Knees Up Mother Earth bs-7

by Robert Rankin

  “Loup-Gary Thompson, wolf-boy.

  “Barry Bustard, fattest man south of the Wash.

  “Admiral Theodore Peanut, smallest man who ever lived.

  “Humphrey Hampton, half-man, half-hamburger.

  “Jon Bon Julie, half-man, half-woman (no hamburgers, bacon sandwich, hair pie).

  “Harry the Human Holdall.

  “And Long John Watson, their giant goalkeeper, nine feet tall and with a reach of over ten feet.

  “The FA Cup Final has certainly never seen a team like this before, and frankly, the mind boggles. I tried to catch a word with their manager earlier, the now legendary James ‘Mr Bertie Wooster’ Pooley, fashion icon and team’s inspiration, but he had to rush off to the toilet. I spoke instead to his personal assistant, John Omally.”

  “Run VT,” said the director, who lurked unseen, somewhere or other.

  “Mr Omally,” said Mr Merkin to John, in the executive suite. John had his arm around the shoulder of a certain blonde female Swedish TV presenter. “Mr Omally, this has been a remarkable season for Brentford United.”

  “It’s been a very special season for us,” said John. “The last time Brentford won the FA Cup was in nineteen twenty-eight, when Jack Lane captained the team to its second successive victory.”

  “And you really think that Brentford can do it again?”

  John grinned broadly towards the camera. “Are we not men?” he said. “We are Brentonians.”

  “Would you care, then, to make a prediction?”

  John’s hand tweaked a buttock of the blonde female Swedish TV presenter. “We’re going to score,” said he.

  “We’re going to score,” said Mickie Merkin. “And who is going to doubt them? And yes, the teams are coming on to the pitch. The crowd is in uproar. This is the time and this is the place and history might well be made once again here for underdogs Brentford.

  “And yes, they are lining up for the national anthem. And yes …

  “Oh dear.

  “Bobo the clown has just custard pied Sir David Beckham.”

  43

  Jim Pooley buried his face in his hands. “He pied David Beckham,” he said. “The game hasn’t even started and …” Jim looked up. “Oh no, the ref’s showing Bobo the yellow card.”

  “And what’s Bobo showing the ref?” Professor Slocombe asked.

  “Oh no,” burbled Jim and he buried his face in his hands once again.

  “It will be all right.” The professor soothed the distraught manager. “Look, Mr Beckham’s personal hairstylist has come on to the pitch, and his manicurist, and his fashion consultant is bringing him a new pair of Ray Bans to replace the ones that got custard pie on them.”

  “That’s a relief,” said Jim.

  “The Manchester United fans don’t seem best pleased.” The professor ducked a flying starfish[50] that had been hurled in Jim’s direction. “They’re pelting the pitch.”

  “We’ve known worse,” said Jim. “Remember Burnley?”

  “I’m trying to forget it. Ah, Mr Beckham’s entourage have left the pitch. The ref is tossing the coin.”

  And the ref tossed the coin into the air.

  And the eyes of Professor Slocombe focused on that coin (for, like Old Pete, his eyesight was acute). And the eyes of William Starling also focused on that coin (though Starling’s eyes were black as death and glowed a little, too). And the coin rose and rose and reached its apogee.

  And there it stayed.

  The ref gawped up at the hovering coin, and the teams looked up, and those in the crowd with acute eyesight did also.

  Then the coin twisted one way and then the other.

  The professor’s eyes narrowed. Starling’s bulged from his head. And, curling and twisting, the coin descended.

  To land upon its edge.

  Although only the ref could see this, for it lay at his feet in the grass.

  The ref waved his hand towards the Man U team.

  “Hm,” said Professor Slocombe.

  Now, one of the many interesting facts about football – and there are so many interesting facts. Facts, figures, things you didn’t know, there’s books and books and books about them. Far too many, in fact! – but one of those facts is that playing the game is very different from watching it.

  Watching it on television or from the stands, the watcher receives an overview, seeing everything from above, spread out beneath. You get as near to the whole picture of what is going on as it really is possible to get.

