“Terrible,” said Jim.

“I know. I’ve seen it – it’s a terrible job, pointing all over the place. And level? It’s like a humpback bridge with the mumps.”

“I don’t mean that. I mean it’s terrible that we’ve lost our right-winger.”

“It will put us at a bit of a disadvantage,” said Ernest, “when it comes to us scoring goals.”

“Right,” said Jim, “but we won’t be disheartened.”

“We won’t?” said Ernest.

“We won’t,” said Jim. “A temporary setback. We’ll put in one of the substitutes until we can purchase a new right-winger.”

“We’ll have a crack,” said Don and Phil, the conjoined twins.

Jim made a truly thoughtful face. “You are absolutely certain that you qualify as one player?” he said.

“We only have one passport,” said Don.

“And one birth certificate,” said Phil.

“And one pair of trousers,” said Ernest, “although they have four legs in them.”

Jim perused the new tactics, penned upon parchment by Professor Slocombe. He’d spent half the afternoon trying to memorise them, but had failed dismally. “All will be well,” said Jim. “Trust me on this. We will be on home ground, cheered on by our loyal supporters. And with these new tactics I have formulated, we shall triumph. Now, they might at first seem somewhat complicated, but put your trust in me and follow them to the letter and I guarantee that we will succeed.”

“You promise?” said Ernest.

“You have my word.”

“He hasn’t let us down so far,” said Dave Quimsby. “The boss knows what he’s doing.”

“Thank you, Dave,” said Jim. “Now, how best to explain this, I wonder? Ah yes, have any of you ever seen a chorus line dancing? Like the Tiller Girls? Remember them?”

Blank faces gazed back at Jim.

“Right,” said Jim. “Well, form yourselves into a line, arms about each other’s waists, like so. Yes. No, not like that. And …”

It did take some hours. And to the casual observer who might have been looking down from the stands, it certainly didn’t look like football.

“It looks more like origami to me,” said the casual observer. “But then what do I know, I’m still on the run from the men in white coats.”

But the team worked hard, and Jim worked hard, and at length all was achieved in the unorthodox manner in which it was desired that it should be achieved.

“That’s it, then,” said Jim, panting for breath. “You’ve all done very well. Do it like that tomorrow and we will win the match.”

“With a bit of luck,” said Dave.

“Oh yes indeed,” Jim agreed. “With a bit of luck, we will.”

“So you won’t let us down, Boss?” said Dave.

“Of course not,” said Jim.

“There, lads,” said Dave, “I told you he wouldn’t let us down.”

“Of course I won’t,” said Jim. “Did you think I would?”

“I didn’t,” said Dave, “but some of the others were doubtful.”

“Shame on you,” said Jim to the others.

“They said you wouldn’t do it.”

“Of course I will,” said Jim. “Do what, by the way?”

“Do the thing that brought us luck last time.”

“Ah,” said Jim, “the pep talk on the field of play. Have no fear on that point.”

“No, not that, Boss. The lucky thing. The thing that brought us luck, that made us win last time. Sportsmen are superstitious, you know that, and once a thing is done once and it works, it becomes a talisman – a token of good luck.”

“Well, whatever it was that I did, I promise I will do it again,” said Jim. “What was it, by the way?”

“Wear your lucky Bertie Wooster suit,” said Dave.

Scoop Molloy had been given a special pass by John Omally that gave him access to Griffin Park’s executive box.

Now, there are executive boxes and there are executive boxes. Happily, time and space forbid a prolonged monologue upon the disparities. However, let it be said that Griffm Park’s executive box did not rank amongst the higher echelons of the executive box world.

“This is not so much a box,” Scoop observed, “it’s more of a carton.”

“I have a new carpet on order,” said John, “and new seating also and a bar will shortly be installed.”

“And then there’ll be no room for anyone.”

“It’s not normally so crowded.”

But tonight it was. Because tonight the home team, who had so recently wrought desolation upon Penge, had drawn something of a crowd. And the executive box was packed to capacity and beyond with all the local sponsors of the team.

Mr Goddard was there. And Mr Paine, the undertaker. And Mr Ratter, the jeweller. And Mohammed Smith from the sports shop. And Mr Kay, of Kay’s Electrical Stores. And a good many others who had coughed up their hard-earneds to have John put their logos upon the team’s kaftans, and who were all entitled, by merit of their sponsorship, to a seat in the executive box. And there were others, too, others who really shouldn’t have been there. Others who didn’t deserve to be there, but who had demanded that because of “their rank”, they should be there.

These others were Town Councillors Vic “Vanilla” Topping, Doris Whimple and David Berkshire (David Berkshire was hard to spot, but he was in there somewhere). These town councillors had decided that they had better make an appearance, in the pretence that they supported the team. Omally had been all for sending them packing, but Jim, being Jim, had let them stay.

“Shift along,” said the voice of Norman Hartnel as the scientific shopkeeper elbowed his way into the crush. “Give my girlfriend a seat.”

“Who let you in?” John Omally asked.

“Jim did,” said Norman. “I’ve decided that I will invest in the club when my money comes in. In fact, I’ve decided to buy it.”

“That’s all very well,” said John, “but—”

“I bunged Jim one hundred pounds up front, to seal the deal, as it were.”

“Where did you get one hundred pounds?”

“Insurance money for my lock-up. I’m glad I had that terrorist-attack clause written into my insurance policy. It always pays to think ahead, doesn’t it?”

“Apparently so.”

“I’ve brought my own champagne,” said Norman, proffering the bottle, “so you don’t need to buy me any.”

“Ah,” said Mr Ratter, who was getting somewhat squashed, “the champagne. You did mention champagne, didn’t you, Omally?”

“I’ll get to it,” said John. “And for God’s sake don’t all stamp your feet when the team scores or you’ll find yourselves down in the cheap seats.” And with that he eased himself out of the executive box and went off in search of Jim.

Jim was to be found in the changing rooms, giving the team a pep talk. It was a most inspired pep talk this evening, which likened the noble game of football to a beautiful garden that had to be nurtured and cherished, its darling buds and precious blooms coaxed into being. And so on and so forth and such like. Most of it didn’t mean much to the team, but Jim’s words flowed over them, wonderfully, magically. Into Jim’s head and out of Jim’s mouth, these wonder words got the job jobbed.

“Sporting your lucky suit, I see,” said John when Jim had done with his wondrous words.

“Lucky suit,” said Jim and he said it slowly and with thought.

“Or so I heard,” said John, with haste. “Is everything hunky-dory?”

“Our rivals are changing next door – the Campbell is looking after them.”

“Lucky them.”

“And the BBC? You said you were making phone calls on your portable telephone. Are the BBC going to cover the match?”

“Ah,” said John.

“Ah?” said Jim.

“Well, I had a bit of trouble with the BBC. They said that they were covering a match involving a team called Manchester United tonight. Some bunch of Northerners.”

“So they won’t be covering us?”

“Sadly, no. But I got the next-best thing.”

“And what is that?”

“The voices of Free Radio Brentford.”