“And running like a dream through these empty streets of Chiswick,” said Sponge Boy. “Positively downstream.”

“I will park around the back of the Consortium building. We can then storm the premises from there.”

“Storm the premises,” said Terrence. “I like that.”

“And you have the explosives?” Sponge Boy asked the Campbell.

“I have enough Semtex here to blow the Dread Cthulhu’s tentacles so far up his unholy arse that—”

“The building’s ahead,” said Terrence, pointing. “And my sweet Lord, look at the size of it.”

“Size isn’t everything, Terry,” said Sponge Boy. “It’s what you do with it that counts.”

“And we’re counting down to the big match,” shouted world-famous, soon to be knighted for his services to commentating, five times voted bestest BBC commentator at the FA Cup and lovely fellow who spends most weekends with his family and to whom no taint of a scandal would ever attach itself, Mr Mickie Merkin. He sat in the commentary box, holding one of those special microphones that look like an oxygen mask over his face, probably in an attempt to stifle out the roaring of the crowd and the other commentators who shared the box and shouted into theirs. “And what a match this is going to be. Giant-slayers Brentford United up against the other United, Manchester, fielding today a team unsurpassed in its history in terms of finance. Multimillionaire William Starling, who purchased the club this week, has spared no expense bringing in the very cream of the world’s talent.

“A quick run-down on that line-up. We have Ronaldo, Rivaldo, Ricardo, Riviera, Rivaleno, Risotto, Rikkitikkitavio, Riboflavino, Ridleyscotto, Rizlapapero and Sir David Beckham. This is possibly the most formidable side ever fielded in footballing history.

“And their opponents, what can you say about their opponents? As extraordinary as it might seem, not a single member of the original Brentford United team who began this sensational season will be playing today. This team is composed entirely of performers from Count Otto Black’s Circus Fantastique. Today they are fielding:

“Clarence Henry, frog-boy.

“Bobo the clown.

“Zippy the pinhead.

“Don and Phil English, conjoined twins.

“Loup-Gary Thompson, wolf-boy.

“Barry Bustard, fattest man south of the Wash.

“Admiral Theodore Peanut, smallest man who ever lived.

“Humphrey Hampton, half-man, half-hamburger.

“Jon Bon Julie, half-man, half-woman (no hamburgers, bacon sandwich, hair pie).

“Harry the Human Holdall.

“And Long John Watson, their giant goalkeeper, nine feet tall and with a reach of over ten feet.

“The FA Cup Final has certainly never seen a team like this before, and frankly, the mind boggles. I tried to catch a word with their manager earlier, the now legendary James ‘Mr Bertie Wooster’ Pooley, fashion icon and team’s inspiration, but he had to rush off to the toilet. I spoke instead to his personal assistant, John Omally.”

“Run VT,” said the director, who lurked unseen, somewhere or other.

“Mr Omally,” said Mr Merkin to John, in the executive suite. John had his arm around the shoulder of a certain blonde female Swedish TV presenter. “Mr Omally, this has been a remarkable season for Brentford United.”

“It’s been a very special season for us,” said John. “The last time Brentford won the FA Cup was in nineteen twenty-eight, when Jack Lane captained the team to its second successive victory.”

“And you really think that Brentford can do it again?”

John grinned broadly towards the camera. “Are we not men?” he said. “We are Brentonians.”

“Would you care, then, to make a prediction?”

John’s hand tweaked a buttock of the blonde female Swedish TV presenter. “We’re going to score,” said he.

“We’re going to score,” said Mickie Merkin. “And who is going to doubt them? And yes, the teams are coming on to the pitch. The crowd is in uproar. This is the time and this is the place and history might well be made once again here for underdogs Brentford.

“And yes, they are lining up for the national anthem. And yes …

“Oh dear.

“Bobo the clown has just custard pied Sir David Beckham.”

Jim Pooley buried his face in his hands. “He pied David Beckham,” he said. “The game hasn’t even started and …” Jim looked up. “Oh no, the ref’s showing Bobo the yellow card.”

“And what’s Bobo showing the ref?” Professor Slocombe asked.

“Oh no,” burbled Jim and he buried his face in his hands once again.

“It will be all right.” The professor soothed the distraught manager. “Look, Mr Beckham’s personal hairstylist has come on to the pitch, and his manicurist, and his fashion consultant is bringing him a new pair of Ray Bans to replace the ones that got custard pie on them.”

“That’s a relief,” said Jim.

“The Manchester United fans don’t seem best pleased.” The professor ducked a flying starfish[50] that had been hurled in Jim’s direction. “They’re pelting the pitch.”

“We’ve known worse,” said Jim. “Remember Burnley?”

“I’m trying to forget it. Ah, Mr Beckham’s entourage have left the pitch. The ref is tossing the coin.”

And the ref tossed the coin into the air.

And the eyes of Professor Slocombe focused on that coin (for, like Old Pete, his eyesight was acute). And the eyes of William Starling also focused on that coin (though Starling’s eyes were black as death and glowed a little, too). And the coin rose and rose and reached its apogee.

And there it stayed.

The ref gawped up at the hovering coin, and the teams looked up, and those in the crowd with acute eyesight did also.

Then the coin twisted one way and then the other.

The professor’s eyes narrowed. Starling’s bulged from his head. And, curling and twisting, the coin descended.

To land upon its edge.

Although only the ref could see this, for it lay at his feet in the grass.

The ref waved his hand towards the Man U team.

“Hm,” said Professor Slocombe.

Now, one of the many interesting facts about football – and there are so many interesting facts. Facts, figures, things you didn’t know, there’s books and books and books about them. Far too many, in fact! – but one of those facts is that playing the game is very different from watching it.

Watching it on television or from the stands, the watcher receives an overview, seeing everything from above, spread out beneath. You get as near to the whole picture of what is going on as it really is possible to get.

Which is very unlike being there on the pitch, on the horizontal plane. There’s so much that the players and the ref can’t see[51]. And Wembley has such a BIG pitch.

And of course, being down on the bench, level with the pitch, the manager cannot see everything either.

“What happened there?” Jim asked. “Who took the kickoff?”

“Ricardo,” said Professor Slocombe. “And he’s passed to Rivaldo, who’s tapped it across the wing to Ronaldo. And Ronaldo to Rikkitikkitavio to Ravioli, back to Ricardo, who’s passed it to Ravishankar, to Beckham, to—”

“That’s not the way I see it,” said Jim. “It’s Bobo to Bustard, Bustard to Bon Julie, Bon Julie nice little chip to Clarence Henry who’s hopping with the ball, and he’s passed it to Zippy who’s sitting down on it as if he’s laying an egg. And Hampton’s kicked to Henry, carrying the ball to Admiral Peanut, who in turn is carried with it … oh, and Beckham’s got the ball again.”

“You’re both getting it wrong,” said Omally, who had his mobile phone to his ear. “I’m tuned to Five Live commentary – would you like to listen?”