  Which is very unlike being there on the pitch, on the horizontal plane. There’s so much that the players and the ref can’t see[51]. And Wembley has such a BIG pitch.

  And of course, being down on the bench, level with the pitch, the manager cannot see everything either.

  “What happened there?” Jim asked. “Who took the kickoff?”

  “Ricardo,” said Professor Slocombe. “And he’s passed to Rivaldo, who’s tapped it across the wing to Ronaldo. And Ronaldo to Rikkitikkitavio to Ravioli, back to Ricardo, who’s passed it to Ravishankar, to Beckham, to—”

  “That’s not the way I see it,” said Jim. “It’s Bobo to Bustard, Bustard to Bon Julie, Bon Julie nice little chip to Clarence Henry who’s hopping with the ball, and he’s passed it to Zippy who’s sitting down on it as if he’s laying an egg. And Hampton’s kicked to Henry, carrying the ball to Admiral Peanut, who in turn is carried with it … oh, and Beckham’s got the ball again.”

  “You’re both getting it wrong,” said Omally, who had his mobile phone to his ear. “I’m tuned to Five Live commentary – would you like to listen?”

  “No thanks,” said Pooley, lighting a Dadarillo. “That thing will ruin your health.”

  “And it’s Riviera …” said Omally.

  “It’s Riviera,” bawled Mr Merkin, “to Riboflavino, brought down by Bustard who passes to the English twins, who seem to be arguing over whose legs should kick it, and it’s tackled away from them by Rikkilake, no it’s Ridleyscotto, who has his number-seven shirt on upside down, which made me think it was a number-ten shirt, to Rizlapapero to Risotto to Rivaleno to Rio Grande to Rip Van Winkle, across to Ringwormo, who passes it to Rocky Three (the one with Mr T out of the A Team in it).”

  “Hang about,” said Jim. “How many players have Man U got on the pitch? I’m sure I can count about twenty.”

  “Oh dear,” said Professor Slocombe. “Let me deal with this.”

  “Robroyo,” bawled Mr Merkin, “to Robocopo – no, he’s lost the pass, it’s Loup-Gary Thompson now to Dopey, Dopey down the wing to Sneezy, who blows it across to Doc, across to Happy, over to Sleepy, who slowly dribbles it down the right wing to Bashful.”

  “That’s more like it,” said Jim. “But that was only six of the seven dwarfs.”

  “Nobody knows all seven,” said Professor Slocombe. “It’s like knowing all Ten Commandments or the Seven Wonders of the World. No one knows the name of the seventh dwarf.”

  “It’s Baldy,” said Jim.

  “It’s Horny,” said John.

  “Tommy?” said Jim.

  “Timmy?” said John.

  “Jonny?” said Tim.

  “Jimmy,” said Tom.

  “I’m getting all confused now,” said Jim. “I don’t want to do any more dwarfs.”

  “That will please Snow White,” said John. “And who’s that?”

  “That’s Grumpy,” said Professor Slocombe. “And yes! He’s scored for Brentford!”

  And the Brentford portion of the crowd went mad.

  But the ref shook his head.

  “He’s disallowing it,” said John.

  “Why?” asked Jim.

  “Probably due to something in the rule book that says you can only have eleven men in your team.”

  “They started it,” said Jim.

  “I don’t think that matters,” said John.

  “These things matter,” bawled Mr Merkin. “Rules are rules. And it’s coming up on my monitor screen now
: ‘Eleven men only shalt thou have, nor aided shall they be by familiars, divers demons, succubae or Walt Disney™ characters.’ Dates back to medieval times, that rule, apart from the last bit, which means nothing to me, oh Vienna.”

  “Man U seem to be back to their original eleven players again,” said Jim.

  Professor Slocombe rubbed his wrinkled palms together. “I’m really quite enjoying this,” he said.

  “I could do with a beer,” said Jim.

  “Me, too,” said John. “I’m far too sober for this kind of excitement.”

  “I shalt geteth them in,” said Big Bob Charker. “Beers all round?”

