“He had to fulfil prophecy,” said Big Bob, “that the Son of Man would come and that man would put him to death. And then he would rise again, of course.”

“Of course, but I have this theory that it happened differently. My book is fiction, of course, because I can’t be certain, but in my version of events, Jesus gets off. He has this clever lawyer, see, Saint Matthew.”

“The tax collector?” said Big Bob.

“He was a learned fellow, well educated – he could write. He got Jesus off and Jesus then went on to have other adventures. Have you ever seen that film The Seven Samurai?”

“It was remade as The Magnificent Seven,” said Jim.

“Exactly,” said the barkeep. “So think about this: The Magnificent Thirteen, Jesus and his apostles going out, righting wrongs, getting into battles.”

“Battles?” said Jim. “They were fishermen, not Samurai.”

“They had swords,” said the barkeep.

“Of course they didn’t,” said Jim.

“They did,” said Omally. “They drew them to defend Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane when Judas kissed him. Well, at least one of them did. But I expect they were all tooled-up – they were dangerous days back then in Palestine.”

“They never were.” said Jim. “Swords?”

“Big ’uns,” said Big Bob.

“That’s not very apostley,” said Jim, “swords.”

“It’s in the Bible,” said the barkeep. “So after Jesus gets off, he and his apostles go and have these adventures with swords. They save villages, things like that.”

“Do you have a title for this book?” Big Bob asked.

“I do,” said the barkeep. “Remember the A Team?”

“I have the duvet cover,” said Jim.

“You do?” said John.

“Christmas present from my mum,” said Jim.

“Oh,” said John.

“Well,” said the barkeep, “forget the A Team. My book is called The J Team. After Jesus. Good, eh?”

“Put me down for a copy,” said Jim. “Where is the toilet, by the way? The Old Dog-Gobbler is beginning to take its toll on my bladder.”

“In the yard,” said the barkeep. “Out of the door and turn left.”

“Thank you,” said Jim and he left the bar counter and made his way unsteadily to the door.

“One more all round,” the barkeep called to the potboy.

Jim took himself outside, leaned upon the doorpost and lit up a Dadarillo. He blew smoke towards the full moon that now swam proudly amongst the scudding clouds, for most of the fog had lifted.

“Nice fella, that barkeep,” said Jim to himself. “The J Team, though, what nonsense. A Brentford supporter, though – the barkeep, I mean, not Jesus,” and Jim giggled foolishly.

It was very cold out now, but Jim felt warm inside. Old Dog-Gobbler was exceptional ale. He’d only had a couple of pints, well, three at most, and he felt, what was the word? Merry.

“Good word, merry,” said Jim. But the word was not “merry”. The word Jim was looking for was “drunk”. Actually, it was two words –“very drunk”.

“Now which way was the bog? Right or left? Right, I think.” And Jim staggered very drunkenly off towards the right.

A door presented itself to him and he turned the handle and pushed the door open and came upon a cosy kitchen room. Jim peered in, leaning on a new doorpost for support. He really did feel very drunk now.

Two folk stared at Jim from a kitchen table – a big, fat woman and a scrawny child. They were taking their tea. The scrawny child wore a football shirt. Jim grinned foolishly.

“I’m terribly sorry,” said he. “I was looking for the toilet.”

“It doesn’t matter, my dear,” said the big, fat woman. “It often happens to folk who have foolishly imbibed more than a half-pint of Dog.”

“Ah,” said Jim. “Yes.”

“Back out and to the left,” said the big, fat woman.

“Thank you,” said Jim, struggling to turn himself around. “Aha,” said Jim, espying the scrawny child’s football shirt. “You’re the young football supporter, I see.”

“Like my dad,” said the child.

“His dad’s the barkeep,” said the woman. “My husband.”

“Nice chap,” said Jim. “But that shirt, it’s not the Brentford strip.”

“Brentford?” said the child and he spat on to the floor. “We gob upon Brentford here. We’re Burnley Town supporters. Burnley Town for the Cup.” And he began a chant that Jim did not like the sound of at all.

“Burnley shupporters?” slurred Jim. “But the barkeep shaid …”

And then that light came unto Jim, that light which folk sometimes see – that illuminating light that St John got, which lit up the Road to Damascus.[42]

Jim suddenly got it now.

“Treachery!” cried Jim. “Duplicity! Sabotage!”

And Jim lurched from the cosy kitchen and staggered back to the bar.

Big Bob Charker loaded the last of the unconscious bodies on to his great big bus.

“All present and incorrect,” said he, thrusting out his barrel chest and throwing back his head. “And now I return unto The Slaughtered Lamb and there will slay all with the jawbone of an ass, which I keep in my toolbox for such eventualities.”

“No, Bob.” Jim Pooley clung perilously to that platform pole which bus conductors love so dearly to swing from (when they aren’t doing crosswords, or putting the world to rights). “No, Bob, please don’t do that.”

Bob lifted Jim bodily and laid him on to one of the long bench seats. “Whyfore not?” he enquired.

“It would reflect poorly on the team,” said Jim, blearily. “A mass murder could put us out of the FA Cup.”

“But look unto the evil that they have wrought upon us.” Big Bob flourished a great big hand.

Jim’s blurry vision took in the devastation that was Brentford United. The lads were seated, sort of, and draped across one another. Those that were actually upright, although not actually conscious, had the look of the now legendary James Gang in their post-mortem photographs.

“Look unto them,” commanded Bob the Big.

“It’s not easy,” mumbled Jim, “but please, please don’t slay anyone.”

“Jim’s probably right.” Omally was on his hands and knees, crawling on to the platform. “Get us to the football ground. We’ll try to sober them up.”

“We?” Jim Pooley’s vision clouded. He was all but going under.

“To the football ground,” said John Omally, clawing his way towards Jim.

Big Bob Charker made growling sounds but took himself off to his cab.

As luck would have it, or chance, or both, or neither, Burnley really was but two miles up the road.

The country lane became a road, and this road a high street. The glories of Burnley rose to either side: gothic architectural splendours wrought from bricks of terracotta and black basalt and grandeefudge and snurgwassell.

Or so it seemed to Jim.

The bus passed a branch of Waterstones where, by luck, or chance, or both, or neither, the resident staff were playing host to the famous Brentford author P.P. Penrose, who was giving a reading of his latest Lazlo Woodbine thriller, Baboon in a Body Bag. Big Bob glanced over his big, broad shoulder. The team were not in the land of the living. Although, in truth, they were not actually dead, either.

“Woe unto the house of Brentford,” muttered the big one, changing down and tootling the horn.

For the streets of Burnley were full of folk, many folk, many football-loving folk, all bound for the match and all decked out in distinctive reproduction club shirts of a colour that has no name and a pattern that may not be described. Big Bob looked down upon them from his cab and the temptation was oh-so-big just to put his foot down hard upon the pedal and watch them scatter before him.

“Are we nearly there yet?” Pooley’s drunken face peered into Bob’s cab.

“Shortly,” said Big Bob. “Yonder lies the ground.” And he pointed with his oversized mitt towards an oversized structure.