and warn Michael Douglas, then.” Peter left Jim to shake other hands.

And the first of these was a royal one.

“Mr Pooley,” said Prince Charles, “what an honour to meet you.”

Jim blinked his eyes. “You’re wearing—”

“A suit like your own,” said the prince. “Had my chap in Savile Row run it up for me. Have you met my sons?”

Jim shook further royal hands. And admired the matching suits.

“Could I have your autograph?” asked Prince Harry.

Jim made his way to the bar, where he ordered a large, stiff drink. A hand fell on his shoulder and Jim turned to find himself looking up into the face of a tall, slim, well-dressed fellow with a head of blondy hair.

“You have come a long way, Mr Pooley,” said this fellow.

“We haven’t been introduced,” said Jim.

“No, we haven’t, but I know you well.” The fellow put out his hand for a shake and Jim Pooley shook it. And then Jim Pooley shivered. “Your hand …” said Jim.

“A tad cold,” said the fellow. “Poor circulation. Would you care to step outside with me for a moment? There are certain pressing matters that I must discuss with you.”

Jim blew warmth on to his fingers and rubbed them on his tweedy plus-foured trouser leg. There was something very wrong about this tall, slim, blondy-haired fellow, something decidedly—

Jim shivered once again—

Decidedly evil.

“Well …” Jim said.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea.” Professor Slocombe smiled towards Jim. “In case you haven’t been introduced, this is Mr William Starling.”

Jim drew back – drew back, in fact, to a point that was somewhat to the rear of the professor.

“Fear not, Jim,” said Professor Slocombe. “He will not harm you. His moment has passed.”

“My
moment
has yet to come.” William Starling glared at the professor. His eyes shone glossy black and darkness appeared to form all about him.

Prince Charles said to Harry, “Your granny used to do that.”

“Rather public for this kind of thing, don’t you think?” The professor smiled on, placidly. Starling didn’t smile back.

“I now own the opposing team,” said Starling. “This is one game that you will
not
win.”

“We shall see,” said the professor.

Starling leaned close to Professor Slocombe. “You have caused me a considerable amount of inconvenience,” he snarled, his voice a harsh and rasping whisper, “but today comes the reckoning. When the final whistle blows, Griffin Park will be mine and, by tomorrow, all the world.”

The professor smiled on. “We shall see,” was all he had to say.

Starling glared, turned and stalked away. Upon reaching the doorway, he slipped upon a banana skin that appeared to have simply materialised and fell heavily to the plushly carpeted floor.

Jim looked at the professor.

“Whoops,” said that man.

“Hoops,” said Barry Bustard to the waiter in the sharp black suit. “I ordered spaghetti hoops.”

The team were tucking into their lunches in a swanky luncheon area. They sat at a long luncheon table; the Manchester United team sat nearby at another. The Manchester United team’s luncheon, however, kept being interrupted by members of the Brentford team asking them for autographs.

And it did have to be said that the Man U lads were finding it rather hard to keep straight faces, because for all of Brentford’s wondrous rising through the Cup qualifiers, the thought of playing the FA Cup Final against a team composed entirely of circus performers – well!

“Well,” said Professor Slocombe. “Doesn’t time fly. It’s half-past two already.”

Jim had just returned from the toilet, where he had made the latest of many trips.

“All right now?” the professor asked.

“I can’t keep my lunch down,” said Jim. “The quails’ knees in Canaletto sauce have done for me.”

“Courage, Jim,” said the elder. “We will prevail. Now best you go down to the changing rooms and give the team one of your inspirational pep talks.”

“But I can’t think of anything to say.”

“You will.” Professor Slocombe patted Jim’s shoulder. “Believe me, you will.”

The team sat in the changing rooms and the team looked most uncomfortable.

“What’s up?” Jim asked. “You all look a bit down. You didn’t eat the quails’ knees, did you?”

Long John Watson raised a mighty hand. “Boss,” he said, “Boss, they laughed at us.”

“Who laughed?” Jim asked.

“The Man U team, they mocked us.”

“Ah,” said Jim. “Take no notice of that. That is what they call a psychological tactic – psyching out the other team. I’ve read about that.”

“But they’re right,” said Barry Bustard, tucking into a bargain bucket of something highly calorific. “We can’t play against
them
. They’re a
real
team.”

“All the other teams you’ve played against have been real teams, and we’ve won every match.”

“But this is Wembley, Boss. Wembley is, well, sacred. We won by luck, by flukes, or by something,” said Barry.

“And we’ll win this.”

“No we won’t, Boss. This is real.”

Jim sighed. He knew exactly what Barry meant. This was well and truly real. “No, wait,” said Jim. “I have this,” and he pulled out the professor’s envelope. “Today’s tactics.”

“What?” said Loup-Gary Thompson. “
Now? Noooooooooooooow?
”

“Easy on the wolf calls,” said Barry. “But do you mean now, Boss? With no practising?”

