Norman hadn’t slept at all the previous night. He couldn’t – he was far too excited. He just had to put the computer together. Peg had stomped off to the marital bed and she hadn’t called down for Norman to join her for a bit of rumpy-pumpy. Which had gladdened Norman, as he’d gone off all that messy stuff many years before.

Norman had been left to his own devices, which were devices of a constructional nature. And the construction details contained within the Babbage 1900 Series Computer Assembly Manual were most explicit and exact. They weren’t written in pidgin English, as were most of their ilk nowadays. These were written in good old Victorian down-to-Earth straightforwardness. They informed the constructor exactly where to stick each valve and screw on each big fat wire and locate every machined brass bolt, and how to glue and joint each section of the mahogany cabinet that housed the computer screen.

Just so.

And when dawn came up and the bundled newspapers were flung on to his doorstep, Norman was all but finished.

“It’s all in the numbers,” said the scientific shopkeeper, who knew what he was all about and what his quest was all about. “And if the numbers can be found through this, then I’ll find them.”

“And if you don’t number-up those newspapers, I’ll give you the smacking of your life,” said Peg, filling the kitchenette and bringing woe unto Norman.

And then of course there’d been the morning. And Norman had been weary. He’d wondered why Jim and John had not called in to purchase papers and cigarettes. And then he’d recalled how they had both been hospitalised. And he’d sold a box of chocolates to Bob the Bookie, who, at the mention of Jim’s incapacitation, had burst into paroxysms of laughter and purchased several cigars.

And he’d served this chap and the other and he’d really been dying to get back to his computer.

And then at last it was lunchtime.

And Norman turned once more the “open” sign to its “closed” side and took himself off to his kitchenette.

And plugged in his Babbage Nineteen-Hundred Series computer.

Then yawned and fell fast asleep.

And as Peg was out, he slept right through the afternoon.

“Ya canna sleep,” said Mahatma Campbell. “Ya haf ta up an’ awa’ wi’ th’ lads.”

“Ooh, ah, wah!” said Jim Pooley. “What time is it?”

“Seven o’clock in the evening. Ya drank ya sel’ to oblivion an’ on the firs’ day on the job. Y’ haf the makins of a firs’-class football manager.”

“I was resting my eyes,” said Jim, a-blinking them.

“Me too,” said John, a-rubbing at his.

“Ya drunken bastards.”

“That’s no way to speak to your employer.” Jim rose unsteadily from his seat. Before him, the table spoke of many beers. It spoke in the manner of many empty glasses.

“Did we get through all these?” Jim asked John.

“The barman helped, if I recall,” said John.

“Where is he?” the Campbell asked.

“Gone a-golfing,” said John.

Mahatma Campbell shook his turbaned head. “You tak’ yer shoes off when ya walk on m’ pitch,” he told Jim.

“I have no wish to walk upon your pitch,” said Jim.

“You’d better – it’s training night. The lads are oot there waiting fer instructions from their new manager.”

“Tell them to take the evening off,” said Jim. “In fact, tell them to join us in here for a drink.”

“I dinna think so.” Mahatma Campbell handed Jim an envelope.

“What’s this?” Jim asked.

“It’s for ya, yer name’s upon it.”

“It’s been opened,” said Jim, observing this fact.

“Correct. I opened it.”

“Why?” asked Jim.

“Because I’m nosy. It’s instructions from Professor Slocombe. You’d best be following them, I’m thinking.”[9]

“Ah,” said Jim. And, “Yes.”

“Let’s have a look.” Omally acquainted himself with the envelope, drew out a missive penned upon parchment and read it aloud.

And when he had finished with his reading, Jim said, “My golly.”

“Your golly?” asked the Campbell.

“Everybody’s golly,” said Jim. “How can I be expected to ask the team to do that?”

“I know not,” said the Campbell, “but for the love of myself, I’m really looking forward to seeing you try.”

The floodlights were on in Griffin Park. The Campbell had switched them on. And it does have to be said that there is a certain magic about a floodlit football pitch. In fact, more than just a certain magic. A floodlit football pitch is BIG MAGIC. Even if you have no liking for the beautiful game.

“Would you look at the size of that,” said John Omally.

“It’s grown,” said Jim. “It was never as big as this at lunchtime.”

“Here,” said John, nudging Pooley’s elbow. “There’s the team over there. Would you like me to give you the big build-up?”

“The big what?” Pooley scratched at his head and squinted into the floodlights. “I think I’ve gone blind,” he added.

“I’ll give you an introductory speech. You’d better take this,” and John handed the professor’s missive to the blinking Jim and strode off to address the team.

The team sat on “the benches”, which is where they sit when they’re not doing anything – if they’re substitutes, or reserves, or injured players, or whatever. They sit in other places, too, of course, such as the locker room, where they receive their half-time tellings off and their oranges to give them vitamin C. And they also sit in that terrible, Hellish, scary place known as the communal shower (or tub), which it is better not even to think about.

Unless you are of a particular persuasion.[10]

John Omally strode over the pitch and approached the sitters on the benches. The sitters on the benches watched Omally’s approach with guarded gazes. One of them spat on to the pitch. Two others stubbed out their cigarettes.

“Brentford United,” said John Omally, bowing low before the sitters. “I greet you.”

“And who are you, mister?” asked one of Brentford United. The one with the goatee beard.

“I am Mr Pooley’s personal assistant,” said John, returning his head to the vertical plane. “Mr Pooley is your new manager.”

“Oh,” said one of Brentford United. The one with the many tattoos. And he shrugged towards his goateed team-mate, who shrugged right back at him. “Well, I’ve never heard of him.”

So much the better, thought John. “Then you are all in for a wonderful surprise,” he continued. “Mr Pooley is the man who is going to take you on to victory this season. To whit, the winning of the FA Cup.”

There was a moment of silence.

This moment was followed by—

“Stop!” shouted John, but his shout was lost amidst the laughter that echoed across the empty pitch, throughout the empty stands and onwards up to Heaven, so it seemed.

Pooley chewed upon his bottom lip and considered having it away upon his toes.

“Stop!” commanded John. “Cease this frivolity. It is possible for you to win the cup in a mere eight games.”

Between the gales of laughter, the words, “We all know that, but it’s not going to happen,” came from this mouth and that.

“Silence please,” shouted John. Eventually the team came to some semblance of silence. The two smokers took out their fags and lit up once again.

“Wouldn’t you like to win the FA Cup?” John asked.

Heads went down and shoulders sagged. “Every player in every team would love that,” said one of Brentford United. The one with the waggly tail.[11] “But we know we’re beaten. We haven’t won a match in two seasons. Our contracts run out at the end of this one and those of us who can’t get into other teams will be quitting the game for good.”