Big Bob Charker loaded the last of the unconscious bodies on to his great big bus.
“All present and incorrect,” said he, thrusting out his barrel chest and throwing back his head. “And now I return unto The Slaughtered Lamb and there will slay all with the jawbone of an ass, which I keep in my toolbox for such eventualities.”
“No, Bob.” Jim Pooley clung perilously to that platform pole which bus conductors love so dearly to swing from (when they aren’t doing crosswords, or putting the world to rights). “No, Bob, please don’t do that.”
Bob lifted Jim bodily and laid him on to one of the long bench seats. “Whyfore not?” he enquired.
“It would reflect poorly on the team,” said Jim, blearily. “A mass murder could put us out of the FA Cup.”
“But look unto the evil that they have wrought upon us.” Big Bob flourished a great big hand.
Jim’s blurry vision took in the devastation that was Brentford United. The lads were seated, sort of, and draped across one another. Those that were actually upright, although not actually conscious, had the look of the now legendary James Gang in their post-mortem photographs.
“Look unto them,” commanded Bob the Big.
“It’s not easy,” mumbled Jim, “but please, please don’t slay anyone.”
“Jim’s probably right.” Omally was on his hands and knees, crawling on to the platform. “Get us to the football ground. We’ll try to sober them up.”
“We?” Jim Pooley’s vision clouded. He was all but going under.
“To the football ground,” said John Omally, clawing his way towards Jim.
Big Bob Charker made growling sounds but took himself off to his cab.
As luck would have it, or chance, or both, or neither, Burnley really was but two miles up the road.
The country lane became a road, and this road a high street. The glories of Burnley rose to either side: gothic architectural splendours wrought from bricks of terracotta and black basalt and grandeefudge and snurgwassell.
Or so it seemed to Jim.
The bus passed a branch of Waterstones where, by luck, or chance, or both, or neither, the resident staff were playing host to the famous Brentford author P.P. Penrose, who was giving a reading of his latest Lazlo Woodbine thriller, Baboon in a Body Bag. Big Bob glanced over his big, broad shoulder. The team were not in the land of the living. Although, in truth, they were not actually dead, either.
“Woe unto the house of Brentford,” muttered the big one, changing down and tootling the horn.
For the streets of Burnley were full of folk, many folk, many football-loving folk, all bound for the match and all decked out in distinctive reproduction club shirts of a colour that has no name and a pattern that may not be described. Big Bob looked down upon them from his cab and the temptation was oh-so-big just to put his foot down hard upon the pedal and watch them scatter before him.
“Are we nearly there yet?” Pooley’s drunken face peered into Bob’s cab.
“Shortly,” said Big Bob. “Yonder lies the ground.” And he pointed with his oversized mitt towards an oversized structure.
There was much of the Colosseum about it, much, too, of the Parthenon, and much of the Palace of Knossos and much of the hat that the Delphic Oracle used to wear on a Saturday night when she went out on the pull.
It was all very much of a muchness, really.
And all very daunting to Jim.
“We’re doomed,” he wailed into Big Bob’s ear. “Oh misery, it is all my fault.”
“Give it a rest, before you even start.” Omally’s hand was on Jim’s shoulder. It was not a steady hand, but it still had steady ways.
“We are doomed,” said Jim. “What are we going to do?”
“We’ll do something, sober them up somehow. Never say die ’til you’re dead, my friend.”
“But I can hardly stand. The whole world’s going in and out of focus. Mostly out, as it happens.”
“Curious,” said John to Jim, “because to me it’s going around and around.”
A beer can suddenly bounced off Big Bob’s windscreen.
“Wherefore art this?” Big Bob ducked, which wasn’t easy, considering the size of him.
“We’re under attack!” cried Jim, which had more than a word of truth to it.
The Burnley supporters had spotted the Brentford team and were not giving the Brentford team the kind of welcome that the plain folk of Brentford usually gave them upon their triumphant returns. Cans and bottles, sticks and stones and pickled whippets’ tails (a Northern delicacy that many had brought with them to gnaw upon during the match) rained a deafening assault upon the great big bus. Big Bob made the face of fury and put his big foot down.
