“You have come a long way, Mr Pooley,” said this fellow.

“We haven’t been introduced,” said Jim.

“No, we haven’t, but I know you well.” The fellow put out his hand for a shake and Jim Pooley shook it. And then Jim Pooley shivered. “Your hand …” said Jim.

“A tad cold,” said the fellow. “Poor circulation. Would you care to step outside with me for a moment? There are certain pressing matters that I must discuss with you.”

Jim blew warmth on to his fingers and rubbed them on his tweedy plus-foured trouser leg. There was something very wrong about this tall, slim, blondy-haired fellow, something decidedly—

Jim shivered once again—

Decidedly evil.

“Well …” Jim said.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea.” Professor Slocombe smiled towards Jim. “In case you haven’t been introduced, this is Mr William Starling.”

Jim drew back – drew back, in fact, to a point that was somewhat to the rear of the professor.

“Fear not, Jim,” said Professor Slocombe. “He will not harm you. His moment has passed.”

“My moment has yet to come.” William Starling glared at the professor. His eyes shone glossy black and darkness appeared to form all about him.

Prince Charles said to Harry, “Your granny used to do that.”

“Rather public for this kind of thing, don’t you think?” The professor smiled on, placidly. Starling didn’t smile back.

“I now own the opposing team,” said Starling. “This is one game that you will not win.”

“We shall see,” said the professor.

Starling leaned close to Professor Slocombe. “You have caused me a considerable amount of inconvenience,” he snarled, his voice a harsh and rasping whisper, “but today comes the reckoning. When the final whistle blows, Griffin Park will be mine and, by tomorrow, all the world.”

The professor smiled on. “We shall see,” was all he had to say.

Starling glared, turned and stalked away. Upon reaching the doorway, he slipped upon a banana skin that appeared to have simply materialised and fell heavily to the plushly carpeted floor.

Jim looked at the professor.

“Whoops,” said that man.

“Hoops,” said Barry Bustard to the waiter in the sharp black suit. “I ordered spaghetti hoops.”

The team were tucking into their lunches in a swanky luncheon area. They sat at a long luncheon table; the Manchester United team sat nearby at another. The Manchester United team’s luncheon, however, kept being interrupted by members of the Brentford team asking them for autographs.

And it did have to be said that the Man U lads were finding it rather hard to keep straight faces, because for all of Brentford’s wondrous rising through the Cup qualifiers, the thought of playing the FA Cup Final against a team composed entirely of circus performers – well!

“Well,” said Professor Slocombe. “Doesn’t time fly. It’s half-past two already.”

Jim had just returned from the toilet, where he had made the latest of many trips.

“All right now?” the professor asked.

“I can’t keep my lunch down,” said Jim. “The quails’ knees in Canaletto sauce have done for me.”

“Courage, Jim,” said the elder. “We will prevail. Now best you go down to the changing rooms and give the team one of your inspirational pep talks.”

“But I can’t think of anything to say.”

“You will.” Professor Slocombe patted Jim’s shoulder. “Believe me, you will.”

The team sat in the changing rooms and the team looked most uncomfortable.

“What’s up?” Jim asked. “You all look a bit down. You didn’t eat the quails’ knees, did you?”

Long John Watson raised a mighty hand. “Boss,” he said, “Boss, they laughed at us.”

“Who laughed?” Jim asked.

“The Man U team, they mocked us.”

“Ah,” said Jim. “Take no notice of that. That is what they call a psychological tactic – psyching out the other team. I’ve read about that.”

“But they’re right,” said Barry Bustard, tucking into a bargain bucket of something highly calorific. “We can’t play against them. They’re a real team.”

“All the other teams you’ve played against have been real teams, and we’ve won every match.”

“But this is Wembley, Boss. Wembley is, well, sacred. We won by luck, by flukes, or by something,” said Barry.

“And we’ll win this.”

“No we won’t, Boss. This is real.”

Jim sighed. He knew exactly what Barry meant. This was well and truly real. “No, wait,” said Jim. “I have this,” and he pulled out the professor’s envelope. “Today’s tactics.”

“What?” said Loup-Gary Thompson. “Now? Noooooooooooooow?”

“Easy on the wolf calls,” said Barry. “But do you mean now, Boss? With no practising?”

“Trust me.” Jim put his thumbnail to the envelope. It shredded like rice paper. Jim unfolded the missive and read aloud from it.

“‘The show must go on,’” he read.

Jim paused and reread this, silently and to himself, then turned over the parchment sheet. The other side was empty of words. Jim turned the sheet back over and read it silently once more.

“The show must go on,” said Admiral Theodore Peanut, the thirty-inch-high right mid-fielder.

“The show must go on,” said Clarence Henry, frog-boy and midfielder.

And the words were passed from fellow to fellow. And “Ah,” said Jon Bon Julie, the half-man, half-woman centre-half. “The show must go on, I see.”

“You do?” asked Jim.

“Of course,” said Long John Watson, whose head was on high amongst the stuffed seagulls. “You know what he means, lads, don’t you?”

Blank faces slowly became those of the enlightened.

“The show must go on,” said Bobo, juggling three half-time oranges. “It’s a masterstroke. It’s inspired.”

“Ah yes. Ah yes.” Heads began to nod. And voices turned into cheers.

Jim did gawpings all around. “The show must go on,” he said. Blankly.

“You’re a genius, Boss,” said the human half of Humphrey Hampton. “That is the one thing that every performer understands – the sacred code of the performer. We won’t let you down.”

“I’m so pleased,” said Jim.

“And the modesty of the man,” said Don to Phil. “Coming up with something like that and not even wanting to take the credit.”

“The man’s a saint,” said Phil. “The show must go on.”

And Don and Phil cheered heartily, and so did the rest of the team.

Pooley shook his head and all manner of hands. “Good, because you’re on in two minutes. I just have to use the toilet.”

Professor Slocombe awaited Jim outside, in the corridor.

“How went the pep talk?” he asked.

“The show must go on,” said Jim.

“Then all will be well. And Jim?”

“Yes, Professor?”

“We will succeed.”

Jim Pooley went off to the toilet.

John Omally sat upon the turf-side bench, in the dugout (as it is oft-times called) that was reserved for the Brentford team. Beside him sat Big Bob.

“Verily I say unto you,” said the big one, “this is one hell of a stadium.”

Big Bob had to raise his big voice above the chantings of rival supporters and the brass outpourings of the Iain Banks Big Band that marched up and down on the pitch. The atmosphere was, as they say, electric. Because there is truly no place like Wembley.

Truly electric it was.

“Electric, you see,” said Terrence Jehovah Smithers. “The barrels spin and six thousand rounds per minute come out of them.”

“They’ve very heavy guns,” said the Second Sponge Boy, “and this is a very cramped little van.”

“It’s not a van,” said the driver, one Mahatma Campbell. “It’s a Morris Traveller – a half-timbered classic piece of automotive history famous for its light petrol consumption and its top speed of sixty-five miles per hour.”