“I’m sure the professor’s on the case,” said Jim.

“Let’s hope so.”

Jim Pooley stretched out his arms and let wind slip through his fingers. “It can’t go on like this,” he said.

“Like what?” Omally asked.

“With one of our star players absconding before each and every game. I see we have Humphrey Hampton, the half-man, half-hamburger, on board today. And no Morris Catafelto.”

“He’s having a nose job, I understand.”[36]

“It can’t go on,” said Jim.

“I think their nerve just goes, Jim. It’s the stress of all the winning – they’re not used to it. It’s too much for them.”

“But we can’t end up with a team solely composed of circus performers. It’s not professional.”

“They’re professional performers. And the circus hasn’t objected to them taking the time off.”

“It won’t do,” said Jim. “You must buy us more players.”

“With what, my friend? With what?”

Jim sighed. “Why does everything have to be so complicated?” he asked.

Omally shrugged. “Good question,” he said.

Big Bob turned on to the motorway: today the team were playing in the North. London suburbs fell astern and countryside appeared all around. Jim looked fearfully at this countryside because, as has been said, no traveller was Jim. “This is a very large park,” said he.

“Do you want to sit downstairs?” John asked.

“I do, please. I think I’m getting a nosebleed.”

The team were already in their kaftans, kaftans that now weighed heavily with all manner of advertising logos.

Jim viewed these with interest. Many of them were new to him. “What’s an Arab strap, John?” he asked.

“It’s for sport,” said Omally, which had a basic accuracy.

“And a Klismaphilia Specialist?”

“Enjoy the view, Jim.”

“It’s more park. And surely it’s getting darker.”

“We’re travelling north, Jim – the nights are longer here.”

“Burnley,” said Jim. “Where exactly on the map is Burnley?”

John Omally shook his head. “A little to the left of Leeds, I believe,” he said.

Charlie Boxx[37] touched the hem of Jim’s raiment. “Boss,” he said, “the lads are wondering about the language problem.”

“The what?” Jim asked.

“Well, the Northerners, Boss. They don’t speak the Queen’s English, do they?”

“Do they, John?” Jim asked.

“In a manner of speaking. I have a phrase book.” John took it from his pocket and handed it to Jim. Jim leafed through it.

“It’s all about flat caps and whippets and going-to-the-foot-of-our-stairs,” said he.

“Sorry,” said John, reacquiring the phrase book and repocketting same. “That’s the Yorkshire one. This is what you need.” He handed yet another book to Jim.

“Surely this is Klingon,” said Jim.

“It’s basically the same. Trust me, I’m a PA.”

Jim now shook his head and addressed the team over the tour-bus microphone. “Gentlemen,” said he, “we are travelling north into terra incognita, into realms hitherto untravelled by Brentonians. We are pioneers, trailblazers, a bit like the Pilgrim Fathers. We will bring the Gospel of Brentford unto these heathen hoards.”

“Yea, verily,” enjoined Big Bob.

“Steady on,” said John.

“What I say unto you,” Jim continued, “is be not afraid. We have practised our tactics – well, all of us but for Mr Hampton here who is replacing Alan Berkshire, who we didn’t know had gone missing until I did a headcount.”

Omally groaned. Another one had lost his bottle.

“So please help Humphrey out and give him a round of applause for stepping in at such short notice.”

The team gave Humphrey a round of applause.

“Thanks very much, I’ll do my best,” said the human half of the half-man, half-hamburger.

The other half said nothing.

“What I am saying to you,” Jim continued, “is that you have nothing to fear but fear itself.”

“I hear you, Boss,” said Dave Quimsby. “But then I’d hear you if you were a mile away. What is your point, exactly?”

“I am saying,” said Jim, “that we have nothing to fear.”

“But we’re not afraid,” said Sundip Mahingay (the Indian of the group). “I follow Guru Maharugo Rune. I do not even fear fear itself.”

“Quite so,” said Jim.

“And I’m not afraid,” said Charlie Boxx. “I fear only the radiator that comes on before six in the morning.”

“Yes,” said Jim. “But—”

“Jim,” said John, putting his hand over Jim’s microphone, “they’re not afraid. Only you are afraid.”

“I’m not afraid,” said Jim. “The sky’s growing very dark, though, don’t you think?”

“It’s smoke,” said John. “From the mills. Or the mines, or suchlike.”

“I’m just trying to encourage the team.”

“You’re putting the wind up them. Stop now.”

Jim made a pouting face. “Carry on, lads,” he called. “There’s nothing to be terrified of, really.”

“Stop it now.” John put his other hand over Jim’s mouth. “Have a little pick-me-up. I’ve brought a hip flask.”

The sky continued to darken as the bus moved on up the M something-or-other, through wild moorlands now where the plaintive howls of feral whippets reached the ears of Dave Quimsby.

John perused his wristlet watch and urged Bob Charker onwards.

“What time starteth the match?” enquired the big one through his little panel.

“Seven-thirty,” said John. “Evening game. We have plenty of time.”

“The bus needs diesel and the team the bread of life.”

“Lunch, do you mean?”

“I doeth,” quoth Big Bob.

“Well, when you see one of those motorway service station jobbies, pull in.”

“Three-sixteen,” said Big Bob.

“You mean ten-four,” said John. “Like ‘it’s a big ten-four’ in those American trucker movies.”

“I mean, John, three-sixteen,” said Big Bob, “as on those cards that members of the audience hold up during American wrestling matches.”

“So,” said Barry Bustard to Alf Snatcher, “this duck goes into the Jobcentre.”

“Duck?” said Alf.

“Duck,” said Barry. “And he’s looking for a job, but the bloke behind the counter says that there aren’t many jobs for ducks. But if the duck fills in a form, then he’ll let him know if anything comes up. So the duck fills in the form—”

“How?” asked Alf.

“Doesn’t matter,” said Barry. “Let’s say that the Jobcentre bloke fills in the form for him.”

“Fair enough, then, go on.”

“So the duck goes home. And the very next day the Jobcentre bloke answers the phone and it’s Count Otto Black’s Circus Fantastique and they’re looking for a duck. Six-week tour, three shows a day, two hundred quid a week and all found.”

“All what?” asked Alf.

“Food and board,” said Barry.

“Fair enough, go on.”

“So the Jobcentre bloke phones up the duck and says—”

“How did the duck pick up the phone?” asked Alf.

“He had a friend,” said Barry. “A monkey. The monkey answered the phone for him.”

“Fair enough, go on.”

“So the Jobcentre bloke says, ‘You’ll never guess what. I’ve just had a call from Count Otto Black’s Circus Fantastique and they need a duck. Six-week tour, three shows a day, two hundred quid a week and all found—’”

“And the duck says, ‘That’s no good for me, I’m an interior designer!’” said Alf.

“You’ve heard it,” said Barry.

“I know the duck,” said Alf. “He redesigned my sitting room.”

Barry Bustard sighed.

“Are there any jobs going in the circus for tailed men?” asked Alf.

The bus turned on to a slip road leading off the motorway.

“Are we nearly there yet?” Jim asked.

“He’s stopping for diesel,” John told Jim. “And lunch. And beer. Northern beer, which many speak of highly.”