Folk before the bus scattered and those to the sides and those behind flung further projectiles and made loud their disapproval.
“They hate us,” cried Jim, assuming a foetal position. “We’re all gonna die.”
“A pestilence upon the tribes of the North.” Before Big Bob the stadium rose and gates were being opened. The big bus swept into the ground and these gates slammed shut upon its passing.
“Up, Jim,” John commanded. “We’re not nearly there anymore. We’re here.”
Jim struggled into the vertical plane and clung to a seat for support.
“Hello in there, everybody, heigh-de-ho?”
“Heigh-de-ho?” said John. And he turned to view a small fat chap of the Pickwickian persuasion, who wore a most remarkable suit. It was remarkable in so much that it closely resembled that worn by Jim – other than for the fact that it was of a colour that had no name and a pattern that may not be described.
“Merridew Fairweather,” said the portly Pickwickian, making his way up the bus towards Jim and John. “I’m the manager of Burnley Town. And oh my and skiddly-de.”
“Skiddly-de?” said John, doing his best to get a good look at the arrival, who just kept going around and around.
“Skiddly-de, skiddly-do,” said Merridew Fairweather. “Your team taking a pre-match nap, is it?”
“Conserving their strength,” said Jim, trying to put his hand out for a shake, but failing dismally. “I am Jim Pooley, manager of Brentford, and this is my PA, Mr Tom O’Shanter.”
“John Omally,” said John.
“Have you been drinking?” asked Merridew Fairweather.
“We’re just a bit travel-sick,” said John.
“Then I have just the thing to pick you up in the club bar: a pint or two of Old Dog-Gobbler.”
And then Jim Pooley was sick.
It took a while for Big Bob to unload the team. The Scottish groundskeeper showed him to the “visitors’ changing room,” which looked for all the world to Big Bob to be the gents’ excuse-me.
“Just lay them out wherever ya wish,” said the Scotsman, “but don’t go blocking my urinals.”
Jim and John now leaned in the doorway, sometimes on the doorposts and sometimes on each other. Jim viewed, as best he could, the dismal scene before him. It reminded him of a dismal scene in one of those disaster movies where the victims of a terrible train crash are laid out in the nearest building, usually a school or a church because it adds to the pathos. Jim sniffed the air.
“This is a gents’ excuse-me,” he said.
“Start splashing water on them,” said John.
“You don’t mean—”
“No, I don’t mean that. Water from the basins. Start splashing.”
“Righty right.” Jim stumbled across the bog, trying not to step on members of the team. They snored away beneath him, with blissful looks upon their faces. Jim gave Barry Bustard a kick in his bloated pants.
“It won’t do.” Jim splashed water on to himself. “We’re doomed. We’re really doomed this time.”
“The show’s not over ’til the fat lady does the trick with the champagne bottle,” said John, who was splashing at himself but mostly missing.
“We can’t play.” Jim splashed a bit more. “We
’ll have to call it off. There’s probably some rule about that.”
“There is,” said John. “We forfeit the match.”
“But this is so unfair. We were sabotaged.” Jim got his head down into the basin and ran cold water down his neck.
“I’ll think of something,” said John. “I’ll think of something, or die in the process. I just wish that the world would stop spinning.”
“That’s a bit drastic, John. Surely everyone would die if the world were to stop spinning. Don’t wish that.”
John Onially looked over at Jim and managed the smallest of smiles. “You buffoon,” he said.
“Hello in there, once again. Everybody heigh-de-ho?” Merridew Fairweather thrust his smiling spherical head into the visitors’ changing room. “Still having a bit of shut-eye, is it? Best to wake them up now, I’m thinking. It’s only five minutes to the match.”
“Five minutes!” Jim Pooley began to flap his hands and turn in small circles. It was hardly a wise manoeuvre, considering his condition.
John Omally smacked him to a standstill.
“You hit me!” Jim’s jaw dropped at the enormity of this.