  “Why not?” said Professor Slocombe.

  “Right then, I shall not be a moment.”

  Big Bob returned with a tray of beers. “Didst I miss anything?” he asked.

  “One-all,” said Jim.

  “One-all?” said Big Bob. “How happeneth that so fast?”

  “Only kidding,” said Jim.

  “Thank the Lord for that.”

  “It’s two-one – we’re winning.”

  “Now thou art talking.” Big Bob raised his glass in toast.

  William Starling glared with his black eyes at the field of play. It was true – the Brentford side were literally running rings around his own players. And he just couldn’t see how they were doing it.

  “Exactly how are you doing it?” Jim asked Professor Slocombe.

  The old man tapped at his sinewy nose. “I have to concentrate,” said he.

  Jim turned to John. “It’s not right, all this,” he said. “This is Wembley, the very cathedral of the beautiful game. This should be sport. This is all wrong.”

  John nodded thoughtfully. “You do have a point,” said he. “So shall we suggest to the professor that he stops doing whatever it is that he’s doing? And we’ll let Starling’s team win the FA Cup and Starling demolish Griffin Park, release the Serpent of Eden and bring damnation to all the world as we know it?”

  Jim gave the matter some thought.

  “Come on, you Bees!” he cheered.

  William Starling put on his sunglasses.

  They were very special sunglasses.

  They filtered the incoming light through a process involving the transperambulation of pseudo-cosmic anti-matter. And they’d cost him an arm and a leg, although not his.

  William Starling peered through these special sunglasses and observed that each Brentford player on the pitch appeared to be enclosed within a glittering transparent dome known in occult circles as a cone of protection, and in SF circles as a force field.

  “So,” said Starling, and he spoke in the words of a language older than time.

  Barry Bustard swung his foot to boot the ball Man-U-goalward, then suddenly stumbled and all but vanished into a hole in the ground.

  “Starling,” said Professor Slocombe, “has us, as our American cousins care in their fashion to put it, ‘rumbled’.”

  “Barry Bustard’s fallen into a hole,” said Jim.

  “And there goes Zippy,” said John.

  “And Don and Phil and Jon Bon Julie.”

  Professor Slocombe raised his hands and spoke many words of his own. The Brentford players, who were sinking like golf balls on a par-one pitch-and-putt, rose once more to set their studded boots upon terra firma.

  But it was all too late and Beckham passed to Rivaldo and Rivaldo hammered in the equalising goal.

  And then the ref blew his whistle.

  And it was half-time in the match.

  44

  Jim Pooley entered the Brentford United changing room.

  “Two-all,” said Jim. “Not at all bad, considering. But we are going to have to put in that extra bit of effort if we’re going to win. And we are going to win.”

  Jim cast an eye over the players. They were not sucking their oranges.

  They were changing out of their heavily logoed team kaftans and putting on their circus clothes.

  “What are you doing?” Jim asked. “You have to play in your strips.”

  “Sorry, Boss,” said Barry Bustard in a sheepish tone, “but we’re leaving.”

  “Leaving?” Jim staggered in the doorway. “What do you mean, leaving? You can’t leave at half-time.”

  “No choice, Boss. Sorry,” said Barry.

  “No,” said Jim, stepping forwards and gripping the fat man’s ample lapels. “You can’t just walk out. We have a match to win. Have you all gone mad?”

  “No choice,” said Barry Bustard.

  “What do you mean, ‘no choice’?” Jim’s hands began to flap.

  “It’s the circus,” said Barry. “The circus is leaving town, now, and we have to leave with it.”

  “You can’t do that. The circus can wait. This is far more important.” Jim tried to control his flapping hands and found that most of himself was now flapping. “Football is more important. Winning this match is more important.”

  “It’s not!” Barry Bustard glared into Jim’s eyes. “The circus is leaving now and our families with it.”

  “You can catch up with them later.”

  “You don’t understand.” Barry Bustard turned away and drew off his tentlike kaftan.

  “I certainly do not understand.” Jim stood, quaking and flapping.

  “I do,” said John Omally, entering the changing room.

