Councillor Ffog, who considered himself to be, as the French have it, “somewhat of a garçon”, enquired as to whether anybody had Bob Geldof’s telephone number.

Rising from his seat he said, “Although one hundred million is a mere dip into Paul McCartney’s petty cash box, it might not be readily accessible to the average punter.” Satisfied that he had wrought crushing defeat upon his adversary, Ffog grinned smugly and resumed his seat. Before his bum had hit the cushion, however, he was aware that Ms Naylor was continuing her discourse as if he had never spoken.

“And what if such a backer could be brought forward at this very moment? What then, gentlemen?” Ms Naylor glanced pointedly towards Mavis. “And lady, of course.”

“Do so!” roared the Major. “Do so, madam!”

“Macca’s petty cash box, eh?” whispered Ffog, winking lewdly and nudging a Geronimo twin about the buckskin ribs. Mavis Peake leant forward in her chair. Any attempt upon her part to indulge in any erotic breast-brushing, however, would have required her to place her chin firmly upon the table. “If you can find a philanthropist willing to finance a Brentford Olympiad to the tune of one hundred million pounds,” she sneered, “then we shall all second the motion and declare it carried.”

“Hear, hear,” mumbled a muddy brown Major, drifting into a pharmaceutical haze. A further chorus of hear hears filled the unhealthy atmosphere of the council chamber. Philip Cameron clutched at his testicles and maintained a bitter, clench-toothed silence.

Ms Naylor smiled and nodded her head gently as if in time to some secret melody. “So be it then,” she said dramatically. “Consider it done.” She clapped her hands and at the signal the doors of the council chamber opened to reveal a pair of Covent Garden design-studio-executive-types sporting designer sunglasses, clipped beards and Paul Smith suits. They flanked what appeared to be a hospital trolley, its upper regions shrouded beneath folds of white linen.

“Oooh!” said Clyde Ffog, straightening his tie. “Nice.”

“May we enter?” enquired the taller of the two.

Clyde Ffog nodded enthusiastically. “Please do,” said he.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the smaller of the pair, “I am Julian Membrane and this is my associate, Lucas Mucus.” Lucas bowed slightly from the waist, anticipating the looks of disbelief which generally greeted his name. “Of the Membrane, Mucus, Willoby, Turncoat and Gladbetook Partnership, specialists in the conceptualizing of new marketing trends through increased consumer product awareness. Design Consultants. Our card.”

Paul Geronimo eyed the thing suspiciously, “White brother speak with forked tongue,” he observed. “Talk load of old buffalo chips,” his brother agreed.

“We should very much like to make for you our presentation,” Membrane continued. “We are acting upon the part of our client, a great philanthropist who wishes to finance the games here. He is a scientist and something of a recluse and he wishes for us to make this presentation upon his behalf. He chooses anonymity; we honour his wishes.”

“Words spill from white brother’s mouth like wheat from chafing dish of careless squaw,” said Paul Geronimo. Barry eyed his brother proudly. He could never think of things like that to say. He went along with Paul’s conviction that they were a dual reincarnation of the great Apache chief mostly because he liked dressing up.

“Thus,” said Julian Membrane, “we offer our conceptual representation for the proposed Brentford Olympiad.” With a flourish, he drew aside the linen cover from the trolley to expose a scale model of Brentford. With a chorus of “oohs” and “ahs”, those councillors that were able rose from their seats to view the wonder. For wonder it indeed was.

The model’s realism was uncanny — the entire borough reduced, as if by magic, to doll’s house proportions. The councillors gathered about it, cooing and pointing, anxious to examine their own houses, as well as those of their fellows. Mavis Peake let out a little excited cry. “Even my bedroom curtains are the right colour!”

“What are those things in your back garden then?” Philip Cameron asked Clyde Ffog. “They look like instruments of torture.”

“Rubbish,” spluttered the reddening Ffog. “They’re … er … bean-frames.”

Philip Cameron was unconvinced. Paul Geronimo whispered loudly to the effect that “brown-hatted brother heap big bondage fan”.

“This is an invasion of privacy!” cried Ffog. “So where is the bloody stadium then, under the ground?”

Lucas Mucus shook his cropped head. “On the contrary, very much over the ground, as it happens.”

“Oh, yes!” crowed Ffog. “And where do you propose to put it?”

Mucus took up a pointer. “Here, here, here, here and here,” he dipped variously about the borough.

Clyde Ffog looked baffled. Ms Naylor said, “I think you’d better demonstrate, Lucas.”

“Certainly, madam. If you would be so kind, Julian.”

Julian smiled, nodded and, stooping, withdrew from a compartment in the trolley a glittering object approximately a third of the size of the model village. It had much the look of a flat star which contained at its centre a dancehall mirror-globe. Julian held it out proudly before the assembly. “The Star Stadium,” he said. If he had been hoping for a round of applause then he was to be sorely disappointed.

“And where would you like to stick that?” asked Ffog pointedly.

“Lucas, if you would be so kind.”

Lucas nodded with politeness and pressed a small button at the side of the model. There was a hiss of hydraulics, and from each of the five locations previously appointed arose a telescopic column. When these had risen to their full extent, Julian stepped forward and placed the “star” gently upon them, tip upon tip. “Wallah,” he said.

Lucas made free with his pointer. “The columns will be five hundred feet high,” he said proudly. “Traffic will flow into the North and East legs directly from the Great West Road, to rise upon a continuous belt lift to parking bays beneath the stadium. Each area between star tip and sphere houses an Olympic village, the central sphere a stadium seating five hundred thousand, swimming pools, full games complexes, etc., etc., etc.”

“Hold on, hold on,” blustered Clyde Ffog. “You are seriously proposing to hang this thing above Brentford? Apart from the obvious dangers, it will plunge half the town into permanent darkness.”

“Do you think so?” Julian asked. “Look closely at the model.”

Clyde Ffog gave the thing a good squinting. To his amazement he realized that the stadium cast no shadow. “There is no shadow!” he exclaimed.

“That heap big medicine by any reckoning,” declared Barry.

“A scientific breakthrough,” said Lucas. “The top of the stadium is covered in solar cells, these absorb light and project it through similar cells on the underside. In fact, when the real stadium is completed it will appear literally invisible from below, there will simply be the appearance of a clear sky.”

“If not talking out back of loincloth then that technological miracle of first magnitude,” Barry said, nodding respectfully. “Nobel prize in that for inventor.”

“That is only one small miracle,” said Lucas. “You mentioned obvious danger did you not?”

Clyde nodded fiercely, “What if the whole shebang falls down on Brentford? Don’t tell me you can put up a thing like that without something getting dropped, or falling off!”

“Julian,” said Lucas. Julian reached into his trouser pocket and withdrew a flat black disc about the size of an old penny. “This, ladies and gentlemen, is ‘Gravitite’. A self-buoyant polysilicate which has rather special qualities.” He held the disc between thumb and forefinger and then released it. To general amazement and gasps of disbelief it did not fall to the floor, as one might reasonably expect. Instead it remained where it was, suspended in the air in defiance of all the laws of nature, or some of them at least.