Knees Up Mother Earth bs-7

by Robert Rankin

  “Treachery!” cried John. “Sabotage!”

  “Not so loud!” cried all and sundry. Especially Dave Quimsby.

  “This is bad,” said Jim. “This is very bad.”

  Big Bob brought the bus to a halt at Professor Slocombe’s house and Jim helped the ancient scholar aboard.

  “We’ve been sabotaged,” Jim told the professor. “Gwynplaine Dhark took the team back to his pub for a late-nighter. They’ve all got hangovers.”

  “So much the better,” said Professor Slocombe.

  “So much the what?” said Jim.

  “Trust me.” The ancient fellow tapped at his ancient nose. “I think I’ll go and sit upstairs now,” he continued. “I’ve always wanted to sit at the front and stomp my feet over the driver’s head until he comes up and threatens to throw me off.”

  There was one more stop to be made before the trip to Penge proper began. And this was at Mohammed Smith’s Sports Shop in the High Street. John had done a deal with Mr Smith. It was a sponsorship deal.

  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.

&
nbsp; 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.”

  19

  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, bu
t—”

  “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.”