“I’m not sure that Paine’s Undertakers should have such a prominent position on the backs,” said Professor Slocombe.

“Eight-nil,” said Jim, losing count of his fingers. “Brentford won eight-nil.”

Scoop Molloy had not attended the match. He’d spent the day “following up leads” regarding the terrorist bombing of Norman’s lock-up garage and the queer events that had occurred at The Stripes Bar the previous night.

But he wasn’t getting anywhere.

He did, however, receive an “on-the-pitch” account of the match from the Brentford Mercury’s new self-appointed roving sports correspondent, Mr John Vincent Omally, via John’s mobile phone, from the top deck of Big Bob’s bus. It was a very full and glowing account of Brentford’s remarkable victory.

Scoop would have loved to tell the Mercury’s editor to hold the front page, but the Mercury didn’t come out on Sunday, so there really wasn’t any point.

But word of the victory did reach Brentford before the team returned. Omally made copious phone calls, and the team returned to an impromptu victory parade.

True, few of the revellers who had attended the Benefit Night at The Stripes Bar were there to wave Union Jacks and throw rose petals, but the plain folk of Brentford, the plucky Brentonians who had been hoping and praying a little, too, thronged the streets. And the bunting was up.

“Good grief,” said Jim, making a bewildered face at the cheering crowds lining the Ealing Road. “This is beyond belief.”

“Take a bow, Jim,” said John, waving somewhat. “You’ve played your part in this triumph.”

“I really don’t think I have.”

“The only way is up,” said John. “We’ll triumph.”

“Take a bow, Jim,” said Professor Slocombe.

Jim rose unsteadily from his seat and bowed towards the crowds.

“I know my opinion isn’t worth much,” said a casual observer peering up from the roadside, “but isn’t that Bertie Wooster?”

There was dancing in the streets of Brentford upon that Saturday night, and the team all got very drunk again.

John and Jim did what came naturally to them and headed off for a drink. They bade their farewells to Professor Slocombe, but, to Jim’s alarm, found themselves now in the company of the Campbell.

“I’ll come along, if it’s all right with you,” said the mystical highlander.

“It’s not,” said Jim.

“It is,” said John.

“It is?” said Jim.

“It is – the Campbell is now your, er, minder, Jim. A successful football manager always has a security man to protect him.”

“From what?” Jim asked.

“Oh, you know, overattentive fans, the gentlemen of the press. You’d be surprised.”

Jim Pooley shrugged. “So where are we drinking? The Stripes Bar, our own personal pub?”

“Ah, no,” said John. “The Stripes Bar is currently undergoing renovations.”

“Would this be something to do with the fire and chaos that you seem disinclined to speak to me about?”

“Possibly so,” said John. “Let’s go to The Flying Swan.”

“The Swan? But we’re barred from The Swan.”

“My, my,” said John, “by what would appear to be sheer chance, we find ourselves right outside that very pub.”

“He’ll club us down,” said Jim. “He will employ his knobkerrie once again.”

“Have a little faith, Jim,” said John. “I’ll sort it.”

Jim took out his packet of Dadarillos and lit one up.

“You smoke too many of those,” said John.

“They calm my nerves and keep me mellow.”

“You chain-smoke the damn things.”

“Let’s go somewhere else,” said Jim.

“No, my friend, we’re going in here.”

“But we’ve got our own pub and you said—”

“I can’t be having with loose ends,” said John. “Nor can I bear to be barred from any bar in Brentford. It’s a matter of principle.”

“Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear,” said Jim.

Trade was good in The Flying Swan. Saturday night was always Neville’s busiest, but tonight surpassed the usual. Neville was hoping it would make up for the previous night, when he had done precisely no trade at all.

Neville did not own any Brentford Football Club team flags, but he had managed to find, in the beer cellar, a number of Charles and Diana wedding flags and these now hung behind the bar. And as there had been no time to take on extra bar staff, Neville was very busy. And very busy can sometimes mean very stressed.

This was one of those sometimes.

Neville espied the approach of Jim and John, closely followed by the Campbell, and Neville’s good eye widened. And as John and Jim reached the bar counter, Neville’s mouth did also.

“Out of my bar,” quoth the part-time barman.

“Let’s not be hasty, now,” said John.

“Empty,” said Neville. “Last night my bar was empty.”

“It’s pretty full now,” said John.

“It will be emptier by two in just a moment. No, make that three – take that weirdo with you.”

“Oh,” said John. “Ouch,” and he clutched at his forehead.

“That’s where you’ll get it,” said Neville, “if you don’t leave now.”

“That’s where I have already received it,” said John. “My solicitor is suggesting that I sue for damages. I found the figure he suggested preposterous, but then considering that I have always wanted to live the now legendary life of ease, I am tempted to let him go ahead with the lawsuit.”

“Do your worst,” said Neville.

“So you are really throwing us out?” said John.

“Do you have any doubt about this?” Neville sought his knobkerrie.

“I’m leaving,” said Jim. “I don’t wish to be smote a second time.”

“You stand your ground,” John told him. “Neville, I know we have had our differences, but—”

“Differences?” The part-time barman’s face began to turn that terrible whiter shade of pale once more.

“But there is nothing to be gained by petty feuding and the holding of grudges. Hence, I am willing to forgive and forget,” John continued.

Pooley flinched and Neville ground his teeth, loosening yet another filling to add to the previously loosened one, which had not as yet received the attention of the dentist.

“What I am saying to you, Neville,” John continued, “is that you should be thanking us rather than behaving in this discourteous manner.”

“Thanking you? Thanking you?”

“Can I have some service over here?” asked a lady in a somewhat charred straw hat.

“Thanking us.” John risked a lean across the bar counter and a conspiratorial tone. “Thanking us for saving your bacon.”

“My bacon?” Neville shook and rocked and the sound of the grinding of his teeth was hideous to the ear. One hundred yards away in The Four Horsemen, Dave Quimsby heard them and shuddered.

“Think about this, Neville,” said John. “Who was it who appointed Brentford’s new manager? The manager who has led them to an eight-nil victory over Penge?”

“Eh?” said Neville.

“You,” said John. “And look, here is Brentford’s new manager offering to favour this particular bar, out of all the bars in Brentford, including his own. What kudos, having the Brentford manager patronise your pub.”

“What?” said Neville, in a creaky kind of voice.

“An absinthe spritzer and a pale ale and Pernod,” called the lady in the charred straw hat. “And make it snappy, or we’ll take our business elsewhere.”

“You should take your due credit,” said John to Neville. “You deserve praise. And to be honest, I don’t know how well it would go down with the locals if they were to find out that you’d barred Brentford’s manager. Excuse me, madam,” John said to the lady, “but did I hear that you were thinking of taking your business elsewhere, because—”

“Stop!” cried Neville. “Enough. Enough.”