“No thanks,” said Pooley, lighting a Dadarillo. “That thing will ruin your health.”

“And it’s Riviera …” said Omally.

“It’s Riviera,” bawled Mr Merkin, “to Riboflavino, brought down by Bustard who passes to the English twins, who seem to be arguing over whose legs should kick it, and it’s tackled away from them by Rikkilake, no it’s Ridleyscotto, who has his number-seven shirt on upside down, which made me think it was a number-ten shirt, to Rizlapapero to Risotto to Rivaleno to Rio Grande to Rip Van Winkle, across to Ringwormo, who passes it to Rocky Three (the one with Mr T out of the A Team in it).”

“Hang about,” said Jim. “How many players have Man U got on the pitch? I’m sure I can count about twenty.”

“Oh dear,” said Professor Slocombe. “Let me deal with this.”

“Robroyo,” bawled Mr Merkin, “to Robocopo – no, he’s lost the pass, it’s Loup-Gary Thompson now to Dopey, Dopey down the wing to Sneezy, who blows it across to Doc, across to Happy, over to Sleepy, who slowly dribbles it down the right wing to Bashful.”

“That’s more like it,” said Jim. “But that was only six of the seven dwarfs.”

“Nobody knows all seven,” said Professor Slocombe. “It’s like knowing all Ten Commandments or the Seven Wonders of the World. No one knows the name of the seventh dwarf.”

“It’s Baldy,” said Jim.

“It’s Horny,” said John.

“Tommy?” said Jim.

“Timmy?” said John.

“Jonny?” said Tim.

“Jimmy,” said Tom.

“I’m getting all confused now,” said Jim. “I don’t want to do any more dwarfs.”

“That will please Snow White,” said John. “And who’s that?”

“That’s Grumpy,” said Professor Slocombe. “And yes! He’s scored for Brentford!”

And the Brentford portion of the crowd went mad.

But the ref shook his head.

“He’s disallowing it,” said John.

“Why?” asked Jim.

“Probably due to something in the rule book that says you can only have eleven men in your team.”

“They started it,” said Jim.

“I don’t think that matters,” said John.

“These things matter,” bawled Mr Merkin. “Rules are rules. And it’s coming up on my monitor screen now: ‘Eleven men only shalt thou have, nor aided shall they be by familiars, divers demons, succubae or Walt Disney™ characters.’ Dates back to medieval times, that rule, apart from the last bit, which means nothing to me, oh Vienna.”

“Man U seem to be back to their original eleven players again,” said Jim.

Professor Slocombe rubbed his wrinkled palms together. “I’m really quite enjoying this,” he said.

“I could do with a beer,” said Jim.

“Me, too,” said John. “I’m far too sober for this kind of excitement.”

“I shalt geteth them in,” said Big Bob Charker. “Beers all round?”

“Why not?” said Professor Slocombe.

“Right then, I shall not be a moment.”

Big Bob returned with a tray of beers. “Didst I miss anything?” he asked.

“One-all,” said Jim.

“One-all?” said Big Bob. “How happeneth that so fast?”

“Only kidding,” said Jim.

“Thank the Lord for that.”

“It’s two-one – we’re winning.”

“Now thou art talking.” Big Bob raised his glass in toast.

William Starling glared with his black eyes at the field of play. It was true – the Brentford side were literally running rings around his own players. And he just couldn’t see how they were doing it.

“Exactly how are you doing it?” Jim asked Professor Slocombe.

The old man tapped at his sinewy nose. “I have to concentrate,” said he.

Jim turned to John. “It’s not right, all this,” he said. “This is Wembley, the very cathedral of the beautiful game. This should be sport. This is all wrong.”

John nodded thoughtfully. “You do have a point,” said he. “So shall we suggest to the professor that he stops doing whatever it is that he’s doing? And we’ll let Starling’s team win the FA Cup and Starling demolish Griffin Park, release the Serpent of Eden and bring damnation to all the world as we know it?”

Jim gave the matter some thought.

“Come on, you Bees!” he cheered.

William Starling put on his sunglasses.

They were very special sunglasses.

They filtered the incoming light through a process involving the transperambulation of pseudo-cosmic anti-matter. And they’d cost him an arm and a leg, although not his.

William Starling peered through these special sunglasses and observed that each Brentford player on the pitch appeared to be enclosed within a glittering transparent dome known in occult circles as a cone of protection, and in SF circles as a force field.

“So,” said Starling, and he spoke in the words of a language older than time.

Barry Bustard swung his foot to boot the ball Man-U-goalward, then suddenly stumbled and all but vanished into a hole in the ground.

“Starling,” said Professor Slocombe, “has us, as our American cousins care in their fashion to put it, ‘rumbled’.”

“Barry Bustard’s fallen into a hole,” said Jim.

“And there goes Zippy,” said John.

“And Don and Phil and Jon Bon Julie.”

Professor Slocombe raised his hands and spoke many words of his own. The Brentford players, who were sinking like golf balls on a par-one pitch-and-putt, rose once more to set their studded boots upon terra firma.

But it was all too late and Beckham passed to Rivaldo and Rivaldo hammered in the equalising goal.

And then the ref blew his whistle.

And it was half-time in the match.

Jim Pooley entered the Brentford United changing room.

“Two-all,” said Jim. “Not at all bad, considering. But we are going to have to put in that extra bit of effort if we’re going to win. And we are going to win.”

Jim cast an eye over the players. They were not sucking their oranges.

They were changing out of their heavily logoed team kaftans and putting on their circus clothes.

“What are you doing?” Jim asked. “You have to play in your strips.”

“Sorry, Boss,” said Barry Bustard in a sheepish tone, “but we’re leaving.”

“Leaving?” Jim staggered in the doorway. “What do you mean, leaving? You can’t leave at half-time.”

“No choice, Boss. Sorry,” said Barry.

“No,” said Jim, stepping forwards and gripping the fat man’s ample lapels. “You can’t just walk out. We have a match to win. Have you all gone mad?”

“No choice,” said Barry Bustard.

“What do you mean, ‘no choice’?” Jim’s hands began to flap.

“It’s the circus,” said Barry. “The circus is leaving town, now, and we have to leave with it.”

“You can’t do that. The circus can wait. This is far more important.” Jim tried to control his flapping hands and found that most of himself was now flapping. “Football is more important. Winning this match is more important.”

“It’s not!” Barry Bustard glared into Jim’s eyes. “The circus is leaving now and our families with it.”

“You can catch up with them later.”

“You don’t understand.” Barry Bustard turned away and drew off his tentlike kaftan.

“I certainly do not understand.” Jim stood, quaking and flapping.

“I do,” said John Omally, entering the changing room.

“You do, John? Make them see sense, please.” Jim wrung his quaking shaking flapping hands. Which wasn’t as easy as it might sound.

“I’ve just been having a word with Jon Bon Julie, the half-man, half-woman (no hamburgers, bacon sandwich, hair pie). He/she was dithering over which toilet to use. Apparently Count Otto Black’s Circus Fantastique was bought out this very morning by a certain William Starling. The circus has upped sticks from Ealing Common and been moved away to an undisclosed location. The team have just received word that if they play the second half, they will never see their loved ones again.”