“I so do. And I love the way you said it. You’re a very assertive man, Mr Hartnel.”

“I am?” said Norman, adjusting his wig.

“You are. And a very handsome one, if I dare say so.”

“Well,” said Norman, “there’s no harm in daring.”

“Perhaps we might go for a drink at lunchtime?”

“Why?” Norman asked.

“Well.” Ms Bennett threw back her blondey hair and thrust out her preposterous bosoms. “To get to know each other a little better, perhaps.”

“I’d like that,” said Norman. “What shall we say? One o’clock in The Swan, would that be all right?”

Ms Bennett left her chair and moved to sit upon her desk, where she crossed her shapely legs in a most provocative fashion. “I’ll be looking forward to it,” she said.

“Looking forward to the match on Wednesday, Neville?” asked Old Pete, reacquainting himself with his favourite stool in The Swan’s saloon bar.

“I’m damn sure I barred you for a week,” said the part-time barman.

“What’s a week between old friends?” Old Pete grinned a toothless grin. “And you barred Norman, too. I think I’m losing the plot. I heard you have unbarred John and Jim.”

“Yes,” said Neville, “well—”

“And a very wise move on your part. A large dark rum, if you will. I have the exact change.”

Neville drew off a large dark rum for the antiquated horticulturalist. “What match is this you’re talking about?” he asked.

“The team’s next match, against Orton Goldhay Wanderers, the legendary thrashers of Penge upon their legendary Day of Shame. Should be a good’n.”

“And you’ll be there, will you?”

“In spirit,” said Old Pete, “but out of loyalty to yourself and The Swan I’ll be drinking here rather than in The Stripes Bar.”

“Cheese,” said Neville.

“And I have something for you.” Old Pete rooted about in his tweedy pocket. “As a token of our longstanding friendship, as it were.”

“Oh,” said Neville. “What’s that then?”

“Mandragora,” said Old Pete. “The crop has come in. The first batch is on the house, Neville.” And Old Pete passed Neville a bag of what looked to all the world to be Mary Johanna herself.

“This place is a crack den,” said a casual observer.

“Back to the Cottage Hospital with you,” said Neville, showing the casual observer the door.

“This stuff,” said Old Pete, “will make you a god-damn sexual tyrannosaurus. Just like me.”

“I don’t think so.” Neville pushed the bag back across the mahogany bar counter.

“Give it a go,” said the elder, pushing it back. “Two teaspoons in your morning coffee. Trust me, it will perk up your old chap no end.”

“My old chap does not need perking up.”

“Neville,” said Old Pete, “I have no wish to be crude here, but when was the last time you had a shag?”

“That is none of your business.” Neville made an appalled face and pushed the bag back towards Old Pete.

“Not in my living memory,” said Old Pete, “and my living memory goes back one heck of a long way.”

“I’m a busy man, Pete. I have no time for trivial dalliances.”

“I see you ogling the office girls that come in here at lunchtimes, but you don’t have the courage to ask them out. You’re afraid that your old chap will let you down.”

“Lies,” said Neville. “Damned and filthy lies.”

“Try it,” said Old Pete, pushing the bag once more in Neville’s direction. “What have you got to lose?”

“I don’t take drugs,” said Neville, pushing it back.

“It isn’t drugs,” said Old Pete, pushing it back at Neville once again. “It’s a natural herb extract. You’ll thank me for it, Neville, you really will.”

Neville gazed down upon the little bag. “No,” said he.

“Go on, Neville. Trust me, I’m a horticulturist.”

Neville sighed, took the bag and placed it upon a shelf behind the bar, amongst the Spanish souvenirs.

“Good boy,” said Old Pete.

“I’m not going to take it,” said Neville.

“Of course you’re not.” Old Pete finished his large dark rum. “Same again,” he said, “and have one yourself, on me.”

“One for yourself?” said John Omally.

He and Jim stood in The Stripes Bar. It was a Stripes Bar that was still undergoing redecoration. Hairy Dave and Jungle John, Brentford’s builders in residence, were bashing away with the three-knot emulsion brushes and spreading paint in most places other than on the walls.

“I’m cutting down,” said Jim. “Make mine a half.”

“Two more pints over here, please,” John told Mr Rumpelstiltskin.

Mr Rumpelstiltskin drew off two pints of Large.

“A shame about the Beverley Sisters catching fire like that,” said Jim as he took his up.

“Swings and roundabouts,” said John, “but at least The Rock Gods escaped unscathed. I’m sure I can persuade them to attend another Benefit Night, although I’m not so sure that I’ll be able to provide an audience. Shall we adjourn to my office? It escaped the worst of the holocaust.”

John and Jim adjourned to John’s office in The Stripes Bar and sat themselves down, John upon his comfy recliner.

“Do you really think we’re safe?” Jim asked.

“If the professor says we’re safe, we’re safe.”

“I hope so.”

“And the Campbell is no longer following you around, which must prove something. Jim, we are presently weird-free. Nothing else weird is going to occur, nothing else preposterous.”

“I really do hope so.”

“Perk up, Jim.” John raised his glass. “We’re back in the game. There are pennies to be made, games to be won and a betting ticket in your pocket that will take us both to wealth.”

“If Brentford wins seven games on the trot.”

“Trust the professor’s tactics. So far, so good.”

“But another game on Wednesday – so soon.”

“It’s hard work in the big league, but the payoffs are more than favourable. Now, about these strippers.”

“Strippers,” said Jim. “Strippers?”

“Strippers,” said John. “I thought I might engage some for lunchtimes in here, to bring in a bit of trade.”

“Neville won’t take kindly to that.”

“I have not entirely forgiven Neville for bopping us on the head. But this is business, Jim. We need the money to pay the team.”

“I’ve been wondering about my wages, John. When do you think I’ll be seeing any? I’m all but broke and my landlady is all for casting me into the street.”

“What? The manager of Brentford United? I’ll have words with that lady. You leave it to me.”

Jim shrugged and sighed. “So, strippers it is,” he said in a hopeless tone. “What else?”

“More sponsorship. I have a new mobile phone.” John flourished same and Jim flinched. “And new stock for the club shop. You can leave all that to me, I’m on the case.”

“And me?”

“You just enthuse the team, pass on the professor’s tactics – do your job. We’ll succeed. I have every confidence that we will.”

“We can but try,” said Jim Pooley. “But see, who is this?”

Jim pointed and John followed the direction of his pointing.

“It’s Small Dave,” said John, “Brentford’s dwarfish postman, locally known as a vindictive grudge-bearing wee bastard with nasty warty little hands.”

“I know who he is,” said Jim, “and his horrid warty little hands fair put the wind up me. But what is he doing here?”

“Good day, each,” said Small Dave, waddling over.

“Good day, Dave,” said John.

And Jim did likewise.

“Thought I’d just pop in,” said the diminutive deliverer of the Queen’s mail. “Tell you a bit of hot news.”

“Really?” said Jim. “What news is this?”

Small Dave made gagging sounds in his throat. “My voice departs me,” he whispered. “My throat is parched.”

“Pint of Large over here, please, barman,” Omally called. “Courtesy of the management.”

“Cheers,” said Small Dave. And upon receiving his pint, he said “cheers” once again and climbed on to a chair to address his benefactor. “He’s back,” said the small one.