“Ah,” said Jim.

The sign said “Services One Mile” and Big Bob took this sign at face value. The big bus found its big wheels upon country road and as it was now three-thirty in the afternoon, and they were in the North and night was beginning to fall, Big Bob switched on the headlights.

“What is that?” Jim asked, pointing out and upwards through a window.

“The aurora borealis,” said John. “Don’t let it bother you, Jim.”

“It’s very pretty,” said Jim. “Are we nearly there yet?”

“Soon.”

Bib Bob squinted through the windscreen and set the wipers working. “It groweth somewhat foggy,” said he.

What merry converse there had been on the bus, and there hadn’t been much since Pooley’s pep talk, now ceased altogether and the team peered out through the windows at little other than darkness and fog.

“I think we should go back to the motorway,” Jim Pooley called through Big Bob’s little hatch.

“These lanes be too narrow,” the big one called back. “I canst not turn the bus around.”

Jim affected a gloomier countenance. “I wish the professor had come this time,” said he.

“Perk up, Jim,” John told him. “A couple of pints of Northern brew will raise your spirits.”

“We’re lost,” said Jim. “I know we are. The bus will run out of diesel and we will be stranded and we’ll miss the match and we won’t win the FA Cup and the Consortium will acquire the ground and loose the old serpent and the world as we know it will come to an end.” Jim’s hands began to flap and he made to rise from his seat to begin turning around in small circles, with hands all a-flapping, as was his way when caught in moments of terror.

“Sssh,” said John. “Calm down and be quiet, or I will be forced to give you a smack.”

“We’re doomed,” whispered Jim, hands flapping faster, his bum gaining liftoff.

Omally raised a fist.

“Aha,” cried Big Bob. “Yonder shineth lights. I behold a diesel pump and a pub thereto.”

“Nobody panic,” cried Jim. “Everything is going to be all right.”

“Buffoon,” said John Omally.

Big Bob drew the big bus to a halt and viewed through the fog the pub sign that swung in a creaky kind of fashion. “The Slaughtered Lamb,” said he. “I’ll fill the tank whilst thou drink not only water, but take a little wine, for thy stomach’s sake.”

“Three-sixteen,” said John Omally.

The team climbed down from the bus, hugging themselves for warmth, and Jim Pooley led them to the alehouse. He pushed upon a rugged door of panelled oak, and this door opened before him. Beyond lay the interior of a tavern that surely had not changed for several centuries. It was all oak beams and benches. Sawdust carpeted the floor and ancient fellows in cloth caps tugged upon tankards of ale and offered crisps to their whippets. Behind a rugged bar counter stood the lord of this domain: a barkeep who wore a soiled leather apron and bore an uncanny resemblance to the late, great Michael Ripper.

Jim Pooley whistled. “Good grief,” said he.

And then Jim stepped aside to avoid being trampled in the rush to the bar.

Many pints were ordered but the barkeep stood resolutely behind his counter, regarding all with a quizzical expression.

“Allow me,” said Jim, elbowing his way into the crush and consulting his Klingon phrasebook.

“Zoot a roony gabba gabba hey,” declared Jim.[38]

“Fourteen pints of Old Dog-Gobbler, then, is it?” said the barkeep.

“Zipperdee do dah,” said Jim.[39]

“And a packet of pork-scratchings.”

“Kree-gah, Bundolo!”[40]

“And a handbag full of cheese?”

“Yes, please,” said Charlie Boxx.

The beer came in pewter tankards, the pork-scratchings in plastic packets and the handbag in a basket with a side salad. The team descended to the benches and took sup with relish.[41]

John and Jim did leanings at the bar.

“We don’t have many sand-dancers calling in this way,” the barkeep observed as he viewed the team’s kaftans. “Are you a fan-club party bound for the Wilson, Kepple and Betty convention in Huddersfield?”

“It’s a football team,” said Jim. “Brentford United.”

“The Brentford United?” The barkeep eyed the team. “By the Gods, ’tis true. And you, yourself, my son has your picture on his wall and has taken to the wearing of the green tweeds. You’re Bertie.”

“Jim,” said Jim. “The name’s Jim.”

“Well, ’tis a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Jim. I’m so sorry that I didn’t recognise the team at once, but it is beyond belief that you should be here, in my pub. I can’t believe it.” The barkeep stuck out his hand for a shaking and Jim took this hand and shook it. It was a cold and clammy hand, and when Jim had done with the shaking of it, Jim wiped his hand upon a tweedy plus-foured trouser leg.

“You’re up against Burnley tonight,” said the barkeep. “Do you fancy your chances?”

Jim made an “O” with his right thumb and forefinger.

“You’ll score no goals,” said the barkeep. “Shame.”

“No,” said Jim. “We’ll win.”

“And you deserve to – you are the greatest, up from nothing and heading for glory. Might I ask you a favour?”

“You might,” said Jim.

“Would it please you if I treated the team to a round of drinks? It would be my honour.”

“Would that include the manager?” Jim asked.

“And his PA?” John Omally added.

“I would be doubly honoured.”

Another round was served. And packets of pork-scratchings liberally distributed. And Charlie Boxx received a holdall full of crabsticks as a main course.

Jim soon warmed to Old Dog-Gobbler, which, although lacking the subtle nuances of Large, embodied the richer qualities of medical alcohol and poteen, and had a decent head on it, too.

“We mustn’t drink too much,” he told the barkeep. “We have a match to play.”

“And to win,” said the barkeep, raising a pewter tankard of his own and draining its contents to the dregs. “But you’re only round the corner – the ground is but two miles on, so you can have another round, on the house.”

“Really?” said Jim.

“Might I come with you?” asked the barkeep. “I’ll close the pub for the evening.”

“Absolutely,” said Jim, raising his tankard.

Big Bob sauntered in. “All filled,” said he, “and the pump man refused my offer to render unto Caesar – he said that he supporteth Brentford.”

“God is on our side,” said Jim.

“Same again?” said the barkeep. “And one for yourself, driver?”

“Adam’s ale for me,” said Big Bob, ever the professional.

The barkeep drew John and Jim two more pints, waved the potboy to replenish the team’s drinks and served up a glass of mineral water (drawn from a healthy Northern spring) for Big Bob.

“I could not but notice that you favour the biblical idiom,” he said to the big one.

“Thou speaketh truly.”

“I myself have an interest in the New Testament. In fact, I am presently writing a book on the subject.”

“Art thou?” said Big Bob, tasting the water of life and finding it wholesome.

“Yes indeed. Might I beg that you indulge me for a moment?”

Big Bob inclined his head. John Omally rolled his eyes, but tasted further ale and found it wholesome.

“Yes,” said the barkeep. “You see, I’ve always had a problem with the accuracy of the New Testament. The trial of Jesus, for instance. You see, nothing that is written in the New Testament explains why he was crucified. Crucifixion was a punishment reserved for only the most heinous crimes. Jesus might have been considered a bit of a troublemaker, but he wasn’t a revolutionary proper and so he shouldn’t have been crucified.”