There was much of the Colosseum about it, much, too, of the Parthenon, and much of the Palace of Knossos and much of the hat that the Delphic Oracle used to wear on a Saturday night when she went out on the pull.

It was all very much of a muchness, really.

And all very daunting to Jim.

“We’re doomed,” he wailed into Big Bob’s ear. “Oh misery, it is all my fault.”

“Give it a rest, before you even start.” Omally’s hand was on Jim’s shoulder. It was not a steady hand, but it still had steady ways.

“We are doomed,” said Jim. “What are we going to do?”

“We’ll do something, sober them up somehow. Never say die ’til you’re dead, my friend.”

“But I can hardly stand. The whole world’s going in and out of focus. Mostly out, as it happens.”

“Curious,” said John to Jim, “because to me it’s going around and around.”

A beer can suddenly bounced off Big Bob’s windscreen.

“Wherefore art this?” Big Bob ducked, which wasn’t easy, considering the size of him.

“We’re under attack!” cried Jim, which had more than a word of truth to it.

The Burnley supporters had spotted the Brentford team and were not giving the Brentford team the kind of welcome that the plain folk of Brentford usually gave them upon their triumphant returns. Cans and bottles, sticks and stones and pickled whippets’ tails (a Northern delicacy that many had brought with them to gnaw upon during the match) rained a deafening assault upon the great big bus. Big Bob made the face of fury and put his big foot down.

Folk before the bus scattered and those to the sides and those behind flung further projectiles and made loud their disapproval.

“They hate us,” cried Jim, assuming a foetal position. “We’re all gonna die.”

“A pestilence upon the tribes of the North.” Before Big Bob the stadium rose and gates were being opened. The big bus swept into the ground and these gates slammed shut upon its passing.

“Up, Jim,” John commanded. “We’re not nearly there anymore. We’re here.”

Jim struggled into the vertical plane and clung to a seat for support.

“Hello in there, everybody, heigh-de-ho?”

“Heigh-de-ho?” said John. And he turned to view a small fat chap of the Pickwickian persuasion, who wore a most remarkable suit. It was remarkable in so much that it closely resembled that worn by Jim – other than for the fact that it was of a colour that had no name and a pattern that may not be described.

“Merridew Fairweather,” said the portly Pickwickian, making his way up the bus towards Jim and John. “I’m the manager of Burnley Town. And oh my and skiddly-de.”

“Skiddly-de?” said John, doing his best to get a good look at the arrival, who just kept going around and around.

“Skiddly-de, skiddly-do,” said Merridew Fairweather. “Your team taking a pre-match nap, is it?”

“Conserving their strength,” said Jim, trying to put his hand out for a shake, but failing dismally. “I am Jim Pooley, manager of Brentford, and this is my PA, Mr Tom O’Shanter.”

“John Omally,” said John.

“Have you been drinking?” asked Merridew Fairweather.

“We’re just a bit travel-sick,” said John.

“Then I have just the thing to pick you up in the club bar: a pint or two of Old Dog-Gobbler.”

And then Jim Pooley was sick.

It took a while for Big Bob to unload the team. The Scottish groundskeeper showed him to the “visitors’ changing room,” which looked for all the world to Big Bob to be the gents’ excuse-me.

“Just lay them out wherever ya wish,” said the Scotsman, “but don’t go blocking my urinals.”

Jim and John now leaned in the doorway, sometimes on the doorposts and sometimes on each other. Jim viewed, as best he could, the dismal scene before him. It reminded him of a dismal scene in one of those disaster movies where the victims of a terrible train crash are laid out in the nearest building, usually a school or a church because it adds to the pathos. Jim sniffed the air.

“This is a gents’ excuse-me,” he said.

“Start splashing water on them,” said John.

“You don’t mean—”

“No, I don’t mean that. Water from the basins. Start splashing.”

“Righty right.” Jim stumbled across the bog, trying not to step on members of the team. They snored away beneath him, with blissful looks upon their faces. Jim gave Barry Bustard a kick in his bloated pants.

“It won’t do.” Jim splashed water on to himself. “We’re doomed. We’re really doomed this time.”

“The show’s not over ’til the fat lady does the trick with the champagne bottle,” said John, who was splashing at himself but mostly missing.

“We can’t play.” Jim splashed a bit more. “We’ll have to call it off. There’s probably some rule about that.”

“There is,” said John. “We forfeit the match.”

“But this is so unfair. We were sabotaged.” Jim got his head down into the basin and ran cold water down his neck.

“I’ll think of something,” said John. “I’ll think of something, or die in the process. I just wish that the world would stop spinning.”

“That’s a bit drastic, John. Surely everyone would die if the world were to stop spinning. Don’t wish that.”

John Onially looked over at Jim and managed the smallest of smiles. “You buffoon,” he said.

“Hello in there, once again. Everybody heigh-de-ho?” Merridew Fairweather thrust his smiling spherical head into the visitors’ changing room. “Still having a bit of shut-eye, is it? Best to wake them up now, I’m thinking. It’s only five minutes to the match.”

“Five minutes!” Jim Pooley began to flap his hands and turn in small circles. It was hardly a wise manoeuvre, considering his condition.

John Omally smacked him to a standstill.

“You hit me!” Jim’s jaw dropped at the enormity of this.

“And I’ll hit you again if you don’t get a grip of yourself. We’ve got to get them on to the pitch. Somehow.”

“I can probably carry them two at a time,” said Big Bob, who had been looking on but keeping his own counsel. “But I’ll need a hand with the fat bloke and the Siamese twins.”

Burnley Town Stadium, or the Palace of Earthly Delights as it is more commonly known, seats twenty thousand and stands for twice as many stamping feet when the team are playing at home. On this particular night, it was full.

There were some Brentford supporters there who had actually taken the train up to Burnley to watch Brentford doing the business. Reproduction club kaftans were not in evidence, however. The Brentford fans were keeping the lowest of all low profiles.

It was either that, or risk being beaten to death.

Which was a shame, really, because they had brought a big banner, which they’d hoped to wave about and be caught on camera, because this game was being televised on something called Sky TV. What Sky TV was, the plucky Brentonians had no idea. They didn’t have it on their television sets. They had BBC1 and BBC2 and the one with the adverts and Coronation Street. Perhaps Sky TV was an aeroplane channel, watched by toffs as they flew to their holidays down in the Costa del Sol.

Mighty floodlights lit the pitch. High up in the commentary box the Sky TV commentator, an ex-Blue Peter presenter who had run into a spot of bother involving restricted substances and a “lady of the night”, shared his match commentary with an ex-Page Three girl who constantly ran into all kinds of bother, but whose career appeared to thrive on it.

“So, John,[43]” said she, “here we are at the Palace of Turkish Delight and it’s a bit chilly here in the box.”

John smiled with his expensive caps. “I can see that,” he said, “but at least it means I’ve a choice of two places to hang my jacket.”

The ex-Page Three girl, whose name was Sam,[44] did professional gigglings and gave John’s bottom a tweak.