“And I’ll hit you again if you don’t get a grip of yourself. We’ve got to get them on to the pitch. Somehow.”
“I can probably carry them two at a time,” said Big Bob, who had been looking on but keeping his own counsel. “But I’ll need a hand with the fat bloke and the Siamese twins.”
Burnley Town Stadium, or the Palace of Earthly Delights as it is more commonly known, seats twenty thousand and stands for twice as many stamping feet when the team are playing at home. On this particular night, it was full.
There were some Brentford supporters there who had actually taken the train up to Burnley to watch Brentford doing the business. Reproduction club kaftans were not in evidence, however. The Brentford fans were keeping the lowest of all low profiles.
It was either that, or risk being beaten to death.
Which was a shame, really, because they had brought a big banner, which they’d hoped to wave about and be caught on camera, because this game was being televised on something called Sky TV. What Sky TV was, the plucky Brentonians had no idea. They didn’t have it on their television sets. They had BBC1 and BBC2 and the one with the adverts and Coronation Street. Perhaps Sky TV was an aeroplane channel, watched by toffs as they flew to their holidays down in the Costa del Sol.
Mighty floodlights lit the pitch. High up in the commentary box the Sky TV commentator, an ex-Blue Peter presenter who had run into a spot of bother involving restricted substances and a “lady of the night”, shared his match commentary with an ex-Page Three girl who constantly ran into all kinds of bother, but whose career appeared to thrive on it.
“So, John,[43]” said she, “here we are at the Palace of Turkish Delight and it’s a bit chilly here in the box.”
John smiled with his expensive caps. “I can see that,” he said, “but at least it means I’ve a choice of two places to hang my jacket.”
The ex-Page Three girl, whose name was Sam,[44] did professional gigglings and gave John’s bottom a tweak.
“We’re up for a big one tonight,” said John. “Brentford, unbeaten in four matches and defying the predictions of all the football pundits, and Northern favourites Burnley Town, who will tonight be favouring, I’m sure, their famous four-two-four formation.”
“Would that be the famous four-two-four formation that was originally formulated by John Rider Hartley, manager of Huddersfield in nineteen thirty-seven, after he had a dream in which dancing fairies explained it to him? The four-two-four formation that took his team on to win the FA Cup on two successive seasons?”
“Er, um, maybe,” said John. “But look now, they’re coming out on to the pitch.”
“They’re not,” said Sam. “It’s just my reflection in the commentary box window.”
“The teams are coming out.”
“So they are,” said Sam, “and there’s the Burnley team captain Leonard Nimoy, not to be confused with the other Leonard Nimoy, of course – the one in Star Wars. Leonard has scored six goals this season, three at home and two away.”
“Is your Teleprompter working properly?” John asked.
“It’s broken,” said Sam. “I’m styling it out.”
“Well, the Burnley team is on the pitch now, chipping the ball around, and the crowd is on its feet. They’ll give their team every ounce of support. Listen to that applause. Did you ever see such a standing ovation?”
“More than once,” said Sam. “And here come the Brentford team.”
“So they do,” said John. “But what exactly is going on here? The Brentford team are apparently being carried on to the pitch. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite like this before, but we’ve come to expect the unexpected from this team. The dancing formations, the running backwards, the mysterious weaving about – there’s just no telling what these guys will come up with next.”
“And there’s their manager,” said Sam, “that Bertie boy. Don’t you just love his suit, John? I’ve got his picture on my bedroom wall. I cut it out from the cover of New Scientist.”
“He’s being helped on to the bench, Sam. He looks a bit the worse for wear.”
“Probably been out clubbing all night. They say he has to have two women every evening.”
“I think you’ll find that’s me, Sam.”
“Well, the whole team is out on the pitch now – flat out. I can’t imagine what they’re up to. We’ll just have to wait and see.”
“Oh, the ref’s going over to Bertie,” said John.
“Mr Pooley,” shouted the ref, trying to make himself heard above the roar of the crowd. “What exactly is going on here?”
