“The time is upon us,” the professor said. “Today what must be done, must be done. After the events of last night, I implore you to be on your guard.”

“You will be attending the match?” said Terrence.

“I must,” said the professor. “Our adversary will be there, that is for certain. If I fail to make an appearance, he might suspect my plans.”

“I wish I was going,” said Sponge Boy. “Seeing Man U getting its arse kicked is always a joy to us Southern boys.”

“I’ve set the video,” said Terrence. “We’ll watch it this evening. Assuming—”

“That you survive?” asked the professor.

“Something like that, yes.”

“But you trust me?”

“Of course we trust you, Master,” said Terrence.

“Then follow the plan to the letter and all will be well. The team bus will arrive shortly to pick me up. When I have gone, go at once to Griffin Park. The Campbell will be waiting for you. He will arm you as necessary and at the time agreed you will proceed to the Consortium building and lay waste to it and the evil that dwells within. There should be no loss of innocent life, as all the streets will be deserted. All eyes on the match, as it were.”

“You said that the Campbell will arm us,” said Sponge Boy. “Will we be having big guns?”

“You will,” said the professor. “I have arranged for certain munitions to be made available to you.”

“Uzis?” said Terrence, miming the use of an Uzi. “Will we have Uzis?”

“Kalashnikovs,” said Sponge Boy. “Kalashnikovs are better than Uzis.”

“No,” said the professor. “You will have neither Uzis nor kalashnikovs.”

“Aw,” went Terrence.

“Shame,” said Sponge Boy.

“No,” said the professor. “I have ordered for each of you a 7.62mm M134 General Clockwork mini-gun.”

“A 7.62mm M134 General Clockwork mini-gun,” said Dave Quimsby.

“A what?” asked Jim Pooley.

“It’s a rotary machine gun,” Dave explained. “I just overheard someone talking about it. Perhaps it’s a link, or a continuity thing, or something.”

“It would be very poor continuity, then,” said Jim, “because you’re not even on the bus with us.”

“Oh yes,” said Dave. “You’re right.” And he vanished away.

Omally nudged Jim’s elbow. “You look like you’re in a trance,” said he. “What are you thinking about?”

Jim stirred from his reverie. “Guns, for some reason,” said he. “I hope that’s not a bad omen.”

The big bus stopped outside Professor Slocombe’s home and Big Bob left his cab to help the ancient aboard.

“Morning, sir,” called Omally.

“Going upstairs?” asked Jim.

“I’ve my best boots on, John. I thought I’d get in some stomping over Big Bob’s head.” Professor Slocombe went upstairs and evicted Bobo from his seat.

The great big bus set off towards Wembley.

“Something very bad happened last night,” said Jim. “I think I should go upstairs and talk to the professor about it.”

“Let it be, Jim,” said John. “Just concentrate upon victory. We’re on the road to Wembley.”

Now, Bob and Bing never starred in The Road to Wembley. And it had been a good many decades since a Brentford team had. But the sun shone down on Big Bob’s bus and at length the great stadium appeared on the skyline in all its Art Deco splendour.

“Would you look at that,” said Omally.

“Now that is big,” said Jim.

“And I understand that there are plans to pull it down, too. So Heaven knows what biblical nasties might lie beneath that one.”

“You’re supposed to be cheering me up,” said Jim.

“True,” said John. And he called out to the team, “Let’s sing the team song, lads.”

“Team song?” said Jim.

“Team song,” said John. “It’s an oldey but goody.”

And the team sang “Knees Up, Mother Earth”.

Neville had purchased a reproduction Brentford United team kaftan, and he did not look out of place as he sat in one of the many coaches that had been chartered to ferry plucky Brentonians to the match. Neville sat down next to Small Dave, the postman, and waved a greeting to Archroy, Soap Distant, Old Pete, Councillor Doveston, Jack Lane and Bob the Bookie (who had come along hoping to watch a crushing defeat of the local team).

All and sundry set off upon the Road to Wembley, leaving most of Brentford and Chiswick deserted.

Wembley was far from deserted. Thousands streamed towards the stadium, vast legions in the colours of Manchester United, but many also in those of Brentford. For say what you will and say it how you’ll say it, this glorious nation of ours loves an underdog.

John and Jim were on the top deck of the big bus now, up at the front with the professor. The entire team was up there also, waving to the crowds. Below, Big Bob clung on to the steering wheel. “Maketh Barry Bustard and Long John Watson sit down!” he shouted up to Jim. “Or they’ll have the bus over. Verily and so.”

The crowds before the stadium parted before the big bus and Wembley’s Scottish groundskeeper waved it into the special enclosure reserved exclusively for big team buses. And from there he led Jim, John, Big Bob, the professor and the team towards and to the changing rooms.

“Cocktails will be served shortly,” said he, in an accent of the Glaswegian persuasion. “Then the chef de cuisine will call in with the menu for lunch. Might I recommend the salmon en croute and the filet mignon Americus. They go down a treat with a chilled Chablis.”

“How swank is this?” said Omally, gazing all around and about at the swankness of the changing rooms. They had recently been done out by a Mr Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen in the style of one of the Titanic’s upper decks, with steamer chairs and portholes, quoits and lifebelts and the ceiling painted all sky-blue, with cotton-wool clouds stuck to it. Rod Stewart’s voice sang “We Are Sailing” through hidden speakers and stuffed seagulls hung on nylon cords from the sky-blue ceiling above.

“A jungle theme,” said Jim. “Nice.”

“And if you and your entourage will follow me, Mr Pooley,” the groundskeeper continued, “I’ll lead you to where all the big knobs hang out.”

“The toilets?” said Jim.

The Scottish groundskeeper shook his tam-o’-shantered head. Indulgently. “Most amusing, Mr Pooley. I refer, of course, to the executive suite.”

“Of course you do,” said Jim. “Lead on.”

It was a bit like a film première. Not that Jim had ever been to a film première, but he had never seen so many famous people all together in one room at the same time. In fact, Jim had hardly ever seen any famous people at all, aside from some that he hadn’t recognised who had been pointed out to him during his visit to Stringfellow’s.

“Hello again, Jim,” said Peter Stringfellow, admiring Jim’s suit and shaking its owner by the hand. “Looking forward to the match?”

“Certainly am,” said Jim.

“Is that Irishman with you?” Peter asked. “That one who went off with two of my pole-dancers?”

“He’s over there,” said Jim, “chatting with Catherine Zeta-Jones.”

“I’ll go and warn Michael Douglas, then.” Peter left Jim to shake other hands.

And the first of these was a royal one.

“Mr Pooley,” said Prince Charles, “what an honour to meet you.”

Jim blinked his eyes. “You’re wearing—”

“A suit like your own,” said the prince. “Had my chap in Savile Row run it up for me. Have you met my sons?”

Jim shook further royal hands. And admired the matching suits.

“Could I have your autograph?” asked Prince Harry.

Jim made his way to the bar, where he ordered a large, stiff drink. A hand fell on his shoulder and Jim turned to find himself looking up into the face of a tall, slim, well-dressed fellow with a head of blondy hair.