“Not many, Sponge. They were strong, I thought, on the modern dances, particularly the twist and the watuzi. But they were definitely weak in the old-time numbers. Their waltz lacked for finesse and the tango would have been spoiled altogether if it hadn’t been for the English brothers, who I felt gave a spirited interpretation, especially when they neatly covered that professional foul on Orton Golday’s striker Micky Carroll.”

“Do you think we’ll be seeing any free-form in the second half?”

“Self-expression through the medium of dance?”

“That’s the kiddie,” said Sponge Boy.

“I shouldn’t think so. My guess would be that they might go for a conga.”

“But that’s only your guess.”

“Or possibly the birdie.”

“One of my all-time favourites.”

Brentford’s glory boys left out the lambada. They turned down the tango, they shunned the shimmy, they side-stepped the sand dance and avoided the vogue. They pooh-poohed the polka, shirked the shake, dodged the disco, bypassed the bumps-a-daisy, spurned the salsa, flouted the flamenco, rejected the rumba and baulked at the bolero—

They even nixed the knees-up, Mother Brown.

“It’s the Tennessee wig-walk, Terry.”

“No one remembers the Tennessee wig-walk, Sponge.”

“Then they’re walkin’ the dog.”

“I beg to differ with you, Sponge, I think you’ll find they’re doing the Lambeth Walk.”

“It’s definitely a very ‘walk’-orientated dance.”

“Perhaps they’re doing the ‘Walk of Life’ by Dire Straits,” said Terrence.

“Perish the thought, but whatever they’re doing, it’s ANOTHER GOAL!”

The home crowd were doing all manner of dances.

The executive boxers did the March of the Mods.

“Don’t do that,” shouted Omally. “The floor will go through.”

“They’re certainly leading Orton Goldhay a merry dance, Sponge.”

“They certainly are, Terry, positively lurch-puddle-like.”

“And that would be, Sponge?”

“It’s an Armenian folk dance that my nana taught me when I was a child.”

“I thought your Nan was a Jamaican Rastafarian?”

“Still is, Terry Babylon, still is. Ai.”

Now, to cut a long and what might otherwise become tedious story short, and to avoid further references having to be made to Roget’s Thesaurus and The Complete History of Dance by P.P. Penrose—

The Brentford Bees went for the Border morris dance, possibly because the Morris Minor has always been the vehicle of choice amongst Brentonians, or possibly for certain esoteric reasons known only to Professor Slocombe. But the Brentford Mercury of the following morn told the whole story of the team’s second glorious victory beneath the banner headline:

BERTIE’S BOOGIE BEES

10-2 VICTORY DANCE

Scoop Molloy dictated this piece from his bed in Brentford Cottage Hospital. He concentrated upon the details of the match specifically, rather than dwelling for too long upon the confusion and chaos that had ensued when the floor of the executive box fell through, disgorging its exclusive load on to the cheap seats below. Or even on the police assault that was made upon the ground by the Special Forces Unit, dispatched to arrest the Voices of Free Radio Brentford, who had disrupted all telecommunications and broadcasting networks over a five-mile radius, bringing minicabs and emergency services to a standstill.

Scoop never even mentioned the rioting because he was already in hospital by then. The rioting had been started by the Orton Goldhay supporters and they had eventually been brought to book by the far greater numbers of Brentford supporters.

Although, unfortunately, not before they had smashed every shop window in Brentford High Street and engaged in frenzied looting.

No, Scoop stuck to the details of the match, and Brentford’s second glorious victory – which took them one step closer to winning the FA Cup.

Neville the part-time barman retrieved the morning’s copy of the Brentford Mercury from one of the hanging baskets of Babylon that prettified The Swan’s front wall.

He growled towards the receding figure of Zorro the paperboy as he pedalled away on his bike, tucked the paper beneath his arm and stood for a moment drawing healthy draughts of Brentford air up the unbunged nostril of his hooter.

And then, turning on a carpet-slippered heel, Neville returned to the saloon bar, where he drew himself a measure of breakfast and perused the day’s front-page news.

Much of it wasn’t news to Neville. He hadn’t attended the match himself, his bar-keeping duties having prohibited this. Not that it would have hurt if he had gone – The Swan had known little business that evening. And what Neville hadn’t seen, he’d heard. The match, for instance, had been broadcast to him through the jukebox. The rest he’d just heard: the police-car sirens, the ambulance bells, the sounds of breaking glass and mob rule; the words of the riot act being read by Inspectre Sherringford Hovis through the police bullhorn; the sounds of the tear-gas shells being fired. And so on and so forth and such like.

Neville couldn’t help but manage a small grin.

He wasn’t a vindictive man, far from it; he was a good man, pure and simple, but this was all getting somewhat out of hand. Football in Brentford had never been quite like this before.

Neville gave the front page further perusal. He’d wondered what the big crash had been. The floor of the executive box collapsing into the stand below, that was it, eh? Neville shook his noble head. Pooley and Omally would soon have the entire stadium down and save the Consortium the cost of a bulldozer.

Neville grinned a bit more. And it wouldn’t be his fault. He’d appointed Pooley manager, certainly, but that was as far as it went. And if the walls did come tumbling down, well, it couldn’t be helped. And Neville would get his shares from the Consortium, so he could purchase The Flying Swan and run it entirely his way.

Which would certainly please the patrons.

So no harm done. Really.

Neville further perused. There was a great deal of detail regarding the extraordinary tactics employed by the home team to achieve their decisive victory.

“The cancan,” Neville read. “The floppy-boot stomp.”

The part-time barman gave his head further shakings.

Where was this all going to end?

What possibly could happen next?

“Mr Neville, is it?”

Neville jumped back. He hadn’t heard anyone enter the bar.

“Oh, Mr Neville, I’m sorry, did I startle you?”

Neville focused his good eye upon—

And Neville let out a gasp.

Before him stood possibly the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life. She was tall and shapely, with long auburn hair and the most remarkable emerald eyes. Her facial features seemed delicately carved, as from ivory; her mouth was wide and upturned at the edges into a comely smile. She wore a pink T-shirt, the shortest of skirts and undoubtedly the highest of heels, which probably accounted for her height. And she had …

“By the Gods.” Neville raised his hands to his face and peeped through his fingers.

She had a truly stunning pair of breasts.

“She’s always creeping up on people.”

Neville’s mouth fell open. The woman’s mouth hadn’t moved when she spoke these words.

“I’m over here.”

Neville turned his head and all but fainted from the shock. There was another one of them, identical to the first. Neville’s brain flip-flopped about in his skull. Two of them. Identical. There had to be an obvious explanation for this. Clones, that’s what they were, grown in some secret government research laboratory beneath Mornington Crescent Underground Station.