“I think,” he continued, “that together we might well succeed with what many would consider to be an impossible quest. To whit, to take Brentford to the very top this season, and to win the FA Cup.”

“Right,” said John. “I’ll drink to that.”

“Me, too,” said Jim, “but my glass is now empty.”

“Mine, too,” said John, “but I’ll drink to it in principle.”

“Champagne,” said Professor Slocombe, ringing his little brass bell once more. “This calls for champagne.”

“It does?” said Jim.

“If the professor says it does, it does,” said John, laying aside his depleted sherry glass and rubbing his hands together. “It does.”

“We must have a toast,” said Professor Slocombe, “in champagne, of course, to the future success of Brentford United. And to its new manager.”

“You know the man?” John asked.

“The man sits here before you,” said Professor Slocombe.

“Then you are going to take the job?”

“Not me,” said the professor, “but Jim Pooley.”

Jim Pooley was returned to consciousness through the medium of Professor Slocombe’s soda siphon, applied towards his laughing gear through the medium of John Omally’s hand control.

“Oh,” went Jim. And, “Get off there,” and, “Oh no,” and, “Oh no,” again.

“Oh yes,” said the professor, nodding enthusiastically.

“Oh no,” said Jim once more, spitting soda as he did so.

“You are indeed the man for the job.” Professor Slocombe nodded decisively.

“I’m not,” flustered Jim. “Believe me, I’m not.”

“Oh yes you are.”

“Oh no I’m not.”

“Are,” said the professor.

“Not,” said Jim. “Not times squared, to infinity.”

“I’ll take the job,” said John, “if you’re offering it.”

“I’m not offering it,” said the professor, “Neville is.”

“He won’t offer it to Jim.”

“No,” said Jim, “he won’t.”

“I’m sure he will if I put in a word for you.”

“Hm,” went Jim, wiping soda from his face. “This is indeed true. But I don’t want the job, Professor. I know nothing about football.”

“So much the better still, the team will not know you.”

“But many of the borough will. I’m not unknown in this area.”

“Then so much the better even stiller. You will be applauded as a local hero, a fearless fellow taking on what most would consider an impossible, indeed, a preposterous task.”

“I number myself amongst these considerers,” said Jim.

“Champagne?” Omally asked. “Gammon brought in a bottle.”

“I can’t do this.” Jim was on his feet now and preparing for the taking of his leave.

“You can.” Professor Slocombe poured champagne. “And you will. I will guide your every step. I will, how shall I put it, invest you with a certain charisma. Under my guidance you will lead the team to victory.”

“Truly?” Jim asked, with more doubt in his voice than there are zeros in a googol, or coughs to get it right if you’re unsure.

“Absolutely,” said Professor Slocombe.

“No,” said Jim, a-vigorously shaking of his head. “I can’t do it. I’m a nobody. It wasn’t my idea to come here, it was John’s. I don’t want to be involved in this.”

“You’d rather just stay as you are, then?” Professor Slocombe fixed Jim with a stare.

“I’m happy as I am,” Jim said.

Professor Slocombe shrugged. “Yes,” he said, “I suppose that you are.”

“I know I don’t amount to much.” Jim accepted the glass of champagne John offered to him. “But I have my dreams. One day I’ll win through. One day my ship will come into port.”

“This ship being of the variety that runs upon four hooves at Ascot?”

“Amongst other places.” Jim slurped champagne. “I have tactics of my own. And winning formulas, in theory at least.”

“I’m offering you a chance to really succeed.” Professor Slocombe raised his glass to Jim. “To do something really special that would benefit you as well as the borough as a whole. What do you have to lose in taking on this challenge?”

Jim Pooley shrugged, slowly and thoughtfully. “Nothing specific. Although—”

“Although what?” the professor asked.

“My freedom?” Jim suggested. “Football management is a full-time job and full-time employment has never sat altogether easily down to dine with me. In fact, it’s generally departed prior to the pudding course and without paying the bill.”

Professor Slocombe nodded once more. “But imagine what might happen if you saw this job through to its successful conclusion. How much did you lay out upon bets with Bob the Bookie this morning, Jim?”

“The usual,” said Pooley. “A fiver. And if the horses come in, then that five pounds will multiply itself to nearly half a million more pounds of a similar nature.”

“I’ll tell you what.” Professor Slocombe put his glass aside. “I’ll buy your betting slip from you now for – what shall we say? – one hundred pounds.”

“One hundred pounds?” said Jim.

“One hundred.”

“No.” Jim shook his head. “This slip could be worth half a million.”

“I’ll bet you one hundred pounds that it isn’t.”

“You’re getting me all confused,” said Jim, finishing his champagne.

“Me too,” Omally agreed. “Where’s this leading?”

“It is leading this-a-ways,” the professor said. “Jim has the courage of his convictions. He believes in what he does, even though others – specifically, in Jim’s case, Bob the Bookie – do not. Jim presses on, day upon day, certain that eventually he will succeed.”

“I will,” said Jim. “Please do not deny me my dreams, Professor.”

“I would do no such thing. That would be unthinkable and it would be cruel and callous. What I am saying, Jim, is that you are a man of conviction. You persevere. You stick to your guns and to what you believe.”

“Indeed so,” Jim agreed. “I do that.”

“So you will bet again tomorrow, should you fail today.”

“I will,” Jim agreed also.

“Then why not bet upon a sure thing?”

“I fail to understand you, Professor.”

“What odds do you think Bob would give you against Brentford winning the FA Cup?”

Jim shrugged and grinned and laughed a little also. “I’ve no idea. One hundred thousand to one, at the very least.”

Professor Slocombe raised a snowy eyebrow.

“Oh,” said Jim. “Then you really think …”

“I’m sure of it.” Professor Slocombe now raised a thumb to go with his eyebrow. “In fact, the more I think about it, the more certain I become. The two of you have added a certain piquancy, a certain spice to a day otherwise bland. I am prepared to apply myself to this project. I cannot force you to take up this challenge. I can, however, ask whether you have faith in my judgement.”

“Absolute faith,” said Jim, because he did.

“Then let us drink to success.”

Jim shrugged. “To success,” he said.

“Brentford for the cup,” said John Omally.

And they drank.

And later they walked, away from the professor’s house and back along the tree-lined drive to the everyday sprawl that was present-day Brentford.

Jim had his head down as he walked. His unfailing cheerfulness was definitely failing him. John Omally was sprightly enough.

“There are many pennies to be made out of this,” he told the cheerless Jim. “I can see the two of us prospering greatly from this fortunate appointment of yours.”

Jim ceased his walking and glared pointy knives at his bestest friend. “You have got me into some messes in the past,” he said, “but nothing on the scale of this.”

“You’ll be fine.” Omally made a bright and breezy face. “With the professor behind you and me at your side, what can go wrong?”

Jim dug into his pockets and sought out his fags.

“And that reminds me,” said John Omally.

At length, they reached The Flying Swan. It was at a greater length than the usual walking distance from The Butts because the journey had taken in the Brentford allotments, where John had displayed to Jim the fruits of his morning’s business. To whit, the five hundred packets of Dadarillos he had acquired that morning from the fellow in The Plume Café.