Jim Pooley downed a pint glass of water. “What do you mean?” he shouted back.
“Your team would appear to be unconscious.”
“Appearances can be deceptive,” John shouted.
“Not, I feel, upon this occasion,” the ref countered.
“They’ll soon be on their feet,” bawled Jim. “No one could sleep through this.”
“Sleep?” yelled the ref. “They are asleep. You’ll have to get them up for the kickoff.”
“Is there any specific rule to that effect?” Jim’s eyes were glazed. He wasn’t sobering up at all – if anything, he was feeling more drunk.
“Right,” said the ref. “I’ll toss the coin and if your centre forward doesn’t get up and call, then win or lose I’ll give Burnley the kickoff.”
“Do your worst,” shouted Omally. “We’re not afraid.”
“We’re not?” Jim couldn’t manage another shout.
The ref stalked away to the centre of the pitch and flung his coin into the air. The crowd momentarily stilled as the dazzling disc spiralled up and spiralled down again to fall upon the snoring face of Ernest Muffler. The ref looked down at the snoring face, shrugged his shoulders and awarded the toss to Burnley.
The Burnley supporters screamed their approval. The Burnley centre forward took the kickoff.
High up in the commentary box, John the ex-Blue Peter boy spoke into his mic. “And it’s Burne-Jones to Morris and Morris has chipped it to Rossetti and Rossetti has passed it back to Burne-Jones and the Brentford team are just lying there, there’s no defence, no attack, no nothing at all. It’s Burne-Jones over on the wing to Holman Hunt and Millais is inside the box and he scores! Oh, yes. He scores! And the crowd are on their feet once more. One-nil to Burnley.”
The ref blew his whistle. “Offside,” he said.
“There,” said Omally. “Cunning tactics, eh?”
Pooley squinted. “You mean they can’t score?” he said.
“Yeah, well, they can – they won’t go so far into the box next time.”
And they didn’t.
“One-nil!” announced the ref.
Jim Pooley buried his head in his hands. “We’re doomed,” he blubbered. “Doomed.”
&n
bsp; “Three-nil,” said John (the John in the commentary box). “And this is really absurd. Burnley are just walking the ball around now. They’re having a laugh. Oh look, they’re heading it backwards and forwards now. The crowd are loving it.”
“It’s not fair,” said Sam. “The ref should stop it. Look at poor Bertie, he’s all downcast.”
“Give me a pistol, John,” Jim shouted into John Omally’s ear, “or a sword that I might fall upon. I have had enough of life. This is all too much.”
“I have to confess,” John shouted back, “that things look rather discouraging. I’m afraid, my friend, that only a miracle can save us now.”
“Four-nil,” shouted the John in the commentary box.
“A miracle,” said Jim. “It’s going to take more than a miracle.”
“More than a miracle?” John took out his mobile phone.
“Of course, that’s it,” said Jim. “Zap them with microwaves.”
“Give me a moment.” John tapped out digits and put his free hand over his phone-free ear. And then John began to shout into his mobile phone.
“What is the score, Jim?”
“It’s six-nil, Professor. We’re doomed.”
“Never say die, Jim.”
Jim’s eyes did sudden startings from their sockets. His mouth did droppings open and his voice did stumbled speakings.
“Professor?” said Jim, turning on the bench towards the ancient scholar. “Professor, you’re here.”
“I’m sorry I’m a little late. I got a bit held up.” The professor spoke softly, but his words were clear to Jim even above the howlings of the crowd.
“They’re killing us, Professor. This fiend of a barkeep got the team drunk. Look at them out on the pitch.”
Professor Slocombe scratched at his ancient chin. “A difficult situation, I agree,” said he. “And oh dear me, they are approaching the Brentford goal once again.”
And they were. And they were laughing with it. Burne-Jones passed the ball to Ford Maddox Brown (the Burnley striker and five-times winner of the Freshest Whippet on the Block Competition (Northern Chapter)). Ford Maddox Brown took a lazy kick at the goal.
Knees Up Mother Earth bs-7 Page 32
