Jim made groaning sounds. “Those mad blokes – Terrence Jehovah Smithers and the Second Sponge Boy?”

“They’re cult figures. They have a lot of something called ‘street cred’.”

“And what does that mean?”

“I’ve no idea,” said John, “but they’re very popular. They’ll be covering the match live, and their portable transmitter is very powerful. They say they’ll turn it up full blast and it will cut into every radio and TV channel in a five-mile radius. Think publicity, Jim. Think further sponsorship.”

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

“The professor is waiting for you on the bench,” said John. “Oh yes, and he told me to mention that –” Omally perused his wristlet watch “– it’s five minutes now to kick off.”

“Four minutes now to kick off,” said Terrence Jehovah Smithers. “Should we go live, do you think?”

“Give it another minute or two,” said the Second Sponge Boy. “We’re all linked up, aren’t we?”

The two of them lay commando fashion, in the company of many cans of lager on the roof of the executive box. They had microphones strapped about their necks and headphones on their heads. Cables ran from their portable transmitters, conveying their words to a knackered VW camper van that kept constantly on the move through the eveningtime streets of Brentford. From this van their words would be broadcast to each and every thing of an electrical nature within a five-mile radius, including pop-up toasters, hairdryers and items from the Ann Summers catalogue. It was all very hi-tech, bought-over-the-Internet and utterly illegal.

Terrence Jehovah Smithers and the Second Sponge Boy, cult figures and local legends, were not, as such, much to look at. They were slim and pale and pinched; they wore baggy trousers and training shoes (although neither of them were actually sportsmen) and the “hoodie” – a kind of hooded jerkin much favoured by the criminal underclass in order to evade recognition on CCTV.

“Let’s go for it,” said Terrence. “The teams are coming on to the pitch.”

The Second Sponge Boy clicked on his microphone and spoke the words, “Go live,” into it.

In the rear of the ever-moving camper van, a fellow who in legal jargon is known as “an accomplice” pressed a button upon a small black box and replied with the words, “You’re on.”

“Good evening, all,” said Terrence, “and welcome to the big match.”

And all over Brentford – and, in fact, for a five-mile radius – his words poured forth from every television set and radio set and crystal set and—

“Oh my goodness,” said Peg, who, left to her own devices at home, was enjoying one of these devices. “Who’s in there?”

And moving swiftly on.

“I’m Terry,” said Terrence.

“And I’m Sponge,” said Sponge Boy.

“And we’re broadcasting to you live from Brentford, where giant-slayers the Bees are preparing to make short work of Orton Goldhay Wanderers.”

“Very short work,” said Sponge Boy, “positively dwarflike. And the teams are marching out on to the pitch, the home team in their distinctive stylish kaftans—”

“It’s what everybody will soon be wearing this year,” said Terrence.

“Is it?” said Sponge Boy.

“It is.”

“Well, I won’t be.”

“Just get on with the commentary,” said Terrence.

“Absolutely. The home team – deprived, I understand, of their right-winger, Billy Kurton, but with a most unique substitute in the twin figures of Don and Phil English, who, I am told, are currently appearing in Count Otto Black’s Circus Fantastique on Ealing Common.”

“Were you paid to say that?”

“Of course I was.”

“Then open up a beer.”

Beers were opened and guzzlings were done.

“The home team,” said Terrence. And he proceeded to name the home team and sing their praises.

“And the other mob,” said Sponge. “And the ref is tossing the coin. And the home team have won the toss.”

On the bench, Jim Pooley eyed Professor Slocombe.

“Did you?” he asked.

Professor Slocombe smiled back at Jim. “As if I would,” he said.

“And what is this?” said Terrence. “What kind of formation would you call that, Sponge Boy?”

“Well, Terry, as you know, you have your four-three-threes, your three-three-fours, your two-four-fours and your four-four-twos. And, of course, if you’re into DIY, you have your two-by-one.”

“I know a song about that,” said Terrence.

“Me, too,” said Sponge Boy. “Positively Eurovision.”

“So what would you call the formation the home team are employing tonight?”

“A ten-zero-zero, I suppose,” said Sponge Boy.

“And let’s see how it’s going. They’re dribbling the ball between them. Cardinal Cox, Orton Goldhay’s left-winger, has come in for a tackle. Now they’ve closed ranks into a sort of circle formation and they’re moving forward … ah … and now they’ve broken into a kind of dance. What kind of a dance would you say that was, Sponge?”

“A kind of Russian dance, Terry, in a circle. Positively Cossack.”

“Orton Goldhay are massing their forces now. All their players are trying to kick their way into the circle.”

“Now that’s fouling, Terry. The ref won’t have that.”

“No he won’t, Sponge, he’s showing them all the yellow card.”

“But Brentford are still moving forward, if in a sort of circular pattern.”

“It’s very graceful, though, isn’t it? That’s a sort of square-dance formation now, isn’t it?” said Terrence.

“More of a line-dance, I’d say. That Mahingay is very light on his toes for a Sikh.”

“Not as light as that Dave Quimsby.”

“I heard that,” said Dave Quimsby. “I hope you’re not implying that I’m a poof.”

“They’ve almost reached the box,” said Terrence.

“Very nice for them,” said Sponge Boy.

“And the Orton Goldhay team are in the box, too. They’re confused. The goalie is confused. He’s running from side to side.”

“Positively crablike, Terry.”

“Oh and there it goes. The ball is in the air. The crowd is on its feet. And IT’S A GOAL!”

“Oh, and what a goal, Terry. And a victory dance, too. What kind of dance would you say that one was?”

“The macarena, Sponge Boy.”

“The macarena,” said Jim. “Did I say anything to you about doing the macarena?”

Jim was in the changing room now. The team was in the changing room now. It was half-time now. The team were eating their oranges. Now.

“Did I say anything to you about doing the macarena?” Jim asked once again.

“No,” said Alf, “you didn’t.”

“Then why did you do it?”

“Well, Boss, we got carried away, what with the early goal and everything.”

“And so what happened next?”

The lads’ heads went down.

“They scored two goals, Boss. On the trot.”

“On the trot,” said Jim. “Two goals. And so what happened next?”

“You shouted at us, Boss.”

“And I heard you, Boss,” said Dave Quimsby, “and I passed it on.”

“You did,” said Jim. “And so what happened next?”

“We scored three more,” said Alf, “on the trot, while doing the Wall Street shuffle.”

“You did,” bawled Jim. And he flung his hands into the air.

There was almighty cheering and Jim was lifted shoulder-high. Which was a pity as the ceiling was low and Jim’s head hit it with force.

“Are you all right, Boss?” asked Trevor Brooking[31], fanning at the semi-conscious Pooley with a programme.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” said Pooley, who wasn’t. “Perhaps a tad confused. Go back out there and give ’em Hell. What are we?”

“We are the lords of the dance, are we,” went up the chorus.

“Oh yes we are,” said Jim.

“And it’s coming up to the second half, Terry,” said Sponge Boy. “Would you care to make any considered observations regarding the team’s performance during the first half?”