“Behold the stadium,” said Omally, as Big Bob drew up the big bus before it.

“My goodness,” said Jim, “but surely that’s a telephone box.”

“Next to the telephone box, Jim.”

“Ah,” said Jim. “That’s a fine-looking stadium.”

“Park the bus around the back please, Bob,” said John.

“I wilst in but a moment,” said Big Bob. “But first I’m going upstairs. If the professor doesn’t stop stomping his feet, I shall cast him forth from the bus.”

“Is it just me,” said Jim, “or do we live in rather weird times?”

“It’s just you,” said Big Bob. “I’ll park around at the back. Verily.”

Penge had been having a good run of luck over the last few seasons. They’d won games and managed to run at a profit and they’d used this profit to do what is all-important in the world of the football club: buy in top talent.

Over the preceding six months they had taken on a new barman, a new plumber in residence, a replacement Scottish groundskeeper (the old one having run away to join the circus) and still had enough money left over for the manager to acquire a new bungalow, a new Ford Escort and a new mistress, who was a blonde Swedish television presenter.

And they had really smart shirts and a really smart changing room.

The Scottish groundskeeper led Jim, John, the professor, the Brentford team, its substitutes and Big Bob Charker to his office. “You’ll have to change in here,” he told the team. “We dinna hav’ a visiting-team dressing room – we knocked the wall out and extended the bar.”

“Perk up,” Jim told the team, who looked anything but perked up (hence his telling). “It doesn’t matter where you change, it’s what you do on the pitch that counts.”

“I think I’ll probably throw up on the pitch,” said Alf Snatcher, waggling his waggly tail beneath his tracksuit pants. “Or even here, at a pinch.”

“Why is it that I lack for confidence?” Jim whispered to John.

“I’ve no idea, my friend. Shall I pop into the bar and get us in a couple of beers?”

“Good idea.”

“And a small sweet sherry for me,” said Professor Slocombe. “My feet are sore from all that stomping.”

Penge even had a resident jazz band. James Barclay’s Rhythm Boys, they were called. They were a marching band, and they marched up and down the pitch belting out a selection of tunes which might possibly have been penned by present-day authors who were hoping to break into the music biz, but, given the law of diminishing returns, were equally possibly just old Kenny Ball numbers.

“Wasn’t that an Anne McCaffrey tune?” Jim asked John, who now sat next to him “on the bench”.

“No,” said John. “And we’ll hear no more about it.”

James Barclay’s Rhythm Boys lined themselves up in the middle of the pitch and to the great applause of the crowd (which numbered between two folk and several thousand, depending upon where you happened to be sitting) heralded the arrival of the opposing teams.

“Showtime,” said John Omally, sipping on a pint of ale. “Rubbish ale, by the way.”

“Are we really going to be able to pull this off?” Jim asked Professor Slocombe, who sat next to him sipping sherry.

“You gave them the pep talk before you came out here, and most inspired it was.”

“Yes,” said Jim, “it was, wasn’t it? I don’t know how this stuff comes into my head.”

Professor Slocombe tapped once more at his slender nose. “Enjoy the game, Jim,” said he. “Oh, and feel free to do a lot of shouting at the team as they play. They won’t be able to hear you, but they’ll appreciate it all the same. And it is expected of you.”

“What should I shout?” Jim asked.

“I expect you’ll think of something.”

And on they came, the Penge team resplendent in their colours of beige, light tan and buff (these being the new black this season. But as Wimbledon play in blue, which is often the new black also, it doesn’t really matter).

And the Brentford team in …

The crowd exploded into laughter.

“Oh my God,” cried Jim. “What are they wearing?”

“It’s the new kit,” said John. “I did a deal with Mohammed Smith at the sports shop.”

“They’re wearing kaftans,” said Jim. “They look like the cast of Hair.”

“I thought the cast of Hair were mostly naked,” said John.

“And what are those patches that are sewn all over the kaftans?” asked Jim.

“Advertising logos, Jim. Sponsorship deals, endorsements, you know the kind of thing. I needed kaftans to fit them all on. I’ve got almost every shop in Brentford signed up.”

“You crammed a lot of work into a single day.”

“The Miracle of the Mobile Phone.” John whipped this item from his pocket.

“Don’t put that thing near me,” said Jim.

The crowd had not ceased in its laughter at the Brentford team. And it looked very much as if the Brentford team was all for fleeing back to the groundskeeper’s office.

“They’re laughing at us,” said Jim.

“They’ll be laughing on the other side of their faces come half-time,” said John.

“How do you do that?” Jim tried to frown on the other side of his face but could not.

“One more pep talk required,” said Professor Slocombe. “Go to them, Jim.”

“What will I say?”

“You’ll find inspiration.”

And Jim did. He gathered the team about himself. He spoke honeyed words. Magical words. A very great many words. And they seemed to work. He even got one of those Maori war chant kind of jobbies on the go.

He patted backs and returned to the bench.

“I don’t know where I find it,” said Jim, “but I find it.”

“You certainly do,” said John, exchanging secret smiles with the professor.

And then the ref blew his whistle and the game was on.

To this day, no one knows exactly how it was done. The game was not recorded for television transmission and so no visual evidence remains to be analysed by football pundits. There were members of the press there, but they gave conflicting accounts of the game. And as for the crowd, well, a crowd of folk will rarely agree upon anything. Except to being stirred up by a single individual into doing something stupid.

And so exactly what happened upon that fateful afternoon in Penge must remain for ever a matter of debate.

Except for one detail.

And that one detail was beyond debate.

For that one detail was the final score.

It was the greatest defeat that Penge had ever suffered, greater even than the infamous “Day of Shame” when they were hammered five-nil by Orton Goldhay Wanderers. An occasion the ignominy of which was added to by Penge’s then manager and latterly convicted serial killer Wally “God-Told-Me-To-Do-It” Tomlinson, whose excuse for the team’s defeat was that they had contracted a dose of the King’s Evil at Madame Loveridge’s whorehouse in Pimlico.

“Eight-nil.” Jim Pooley counted eight goals on to his fingers. Jim was somewhat far gone in celebratory drink now. He was on the tour bus that Big Bob was driving back to Brentford. Big Bob was singing. The team was singing.

Up on the top deck, John, Jim and Professor Slocombe were drinking champagne.

“Eight-nil.” Jim counted his fingers again, just to be sure. “They were all hungover and they still thrashed Penge eight-nil.”

“I feel that we can chalk the tactics up as a success,” said Professor Slocombe.

“I think the kaftans helped,” said John.

“Impossible,” said Jim. “I must be dreaming this.”

“The price of endorsements upon the team’s strip has just doubled,” said John. “No, let’s be fair to the shopkeepers of Brentford – trebled.”