“The referee is in consultation with Mr Pooley. Officials are on the pitch. The crowd is in absolute uproar.

“Now wait, wait. Something is coming up on my monitor. I have a list of the team members and I certainly don’t recognise any of these names. Cottingham, Christie, Haigh, Gein, Denke, De Rais, Beane, Fish, Landru, Holmes and the team captain and centre forward, Jack Lane.

“And there’s more. Well, I never knew this. Apparently the FA rulebook was supplemented in nineteen twenty-eight after the last Brentford victory. It states that ‘in the unlikely situation that a team in the FA Cup Final is composed entirely of circus performers, and these performers are unable to continue into the second half, the team may be replaced by a reserve team of the manager’s choosing’. Well, that is news to me. I thought I knew all the rules of soccer, but I never knew that. And yes, there’s a footnote. Apparently the rule was added by the temporary FA Cup committee chairman – chairman for one day only, apparently – a Mr Norman Hartnel, not to be confused with the other Norman Hartnel.”

There was much confusion on the pitch. William Starling was on the pitch, shouting at the ref. The ref was shouting at Jim Pooley. Jim Pooley was shouting back at all and sundry. Certain officials with copies of the FA Cup Rulebook were doing shoutings of their own.

The only folk not actually shouting were the players. The Man U fellows stared at the mysterious Brentford team. The Brentford team stood about, hands in pockets, nonchalantly smoking Wild Woodbine cigarettes.

The ref’s shouting diminished as the officials with the rulebooks demanded that he begin the second half. William Starling stalked from the pitch. Jim shrugged and returned to the bench where Professor Slocombe sat.

Norman sat with the professor and John Omally and a portly fellow that Jim knew to be Norman’s Uncle Herbert.

Jim Pooley viewed Norman and Jim Pooley blinked. Norman, it seemed, had grown a moustache. Surely you couldn’t do that in just ten minutes.

Norman put his thumbs up to Jim, who slowly sat down beside him.

“Sorted,” said Norman.

Jim Pooley shook his befuddled head. “You had something to do with this? How?”

“Don’t ask,” said Norman. “But it took a great deal of effort and a great deal of time.”

“But who are they?” Jim pointed towards the Brentford side, who were now doing knee-bends and arm-stretch exercises whilst still sucking on their Wild Woodbines.

“Surely you recognise them,” said Norman. “You’ve seen their photos in The Four Horsemen often enough. Back by popular demand, you might say. It’s the nineteen twenty-eight Brentford FA Cup-winning team.”

Jim shook his head once more.

“Actually,” said Norman, “you really have my Uncle Herbert here to thank. He let me borrow his, er, conveyance. Jim Pooley, allow me to introduce to you Mr H.G. Wells.

“You see, he’s not really my Uncle Herbert,” Norman continued. “He’s really Mr H.G. Wells, inventor of the Time Machine.”

The referee blew his whistle and the second half was on.

The Second Sponge Boy pulled a ski-mask down over his face.

“What is that?” asked Terrence Smithers.

“Disguise,” said Sponge Boy. “CCTV cameras and all. Here, I’ve brought one for you.”

“Thank you, Sponge.” Terrence donned the ski-mask.

“Positively Eddie ‘the Eagle’ Edwards.”

“How about one for the Campbell?”

Sponge Boy viewed the Highlander, who sat in the front seat of the Morris Traveller sharpening his claymore on an oilstone. “I don’t think a mask will help,” said Sponge Boy.

An alarm clock suddenly rang, putting the wind up Terrence and Sponge Boy. The Campbell plucked it from his sporran and beat it to silence with his oilstone.

“It’s time,” said he. “Let us go into action.”

It was all action at Wembley stadium. Mr Merkin was jumping about in his seat. “And it’s Lane, Lane to Haigh, a long chip to the outside, intercepted by Rivaldo, and Rivaldo brought down by Gein. The ref’s blown his whistle, he’s showing Gein the yellow card. Gein is bowing to the ref, he’s shaking the ref’s hand. Lane is shaking the ref’s hand also. Oh, and the ref didn’t see that, that was on his blind side – Holmes has kicked Ronaldo in what I can only describe as the testicles. Ronaldo is down, he’s complaining, but the ref hasn’t seen him, he’s calling for the free kick. And Rivaldo has taken it, to Beckham, Beckham to Rivaldo – a lovely cross there, and he’s inside the box and he’s scored! Oh yes. A beautiful goal. A magnificent goal. Three-two to Manchester United.”

Jim looked towards the professor. “They scored,” he cried. “You let them score.”

“I’ll take no part in this, if Starling does not,” said the professor.

“What are you saying?”

“Let’s allow a little bit of sportsmanship here, Jim. Holmes clearly fouled Ronaldo behind the ref’s back.”

“But he’s on our side, Professor.”

“Yes, but this is Wembley.”

“But we have all the world to play for.”

“The game’s not over yet, Jim. Football is a game of two halves, you know.”

Jim shook his head towards John. Who shrugged.

Jim lit up a cigarette. “I could do with a beer,” said he.

“I’ll go and get a round in,” said Norman. “Any particular decade you favour? I’ll be back before you even know I’m gone.”

“Go! Go! Go!” shouted the Campbell. Sponge Boy kicked the Traveller’s rear doors open and he and Terrence hefted their awesome weaponry into the Consortium building’s car park. The Campbell flung himself from the vehicle, wielding his sacred claymore.

The two men and the man who was no man at all advanced in haste across the car park. Terrence aimed and fired his minigun, and the rear doors of the building exploded into shattered fragments.

“Into the building,” ordered the Campbell.

Alarm bells started to ring.

“Some alarm here from the Brentford supporters,” Mr Merkin bawled into his mask-mic. “An easy goal there for Manchester United, the Brentford offensive formation showing its weakness there. I see Mr Pooley, in his distinctive attire, shouting out to his team and they’re changing positions. He’s put De Rais on the right wing, and has moved Beane to centre half. But having never seen this particular side play, I can’t say whether that’s a good move or not. But the ref’s blown his whistle and Lane is taking the kickoff. And it’s Lane to Holmes to Denke, a neat little pass there, Denke dribbles the ball, and in a fashion we don’t see any more. The Brentford team’s tactics seem positively pre-war.”

“Positively ripping,” said Sponge Boy as he, Terrence and the Campbell burst into the Consortium building.

Professor Slocombe cast his ancient eye across the pitch towards William Starling. Starling had a mobile phone against his ear and he was shouting into it. As the professor looked on, Starling rose from the bench and took his leave.

“He’s going,” said Jim. “Why is he leaving?”

“I believe he has received an alarm call from the Consortium building,” said the professor.

“But he’s going to leave the match? Knowing that you—”

“Knowing that I must follow him, Jim. He is confident that his team will beat ours. After all, didn’t his boys just score that easy goal?”

“Ah,” said Jim, “I see. But about the team …?”

“Have confidence, Jim. I must go.”

“Then I must go with you.”

“No, Jim, you stay here, advise the team on tactics. You’re better at it than you think.”