“Trust me.” Jim put his thumbnail to the envelope. It shredded like rice paper. Jim unfolded the missive and read aloud from it.

“‘The show must go on,’” he read.

Jim paused and reread this, silently and to himself, then turned over the parchment sheet. The other side was empty of words. Jim turned the sheet back over and read it silently once more.

“The show must go on,” said Admiral Theodore Peanut, the thirty-inch-high right mid-fielder.

“The show must go on,” said Clarence Henry, frog-boy and midfielder.

And the words were passed from fellow to fellow. And “Ah,” said Jon Bon Julie, the half-man, half-woman centre-half. “The show must go on, I see.”

“You do?” asked Jim.

“Of course,” said Long John Watson, whose head was on high amongst the stuffed seagulls. “You know what he means, lads, don’t you?”

Blank faces slowly became those of the enlightened.

“The show must go on,” said Bobo, juggling three half-time oranges. “It’s a masterstroke. It’s inspired.”

“Ah yes. Ah yes.” Heads began to nod. And voices turned into cheers.

Jim did gawpings all around. “The show must go on,” he said. Blankly.

“You’re a genius, Boss,” said the human half of Humphrey Hampton. “That is the one thing that every performer understands – the sacred code of the performer. We won’t let you down.”

“I’m so pleased,” said Jim.

“And the modesty of the man,” said Don to Phil. “Coming up with something like that and not even wanting to take the credit.”

“The man’s a saint,” said Phil. “The show must go on.”

And Don and Phil cheered heartily, and so did the rest of the team.

Pooley shook his head and all manner of hands. “Good, because you’re on in two minutes. I just have to use the toilet.”

Professor Slocombe awaited Jim outside, in the corridor.

“How went the pep talk?” he asked.

“The show must go on,” said Jim.

“Then all will be well. And Jim?”

“Yes, Professor?”

“We
will
succeed.”

Jim Pooley went off to the toilet.

John Omally sat upon the turf-side bench, in the dugout (as it is oft-times called) that was reserved for the Brentford team. Beside him sat Big Bob.

“Verily I say unto you,” said the big one, “this is one hell of a stadium.”

Big Bob had to raise his big voice above the chantings of rival supporters and the brass outpourings of the Iain Banks Big Band that marched up and down on the pitch. The atmosphere was, as they say, electric. Because there is truly no place like Wembley.

Truly electric it was.

“Electric, you see,” said Terrence Jehovah Smithers. “The barrels spin and six thousand rounds per minute come out of them.”

“They’ve very heavy guns,” said the Second Sponge Boy, “and this is a very cramped little van.”

“It’s not a van,” said the driver, one Mahatma Campbell. “It’s a Morris Traveller – a half-timbered classic piece of automotive history famous for its light petrol consumption and its top speed of sixty-five miles per hour.”

“And running like a dream through these empty streets of Chiswick,” said Sponge Boy. “Positively downstream.”

“I will park around the back of the Consortium building. We can then storm the premises from there.”

“Storm the premises,” said Terrence. “I like that.”

“And you have the explosives?” Sponge Boy asked the Campbell.

“I have enough Semtex here to blow the Dread Cthulhu’s tentacles so far up his unholy arse that—”

“The building’s ahead,” said Terrence, pointing. “And my sweet Lord, look at the size of it.”

“Size isn’t everything, Terry,” said Sponge Boy. “It’s what you do with it that counts.”

“And we’re counting down to the big match,” shouted world-famous, soon to be knighted for his services to commentating, five times voted bestest BBC commentator at the FA Cup and lovely fellow who spends most weekends with his family and to whom no taint of a scandal would ever attach itself, Mr Mickie Merkin. He sat in the commentary box, holding one of those special microphones that look like an oxygen mask over his face, probably in an attempt to stifle out the roaring of the crowd and the other commentators who shared the box and shouted into theirs. “And what a match this is going to be. Giant-slayers Brentford United up against the other United, Manchester, fielding today a team unsurpassed in its history in terms of finance. Multimillionaire William Starling, who purchased the club this week, has spared no expense bringing in the very cream of the world’s talent.

“A quick run-down on that line-up. We have Ronaldo, Rivaldo, Ricardo, Riviera, Rivaleno, Risotto, Rikkitikkitavio, Riboflavino, Ridleyscotto, Rizlapapero and Sir David Beckham. This is possibly the most formidable side ever fielded in footballing history.

“And their opponents, what can you say about their opponents? As extraordinary as it might seem, not a single member of the original Brentford United team who began this sensational season will be playing today. This team is composed entirely of performers from Count Otto Black’s
Circus Fantastique
. Today they are fielding:

“Clarence Henry, frog-boy.

“Bobo the clown.

“Zippy the pinhead.

“Don and Phil English, conjoined twins.

“Loup-Gary Thompson, wolf-boy.