  “You do, John? Make them see sense, please.” Jim wrung his quaking shaking flapping hands. Which wasn’t as easy as it might sound.

  “I’ve just been having a word with Jon Bon Julie, the half-man, half-woman (no hamburgers, bacon sandwich, hair pie). He/she was dithering over which toilet to use. Apparently Count Otto Black’s Circus Fantastique was bought out this very morning by a certain William Starling. The circus has upped sticks from Ealing Common and been moved away to an undisclosed location. The team have just received word that if they play the second half, they will never see their loved ones again.”

  “No!” said Jim, turning to the team. “Is this true?”

  Heads nodded sombrely.

  “The bastard,” said Jim. “The evil bastard.”

  “We’d like to stay,” piped Admiral Theodore Peanut. “We’d really like to win the match for you, Boss, but …”

  Jim Pooley sighed. “It’s not your fault,” said he, reaching down to pat the midget’s tiny shoulder. “I should have known. This Starling made attempts upon the lives of John and me. He was thwarted and forced to swear that he would never do so again. But it all makes sense now, why we lost Brentford players before each match. He swore not to harm John and me, but—”

  “He snuffed out the team,” said John in an appalled tone.

  “The circus folk substituted and so he bought out the circus,” said Jim.

  “So they’re dead.” John Omally, although made of sterling stuff, found his knees now trembling. “Alf and Dave and Ernest and all of them.” John’s voice trailed off.

  “Or maybe he just put pressure upon them,” said Jim, “like he has here. Told them to get out of town, or else.”

  “Let’s hope so,” said John.

  Jim slumped down upon a bench. “It’s all over,” he said. “Starling has won.”

  “We really would like to help,” said Admiral Theodore Peanut.

  Jim waved a hand. “You’ve all done your best,” said he. “You have all done wonderfully, every last one of you, and I thank you for it. I can hold nothing against you. You must put your loved ones first. Go now. Go to your loved ones and go with my blessings.”

  “Thank you, Boss,” said Admiral Theodore Peanut.

  And with that, the circus folk left the changing room, each in his or his/her own special way.

  Leaving Jim alone with John.

  “We’re doomed,” said Jim. “This time we’re really doomed.”

  John slumped down on to the bench and gave Jim’s shoulder a pat.

  “We’re finished,” said Jim, and there was a tear in his eye.

  John pu
t an arm around his best friend’s shoulders. “You did your best,” he told him. “You really did, Jim. It’s not your fault. Everybody tried their hardest – you, the professor, the circus performers – but Starling outsmarted us. Big business, Jim. Big business and big, big money. An undefeatable combination.”

  “But there must be something we can do, John. It can’t just end like this.”

  “We can’t play without a team, Jim. I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do.”

  Jim’s head slumped further and then it jerked up. “We could,” he said. “We could do something.”

  “What?” Omally asked.

  “Get the lads together, all the lads from The Flying Swan, and you and me – we could make up a team.”

  John looked hard into the eyes of Jim and then John shook his head. “Can’t be done,” said he. “It’s against the rules. You can’t field an entirely new team in the second half.”

  “Perhaps if I asked the referee nicely,” Jim suggested.

  John squeezed Jim’s shoulder. “Sorry,” he said, “but it was a nice try. I’m afraid that nothing short of a miracle is going to help us. We’d need God himself to walk into this dressing room right now.”

  The dressing room door swung slowly open.

  John looked at Jim.

  And Jim looked at John.

  And then the both of them looked …

  At Norman.

  Norman stuck his head around the dressing-room door. He had dyed his wig the team colours. “Hello, lads,” said he. “How’s it going? Two-all, eh? Pretty good going. But I just saw the Brentford team getting on to the bus.”

  “A miracle?” said Jim. “We’re doomed.”

  45

  Jim Pooley returned, in the company of John, to the pitch-side Brentford bunker bench/dugout jobbie. Jim would dearly have preferred to run far, far away. And then some more. But he knew that he could not. He owed a duty to the Brentford supporters, the thousands of them who had grown from the few when the season began.