“I’m thinking of opening a sports shop,” said one of these fellows. The one with a nose like an engineer’s elbow.

“I’m hoping to do some crisp commercials,” said another with very large ears.

John Omally smiled upon the sorrowful, dejected team. “Imagine,” said he, “just imagine what would happen if you did win the FA Cup. Imagine big cash bonuses. Imagine transfer fees and lucrative merchandising deals, imagine celebrity status, appearing on TV chat shows, opening supermarkets. Imagine those beautiful blonde-haired women who really go for successful professional footballers.”

“I prefer brunettes,” said the one who preferred brunettes, who also happened to be the one with the goatee beard.

“Fame and fortune await you,” said John. “And bear this in mind – you have nothing whatsoever to lose.”

“Except the next match.”

“Who said that?” John asked.

“I did,” said the one who did.

“Sorry,” said John. “I didn’t see you there.”

“People rarely do,” said the player known as Alan Berkshire, brother to David Berkshire, who served on Brentford Borough Council.

“You are not going to lose the next match,” John informed them. “Nor the one after that, nor even the one after that. This season you are going to win every FA Cup qualifying game you play. This season you will win the FA Cup.”

“Are you that bloke off the telly?” asked one of Brentford United. The one who was having a patio built at the back of his bungalow, but was currently in dispute with the builder regarding the escalating costs.

“What bloke off the telly?” queried John.

“Britain’s favourite practical joker,” said the same one. “Does that Game For A Laugh show where he pretends to electrocute peoples’ cats and execute their wives, to great comic effect.”

“Jeremy Paxman,” said the one with the goatee beard.

“Jeremy Irons,” said the one with the nose like an engineer’s elbow.

“Iron Maiden,” said the one with the tattoos.

“It doesn’t matter who he is,” said John. “I’m not him.”

“You look a lot like him,” said the one who was having his patio built.

“No he doesn’t,” said the one with the tattoos. “He looks like the lead singer of Iron Maiden – Jack Nance.”

“Jack Nance was a science fiction writer,” said the one with the strange ways about him, who hadn’t spoken before. “You’re thinking of Jack the Hat McVitie.”

“No I wasn’t, I—”

“Stop!” This “stop” came not from John Omally but from Jim Pooley, who quite surprised himself with the shouting of it.

“Stop now!” shouted Jim.

And they actually stopped.

“Your new manager,” said John, bowing once more and stepping aside.

Jim cleared his throat and thrust out what he had of a chest.

“Gentlemen,” said he, “my name is James Pooley and I am your new manager. I am aware that things have not gone well for the team in the past, but these days are behind you now. There is to be a new dawn. A new era. A return to the greatness of former times. If you follow my instructions, I will lead you to victory. Have no doubts regarding this. My word is my bond. I promise that you will win the cup.”

And then further words poured from Jim’s mouth, a veritable torrent of words. Mighty words were these, words of a truly inspirational nature. Above Jim, clouds parted in the heavens and a shaft of light beamed down upon him. The words rolled on and on and all who heard these words became transfixed.

The silence that followed these wondrous words was of the variety known as stunned.

John looked from the face of Jim unto the faces of the team. The face of Jim fairly shone and those of his watchers and listeners put John in mind of a painting he had once seen in The National Gallery – The Adoration of the Shepherds by Guido Reni.

“Any questions?” Jim asked.

Team heads now shook and team shoulders shrugged.

“Exemplary,” said Jim. “Now that I have introduced myself to you, I would be grateful if you would reciprocate.”

Heads now nodded. Shoulders, however, still shrugged.

“I’d like to know your names,” said Jim, “your names and the positions you play.”

“Ah.” Heads now nodded enthusiastically. Looks of enlightenment appeared upon the faces of these heads.

And so Jim Pooley was introduced to the players that were Brentford United.

Ernest Muffler (goatee beard, wife being visited on Saturday afternoons by John Omally). Centre forward and captain of Brentford United.

Horace Beaverbrooke (tattoos). Left-winger.

Billy Kurton (patio). Right-winger.

Alf Snatcher (waggly tail). Centre mid-fielder.

Morris Catafelto (nose like an engineer’s elbow). Right midfielder.

Dave Quimsby (very large ears). Left mid-fielder.

Charlie Boxx (the one with the strange ways about him). Left back.

Trevor Brooking (not to be confused with the other Trevor Brooking). Right back.

Alan Berkshire (brother to David Berkshire on the council). Centre half.

Sundip Mahingay (the Indian of the group). Centre half.

Ben Gash. Goalkeeper.

Substitutes:

Don and Phil English (Siamese twins). (Super-subs.)

Barry Bustard (fat bloke).

Loup-Gary Thompson (wolf-boy).

Humphrey Hampton (half-man, half-hamburger).

Jim shook each member of the team by the hand.

And Jim beheld the substitutes.

“Are you the regular substitutes?” he asked.

Don and Phil shook their heads. “We’re on loan from Count Otto Black’s Circus Fantastique,” they said.

“Explain?” Jim asked Ernest Muffler.

“The club’s broke,” Ernest explained. “None of us are expecting to get paid this season. We’re only playing because it would be unprofessional to do otherwise. We can’t afford any substitutes. These lads volunteered to substitute for free, for as long as the circus is in town.”

Jim managed a smile at this. “I think,” said he, “that it’s more than a matter of not wanting to be unprofessional. You all love the club. I know that you do.”

“We do,” said Billy Kurton, “but we also know a lost cause when we see one. Or,” he paused, “or, at least we did until now.”

“Just so,” said Jim. “Our cause is not lost. And you will all be paid this season. Full pay.”

A cheer went up from the Brentford team.

“Er, Jim.” Omally nudged Jim’s elbow with his own and whispered into Jim’s ear, “Jim, there isn’t any money to pay these lads with. All the available money is paying our wages.”

“Then we’ll take a cut in salary,” said Jim.

“What?” Omally made a horrified face.

“And as my personal PA, whose job it is to take the burden of everyday matters from my shoulders, it will be your job to see that we raise sufficient funds each week to pay the lads.”

“WHAT?”

“A special cheer if you will for Mr Omally,” said Jim to the team, “the man who will be organising the financial wherewithal to pay your wages.”

“Three cheers for Mr Omally,” said Ernest Muffler. “And make them loud ones, lads.”

And loud ones they were.

Omally glared pointy daggers at Jim.

But Jim wore the face of an angel.

“And so,” said Jim, “to the training and tactics. For tonight is, after all, a training session, and in order that we dispose of all rival teams that stand between us and the championship, we shall be employing entirely new tactics – tactics that have never previously been employed. We shall take each of our opponents by surprise. Put your trust in me and prepare yourselves for victory.”

Horace Beaverbrooke lit up a cigarette. Jim stepped forward and plucked it from his fingers. “Not during training sessions,” he said. “Now, if you would kindly divide yourselves up into two teams, substitutes included. A short kick-around is in order so that I can gauge your relative skills.”