“That’s Tom Jones,” said Tim. “The Rock Gods once supported him in Abergorblimey in Wales. No, they were Citizen’s Arrest then. Tom made the lead singer – Kevin ‘Pud-Puller’ Smith, it was then – flush the bog for him after he’d had a Gordon[23].”

“Tom Jones is dead?” said John Omally. “This is news to me.”

“Died in a car crash in Nevada in nineteen eighty-three. The CIA put out a hit on him due to his involvement with a covert operation that sought to liberate the captive space aliens from Area Fifty-one.”

“You can’t put dead rock stars on stage,” said John.

“Tom’s never really been rock,” said Howard. “He’s more pop and ballad. But of course you can put them on stage, it’s done all the time. Animatronics, remote control, recorded tapes. How do you think that Cher goes on and on, always looking the same?”

“Dead?” said John. “You’re telling me that Cher’s dead, too?”

“I always thought she was,” said Tim.

“Please keep out of this,” John told him. “But how come you have Tom Jones’s body in your van?”

“You phoned me up, asked for him to appear. He’s just finished his latest British comeback tour and I was boxing him up to return him to the States, so you caught me at the right moment. You’re not in the biz, are you?”

“Who’s that?” John pointed.

“Tina Turner,” said Howard, “but you can’t have her tonight. One of her legs has come off and I’ve got to glue it on again.”

“This is absurd,” said John Omally.

“It’s business.” Howard shrugged. “After Elvis snuffed it, along with Marc Bolan in the same year, the music industry decided that although sales figures went up after well-known musical figures died, there was more money to be made if they ‘kept them alive’ indefinitely. My dad worked in Hollywood as a special-effects man. EMI employed him to wire up Tina and Tom after they died at Nutbush City Limits in a freak accident involving some green, green grass of home and a pot of fish paste.”

“Was there any CIA involvement in that?” Tim asked.

“Funny you should say that,” said Howard.

“I thought so,” said Tim.

“And they really look convincing when they’re on stage?” John asked. “Even though they’re dead?”

“That would appear to be the case, wouldn’t it?” said Howard.

“Then we’d better get them unloaded before anyone sees us.”

“Fair enough,” said Howard. “Would you like Cliff as well? I brought him along on the off chance.”

And so they came, if not in their thousands, then at least in their hundreds – the plain folk of Brentford, the plucky Brentonians, dolled up and dressed to kill. John Omally sat at the door, taking the money.

“You got the Beverleys,” said Old Pete, viewing the hastily penned poster that now adorned the wall behind John. “I thought they were dead.”

“Free admission,” said Omally. “Move through, please.”

“Can we get autographs after?” asked a lady in a straw hat. “If I’d known Tom Jones was going to be here, I’d have worn a pair of knickers to throw on the stage.”

The Rock Gods now sat in their dressing room. It wasn’t a dressing room as such; it was Jim Pooley’s office, which was better than some dressing rooms, but not as good as most. And it was now a very crowded dressing room/office. Howard was testing out the Beverleys with his remote control. Tom Jones was propped up by the window. And an all-girl funk/soul band rejoicing in the name of Stevie Wonderbra were going through a workout routine, much to the pleasure of Tim McGregor. And Tony Hancock. And then there were the jugglers. The Rock Gods weren’t happy.

“Where’s my opossum?” asked P.P. Penrose (lead singer).

“And where’s my lady-boy?” asked Captain Venis Wars (bass guitarist).

“And my Smarties without the red ones?” asked Steve “Chucky” Wykes (lead and rhythm).

“And my two ounces of Moroccan Black?” (Jah Dragon on drums.)

Tim McGregor finished off his seventh pint of Large. “Guess who I just shagged in the back of a van?” he asked.

“Tina Turner?” said Captain Venis Wars.

Tim McGregor grinned.

The Stripes Bar was now filling up. Rather well. All the team were there, dressed in a selection of suits supplied to John Omally by Mr Gavin Armani, who ran the men’s outfitters in the High Street, in return for an endorsement on the team’s shirts. They were shaking hands with all comers and draining pints of Team Special that Omally had laid on especially for them.

“I have great hopes for this evening,” said Ernest Muffler. “Things are going to change, we are going to succeed.”

“The builders didn’t turn up today,” said Billy Kurton. “My patio’s never going to get finished.”

“When we win the cup,” said Morris Catafelto, scratching at that nose of his that so resembled an engineer’s elbow, “you’ll be able to buy a hundred-acre estate in Spain and patio over the whole blinking lot.”

“Do you really believe we’ll win?” asked Trevor Brooking (not to be confused with the other Trevor Brooking). “I mean, let’s be sensible here, those tactics we practised – they’re not exactly orthodox, are they?”

“They’re great,” said Ben Gash, the goalkeeper. “They keep you buggers well away from my end of the pitch.”

“Listen,” said Dave Quimsby, “I can hear a lark rising in Candleford[24].”

“Will there be chicken on a stick?” the lady in the straw hat asked Omally. “I do like chicken on a stick.”

“Please move along, madam,” Omally told her. “You’re holding up the queue.”

“Canapés are so important at a function,” said the lady, “especially one where Tom Jones is going to appear. Chicken on a stick there should be. And mule fingers to dip in your soup.”

“And strained crad,” said a gentleman with a whiskered face. “The lady in the straw hat is correct. Is the meal included in the price of admission?”

“I once had sprouts dipped in chocolate and deep fried,” said the lady. “But that was at a wedding in Tierra del Fuego. They really know how to live, those Tierra del Fuegans.”

“You think they know how to live,” said the bewhiskered gentleman. “I once attended the ordination of a wandering bishop in Penge—”

“I’ve heard it’s a very nice place,” said the lady. “But I’ve never been there myself.”

“Very nice,” said the gentleman. “And you should have seen the dips they had, and tasted them, too. There was super gnu and trussed snapping toad and creamed jackanapes and—”

“Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all?” asked the lady.

“No,” said the gentleman.

“So I said to Val Parnell,” said Tony Hancock, who’d tired of Jim’s office, to Alf Snatcher, who tired easily of sitting due to his waggly tail, “if my name does not go above the jugglers, I will not appear.”

“I once asked my wife,” said Alf, “what her favourite sexual position was and do you know what she said?”

Tony Hancock shook his head.

“Next door with the neighbour,” said Alf.

“Old Pete,” called Omally to Old Pete, who was loafing about close at hand, “will you take over on the door for me? I have to get things organised inside.”

Old Pete smiled the smile of one who had been loafing about close at hand awaiting the opportunity to make the acquaintance of the ready cash. “It would be my pleasure,” he said.

John Omally bagged up what money he had already taken, stuffed it into the poacher’s pocket of his jacket, left his seat on the door and took himself inside.

The Stripes Bar was now very full. In fact, it had never known such fullness before. Mr Rumpelstiltskin stood behind the bar, a frozen, terrified figure. The bar staff John had engaged for the evening were, however, going great guns. These were young bar staff.