“Go on, then,” said John. “Let’s have a look.”

Pooley dug his thumbs into the corner of the envelope’s flap and sought to tear it open, but the envelope remained intact. “That’s odd,” said Jim, applying further force. Jim wrestled with the envelope, but only succeeded in nearly taking a thumbnail off.

“Use your knife,” said John.

“But it’s all eggy.”

“Use your knife.”

Jim now dug at the envelope with his eggy knife and attempted to slit it, but the knife merely skidded away and nearly took off his other thumbnail.

“Give it here,” said Omally. “You’re like an old woman, you.”

Jim sucked upon his wounded thumbs. “It won’t be opened,” said he.

“Of course it will.” John took the envelope between both hands, put it across his knee and tried to tear it in half, after the manner of those fellows who do the trick with telephone directories (although not so much these days, as the practice seems to have gone out of fashion. Like the Yo-Yo, or the Scooby Doo. Not to mention the Rubic’s Cube.)

Nobody mentioned the Rubic’s Cube.

“It’s giving,” said John. But it wasn’t.

“I almost have it,” said John, the veins on his neck standing out.

But he didn’t.

John Omally took off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves and made an all-out assault on the envelope. He bit at it and ripped at it, he went down on his knees and he wrestled with it. But the envelope remained adamant. The envelope wouldn’t open.

Lil leaned over her counter top. “Is he having an epileptic fit?” she asked.

“Trying to open the mail,” said Jim.

“Shrink-wrapped, is it?” said Lil. “I have certain lady’s things that arrive in the post, shrink-wrapped. I generally give them a little toasting over the hob to soften them up. Not that I want them soft, if you know what I mean.”

Jim didn’t.

Omally was now jumping up and down on the envelope.

Jim Pooley watched him at it and Jim began to laugh.

“It’s no laughing matter,” said John. “I won’t be defeated by a damned envelope.”

“You will,” said Jim. “You will, don’t you see?”

John turned a sweaty face towards Jim. “See what?” he asked.

“The professor,” said Jim. “He knew we’d try to open it, and he knew what frame of mind I’d be in. It’s his magic, John. It won’t be possible to open the envelope until five minutes before the match. He did this to show us his power, John, and, in turn, to boost our confidence.”

“And you came to this conclusion all on your own?”

“I suppose I did,” said Jim. “I suggest that we finish our breakfasts and head off to Griffin Park.”

John picked up the envelope from the floor. For all of his stompings, it wasn’t even besmutted.

John handed the envelope to Jim. “Ready for the challenge, then?” he asked.

“Brentford for the Cup,” said Jim. “Brentford for the Cup.”

And Brentford looked festive upon this May morn. Bunting hung between lampposts all the way up the high street, union flags fluttered from upper storeys and colour photographs of Jim’s grinning face, taken from the centrefold of the day’s Brentford Mercury Special FA Cup Final Edition, were displayed in many shop windows. The sun beamed its blessings down upon the borough and it was as if the storm and the horrible doings of the night before had never occurred at all. A crowd had already gathered outside Griffin Park, and this crowd, which seemed for the most part composed of fellows wearing reproduction team kaftans and young girlies wearing fetching versions of Jim’s lucky suit, cheered loudly as John and Jim approached.

“Big warm welcome,” whispered John. “Smiles all round and lots of confidence.”

Jim Pooley beamed smiles all around, had his picture taken and signed autographs.

“Can you tell us anything about the tactics you mean to employ?” asked Scoop Molloy.

“No,” said Jim. “Strictly confidential, but I’ll tell you this.” And Jim whispered words into Scoop’s small-and-shell-like: “Stay away from Norman’s wife,” whispered Jim, “or I’ll have the whole team come around to your house and use you for a practice ball.”

“Thank you very much, Mr Pooley,” said Scoop. “And very good luck today.”

The crowd cheered on. Jim signed more autographs and then he and John entered the ground. The Campbell locked the gates behind them.

“Are the both of ye well?” he asked.

“We are,” said Omally.

Jim Pooley nodded. “About last night,” said he.

“Speak no more about it,” said the Campbell. “Press on with what must be done.”

“Are the players all here?” Omally asked.

“Players?” said the Campbell. “I suppose so, if you care to call them that.”

John and Jim entered The Stripes Bar and beheld the players, who were starting the day with a swift pint to get themselves going.

“Now, now,” said Jim, “you shouldn’t be drinking. Remember The Slaughtered Lamb?” Those who had been there remembered, those who hadn’t did not. “Just the one, then,” said Jim. “And plenty of crisps for protein. Where is Ernest Muffler?”

Barry Bustard puffed in Jim’s direction. “He’s not here and nor is Dave Quimsby.”

“So where are they?”

“No one knows. Big Bob called to pick them up, but they’d gone.”

“Bottle job,” said Omally. “Just like the rest of them.”

Jim Pooley made the face of alarm. “We don’t have a full team, then,” said Jim.

“We do,” said Barry. “Meet Bobo and Zippy.”

Bobo and Zippy presented themselves.

Jim shook hands with Bobo and Zippy. “A clown,” said Jim, “and a pinhead. We’re d—”

“Delighted,” said John. “Delighted to make your acquaintance. Thank you for stepping into the breach at the last moment.”

Jim took John aside. “This is a disaster,” he said. “We now have a team composed entirely of circus performers. Not a single member of the original team remains. We have a clown as centre forward. This is a mockery of the beautiful game.”

“It’s unorthodox, I agree,” said John. “Do you have any other suggestions?”

“I seem to recall going on and on at you over the last few months about buying in new players.”

“With what? We’re broke. And with all those damages claims against us and—”

“What damages claims?”

“Nothing,” said John. “Shall we have a pint before we set off?”

“Ludicrous,” said Jim, throwing up his hands. “This is all totally ludicrous. A team of circus performers taking on the most famous football club in the world. I can’t see how even the professor’s magic is going to get us through this.”

“Jim,” said John. “Jim, you are my bestest friend and I love you dearly, but if I hear one more pessimistic word come out of your mouth, I swear that I will remodel your beak with my fist.”

“I’m quietly confident,” said Jim.

“Boss,” said Jon Bon Julie, the half-man, half-woman and centre mid-fielder to boot since Alf Snatcher had gone missing before the Arsenal game. “Sorry to interrupt you, but Bobo wanted me to ask – is it okay if he sits upstairs on the bus above the driver and stomps his big boots until the driver comes up and threatens to chuck him off?”

Big Bob Charker sat in his driving seat, brrming the engine of the great big bus. The great big bus looked splendid. It had been resprayed in the team’s colours at Big Bob’s own expense. Bunting hung along its sides and Big Bob himself had put aside his normal cap in favour of a woolly bobble hat knitted in the team colours by the mother who loved him. As Jim led the team towards the big bus, the crowd beyond the gates cheered wildly. Big Bob smiled to himself.

Professor Slocombe wasn’t smiling. The professor’s face was grave. Before him in his study, to either side of the fireplace, sat Terrence Jehovah Smithers and the Second Sponge Boy.