“We’re up for a big one tonight,” said John. “Brentford, unbeaten in four matches and defying the predictions of all the football pundits, and Northern favourites Burnley Town, who will tonight be favouring, I’m sure, their famous four-two-four formation.”

“Would that be the famous four-two-four formation that was originally formulated by John Rider Hartley, manager of Huddersfield in nineteen thirty-seven, after he had a dream in which dancing fairies explained it to him? The four-two-four formation that took his team on to win the FA Cup on two successive seasons?”

“Er, um, maybe,” said John. “But look now, they’re coming out on to the pitch.”

“They’re not,” said Sam. “It’s just my reflection in the commentary box window.”

“The teams are coming out.”

“So they are,” said Sam, “and there’s the Burnley team captain Leonard Nimoy, not to be confused with the other Leonard Nimoy, of course – the one in Star Wars. Leonard has scored six goals this season, three at home and two away.”

“Is your Teleprompter working properly?” John asked.

“It’s broken,” said Sam. “I’m styling it out.”

“Well, the Burnley team is on the pitch now, chipping the ball around, and the crowd is on its feet. They’ll give their team every ounce of support. Listen to that applause. Did you ever see such a standing ovation?”

“More than once,” said Sam. “And here come the Brentford team.”

“So they do,” said John. “But what exactly is going on here? The Brentford team are apparently being carried on to the pitch. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite like this before, but we’ve come to expect the unexpected from this team. The dancing formations, the running backwards, the mysterious weaving about – there’s just no telling what these guys will come up with next.”

“And there’s their manager,” said Sam, “that Bertie boy. Don’t you just love his suit, John? I’ve got his picture on my bedroom wall. I cut it out from the cover of New Scientist.”

“He’s being helped on to the bench, Sam. He looks a bit the worse for wear.”

“Probably been out clubbing all night. They say he has to have two women every evening.”

“I think you’ll find that’s me, Sam.”

“Well, the whole team is out on the pitch now – flat out. I can’t imagine what they’re up to. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

“Oh, the ref’s going over to Bertie,” said John.

“Mr Pooley,” shouted the ref, trying to make himself heard above the roar of the crowd. “What exactly is going on here?”

Jim Pooley downed a pint glass of water. “What do you mean?” he shouted back.

“Your team would appear to be unconscious.”

“Appearances can be deceptive,” John shouted.

“Not, I feel, upon this occasion,” the ref countered.

“They’ll soon be on their feet,” bawled Jim. “No one could sleep through this.”

“Sleep?” yelled the ref. “They are asleep. You’ll have to get them up for the kickoff.”

“Is there any specific rule to that effect?” Jim’s eyes were glazed. He wasn’t sobering up at all – if anything, he was feeling more drunk.

“Right,” said the ref. “I’ll toss the coin and if your centre forward doesn’t get up and call, then win or lose I’ll give Burnley the kickoff.”

“Do your worst,” shouted Omally. “We’re not afraid.”

“We’re not?” Jim couldn’t manage another shout.

The ref stalked away to the centre of the pitch and flung his coin into the air. The crowd momentarily stilled as the dazzling disc spiralled up and spiralled down again to fall upon the snoring face of Ernest Muffler. The ref looked down at the snoring face, shrugged his shoulders and awarded the toss to Burnley.

The Burnley supporters screamed their approval. The Burnley centre forward took the kickoff.

High up in the commentary box, John the ex-Blue Peter boy spoke into his mic. “And it’s Burne-Jones to Morris and Morris has chipped it to Rossetti and Rossetti has passed it back to Burne-Jones and the Brentford team are just lying there, there’s no defence, no attack, no nothing at all. It’s Burne-Jones over on the wing to Holman Hunt and Millais is inside the box and he scores! Oh, yes. He scores! And the crowd are on their feet once more. One-nil to Burnley.”

The ref blew his whistle. “Offside,” he said.

“There,” said Omally. “Cunning tactics, eh?”

Pooley squinted. “You mean they can’t score?” he said.

“Yeah, well, they can – they won’t go so far into the box next time.”

And they didn’t.

“One-nil!” announced the ref.

Jim Pooley buried his head in his hands. “We’re doomed,” he blubbered. “Doomed.”

“Three-nil,” said John (the John in the commentary box). “And this is really absurd. Burnley are just walking the ball around now. They’re having a laugh. Oh look, they’re heading it backwards and forwards now. The crowd are loving it.”

“It’s not fair,” said Sam. “The ref should stop it. Look at poor Bertie, he’s all downcast.”

“Give me a pistol, John,” Jim shouted into John Omally’s ear, “or a sword that I might fall upon. I have had enough of life. This is all too much.”

“I have to confess,” John shouted back, “that things look rather discouraging. I’m afraid, my friend, that only a miracle can save us now.”

“Four-nil,” shouted the John in the commentary box.

“A miracle,” said Jim. “It’s going to take more than a miracle.”

“More than a miracle?” John took out his mobile phone.

“Of course, that’s it,” said Jim. “Zap them with microwaves.”

“Give me a moment.” John tapped out digits and put his free hand over his phone-free ear. And then John began to shout into his mobile phone.

“What is the score, Jim?”

“It’s six-nil, Professor. We’re doomed.”

“Never say die, Jim.”

Jim’s eyes did sudden startings from their sockets. His mouth did droppings open and his voice did stumbled speakings.

“Professor?” said Jim, turning on the bench towards the ancient scholar. “Professor, you’re here.”

“I’m sorry I’m a little late. I got a bit held up.” The professor spoke softly, but his words were clear to Jim even above the howlings of the crowd.

“They’re killing us, Professor. This fiend of a barkeep got the team drunk. Look at them out on the pitch.”

Professor Slocombe scratched at his ancient chin. “A difficult situation, I agree,” said he. “And oh dear me, they are approaching the Brentford goal once again.”

And they were. And they were laughing with it. Burne-Jones passed the ball to Ford Maddox Brown (the Burnley striker and five-times winner of the Freshest Whippet on the Block Competition (Northern Chapter)). Ford Maddox Brown took a lazy kick at the goal.

And up from the turf rose Loup-Gary Thompson, professional wolf-boy (and eater of whippets), up from the turf and into furious action. He stopped the ball dead and then took a monumental kick.

The ball soared high into the air. Incredibly high. Fantastically high. It soared and it soared and then it fell downwards, downwards, onward and onward. And straight into the Burnley goal.

Which was undefended, as the goalie was reading a newspaper.

The crowd did not erupt into applause. The crowd became silent and still.

“That was a goal, wasn’t it?” said Professor Slocombe. “Would you care to join me, Jim, in a Mexican wave?”

“Well this is new,” said the John in the commentary box. “I’ve never seen anything like this before. There never seems to be more than one Brentford player standing at any one time. One jumps up, kicks the ball, then flops back to the turf. And then another one jumps up, passes the ball then he slumps back down. And, oh my lord, it’s another one for Brentford. That’s—”