“Nope,” said Periwig. “Why do you ask?”

“Because John Omally spake unto me as one who hath the wisdom of Solomon, and did persuade me to provide free transport for the team in return for an endorsement upon their raiments.”

“Woe unto your house, then, Big Bob,” said Periwig sarcastically. “For surely it was written that he who giveth his services freely goeth without beer, but still must render unto his mechanic that which is owed unto him. Weekly.”

Big Bob placed his official cap upon his head. “Verily I say unto you,” he said, “that should the team fail to gain victory over the Pengeites, then lo, they will be walking home.”

“I’m not walking home in this,” said Jim. “I look like Bertie Wooster.”

John Omally cast an eye over Jim’s apparel, which consisted of a three-piece, plus-fours suit of green Boleskine tweed. “To be honest,” said John, his fingers crossed once more, but this time in his pocket, “it rather suits you, makes you look, how shall I put it …”

“A prat?” Gammon suggested, tittering behind his hand.

“A character,” said John. “Football managers are noted for their eccentricities – weird haircuts, unkempt eyebrows, odd regional accents, a penchant for blonde Swedish television presenters.” John made a wistful face at the thought of the latter. “And ill-fitting nylon tracksuits. You’ll cut a dash in that outfit. In no time folk will be copying you. You could well become a fashion icon.”

“Do you really think so?” Jim did a foolish kind of a twirl.

“Absolutely,” said John, bravely keeping the straightest of faces. “Now we really must be going. Big Bob will be on his way.”

And Big Bob was.

He drew the big bus to a halt before Jim’s lodgings and tooted the horn. Jim – who had, upon his return home in the company of John, been somewhat surprised to find that there were no clothes missing from his inextensive wardrobe and was demanding explanations, as well as stuffing his wallet and cigarettes into the pocket of his tweedy plus-fours and getting himself into a state and receiving no satisfactory replies to his endless questions – was hustled by John from the house and out into the street.

“Sodom and Gomorrah!” went Big Bob, taking in Pooley’s apparel. “Surely thou art Bertie Wooster himself.”

“Morning, Bob,” said John, smiling up and into the cab. “Looking forward to watching the team put paid to Penge?”

“Fear the wrath that will surely visit their failure,” said Big Bob in ready reply.

“I’ll take that as a yes, then,” said John. “All aboard now, Bertie.”

“What did you say?” Jim asked.

“I said, ‘All aboard, it’s nearly ten-thirty.’”

“You certainly did not.”

John and Jim climbed aboard.

“Can we go on the top deck?” Jim asked. “Sit at the front? We can stomp our feet over the driver’s head until he comes upstairs and threatens to chuck us off.”

“Sit there.” John indicated the bench seat next to where the conductor would be standing, had there been a conductor to stand there.

“Spoilsport,” said Jim, slumping down sulkily and taking out his cigarette packet.

Big Bob glanced back at him through the little glass hatch at the rear of his cab. “No smoking downstairs,” he told Jim.

John made his way to the driver and handed him a list of the team’s addresses. “As fast as you can, please,” he told Bob.

“You should have arranged that the team all meet up at the football ground,” Jim told John upon his return. “We could have picked them all up in one go.”

John shook his head. “I don’t trust them,” he said. “This way we can beat upon their doors and shout up at their bedroom windows. We’ll shout loudly, and they’ll feel too guilty to refuse us.”

“You don’t miss a trick, do you, John?” said Jim.

“I’ve missed one or two so far,” said John in an enigmatic manner, “but I won’t be caught out again.”

“Don’t forget to pick up the professor,” said Jim.

“He’s second to last on the list.”

And it was a struggle. And they weren’t keen. But, one by one, John and Jim winkled them out. They all looked in a bit of a state.

They all looked rather hungover.

“I thought you said …” said Jim.

“I did,” said John, and he addressed the team and the substitutes who now filled most of the bus’s lower deck. “I have something of which to inform you all,” said John.

“Oh yes?” came mumblings from here and there.

“None of you actually has a hangover,” said John.

There were mutterings at this, and the word “bollocks” was brought into service.

“No,” said John, as Big Bob took a corner sharply and nearly had him off the bus. “The Team Special beer that I had laid on for you was non-alcoholic. I did it for your own good, so that you would play at your best today.”

There were further mutterings, and then someone said, “We know.”

“Who said that?” John asked.

“Me,” said Dave Quimsby. “And don’t shout so loud, I’ve got a hangover.”

“You have not got a hangover,” said John. “It was non-alcoholic beer.”

“It may have been at The Stripes Bar, but it wasn’t at The Beelzepub.”

“What?” said Omally.

“After all the fire and chaos …” said Dave.

“Fire and chaos?” asked Jim.

“Fire and chaos,” said Dave. “Gwynplaine Dhark from The Beelzepub turned up at the ground. In this very bus, actually …”

“What?” said John once more.

“Short-notice booking,” Big Bob called back through his little glass hatch. “He had to pay double.”

“Gwynplaine Dhark took us all for a celebratory drink at his pub,” said Dave. “On the house. We didn’t get home until after three.”

“Treachery!” cried John. “Sabotage!”

“Not so loud!” cried all and sundry. Especially Dave Quimsby.

“This is bad,” said Jim. “This is very bad.”

Big Bob brought the bus to a halt at Professor Slocombe’s house and Jim helped the ancient scholar aboard.

“We’ve been sabotaged,” Jim told the professor. “Gwynplaine Dhark took the team back to his pub for a late-nighter. They’ve all got hangovers.”

“So much the better,” said Professor Slocombe.

“So much the what?” said Jim.

“Trust me.” The ancient fellow tapped at his ancient nose. “I think I’ll go and sit upstairs now,” he continued. “I’ve always wanted to sit at the front and stomp my feet over the driver’s head until he comes up and threatens to throw me off.”

There was one more stop to be made before the trip to Penge proper began. And this was at Mohammed Smith’s Sports Shop in the High Street. John had done a deal with Mr Smith. It was a sponsorship deal.

Bing and Bob made many “road” films, but they never made The Road To Penge. Although they should have, because it would have been a goodie.

There are so many exciting places to pass through on the road from Brentford to Penge. There’s Kew, Barnes, Putney, Wandsworth, Clapham, Streatham, not to mention West Norwood.

But as for Penge itself, well, what can be said about Penge? Well, it’s sort of Sydenham. And Sydenham is Crystal Palace, because the Crystal Palace was rebuilt upon the hill there when the original Crystal Palace in Hyde Park was demolished.

For those interested in the architecture of football stadia, the Penge ground was designed by Sir Giles Gilbert Scott, the legendary designer of the K2 red telephone box. Who also invented Blu-Tack, Velcro and the jumbo jet.[27]

It is a truly magnificent stadium constructed from cast iron, teak and glass, with a saucer dome rising above four segment-headed pediments, reminiscent of the tomb of Sir John Sloane in St Pancras Churchyard and capable of seating nearly two people.[28]