Knees Up Mother Earth (24 page)

“You promise?” said Ernest.

“You have my word.”

“He hasn’t let us down so far,” said Dave Quimsby. “The boss knows what he’s doing.”

“Thank you, Dave,” said Jim. “Now, how best to explain this, I wonder? Ah yes, have any of you ever seen a chorus line dancing? Like the Tiller Girls? Remember them?”

Blank faces gazed back at Jim.

“Right,” said Jim. “Well, form yourselves into a line, arms about each other’s waists, like so. Yes. No, not like that. And …”

It did take some hours. And to the casual observer who might have been looking down from the stands, it certainly didn’t look like football.

“It looks more like origami to me,” said the casual observer. “But then what do I know, I’m still on the run from the men in white coats.”

But the team worked hard, and Jim worked hard, and at length all was achieved in the unorthodox manner in which it was desired that it should be achieved.

“That’s it, then,” said Jim, panting for breath. “You’ve all done very well. Do it like that tomorrow and we will win the match.”

“With a bit of luck,” said Dave.

“Oh yes indeed,” Jim agreed. “With a bit of luck, we will.”

“So you won’t let us down, Boss?” said Dave.

“Of course not,” said Jim.

“There, lads,” said Dave, “I told you he wouldn’t let us down.”

“Of course I won’t,” said Jim. “Did you think I would?”

“I didn’t,” said Dave, “but some of the others were doubtful.”

“Shame on you,” said Jim to the others.

“They said you wouldn’t do it.”

“Of course I will,” said Jim. “Do what, by the way?”

“Do the thing that brought us luck last time.”

“Ah,” said Jim, “the pep talk on the field of play. Have no fear on that point.”

“No, not that, Boss. The lucky thing. The thing that brought us luck, that made us win last time. Sportsmen are superstitious, you know that, and once a thing is done once and it works, it becomes a talisman – a token of good luck.”

“Well, whatever it was that I did, I promise I will do it again,” said Jim. “What was it, by the way?”

“Wear your lucky Bertie Wooster suit,” said Dave.

Scoop Molloy had been given a special pass by John Omally that gave him access to Griffin Park’s executive box.

Now, there are executive boxes and there are executive boxes. Happily, time and space forbid a prolonged monologue upon the disparities. However, let it be said that Griffm Park’s executive box did not rank amongst the higher echelons of the executive box world.

“This is not so much a box,” Scoop observed, “it’s more of a carton.”

“I have a new carpet on order,” said John, “and new seating also and a bar will shortly be installed.”

“And then there’ll be no room for anyone.”

“It’s not normally so crowded.”

But tonight it
was
. Because tonight the home team, who had so recently wrought desolation upon Penge, had drawn something of a crowd. And the executive box was packed to capacity and beyond with all the local sponsors of the team.

Mr Goddard was there. And Mr Paine, the undertaker. And Mr Ratter, the jeweller. And Mohammed Smith from the sports shop. And Mr Kay, of Kay’s Electrical Stores. And a good many others who had coughed up their hard-earneds to have John put their logos upon the team’s kaftans, and who were all entitled, by merit of their sponsorship, to a seat in the executive box. And there were others, too, others who really shouldn’t have been there. Others who didn’t deserve to be there, but who had demanded that because of “their rank”, they should be there.

These others were Town Councillors Vic “Vanilla” Topping, Doris Whimple and David Berkshire (David Berkshire was hard to spot, but he was in there somewhere). These town councillors had decided that they had better make an appearance, in the pretence that they supported the team. Omally had been all for sending them packing, but Jim, being Jim, had let them stay.

“Shift along,” said the voice of Norman Hartnel as the scientific shopkeeper elbowed his way into the crush. “Give my girlfriend a seat.”

“Who let you in?” John Omally asked.

“Jim did,” said Norman. “I’ve decided that I will invest in the club when my money comes in. In fact, I’ve decided to buy it.”

“That’s all very well,” said John, “but—”

“I bunged Jim one hundred pounds up front, to seal the deal, as it were.”

“Where did you get one hundred pounds?”

“Insurance money for my lock-up. I’m glad I had that terrorist-attack clause written into my insurance policy. It always pays to think ahead, doesn’t it?”

“Apparently so.”

“I’ve brought my own champagne,” said Norman, proffering the bottle, “so you don’t need to buy me any.”

“Ah,” said Mr Ratter, who was getting somewhat squashed, “the champagne. You did mention champagne, didn’t you, Omally?”

“I’ll get to it,” said John. “And for God’s sake don’t all stamp your feet when the team scores or you’ll find yourselves down in the cheap seats.” And with that he eased himself out of the executive box and went off in search of Jim.

Jim was to be found in the changing rooms, giving the team a pep talk. It was a most inspired pep talk this evening, which likened the noble game of football to a beautiful garden that had to be nurtured and cherished, its darling buds and precious blooms coaxed into being. And so on and so forth and such like. Most of it didn’t mean much to the team, but Jim’s words flowed over them, wonderfully, magically. Into Jim’s head and out of Jim’s mouth, these wonder words got the job jobbed.

“Sporting your lucky suit, I see,” said John when Jim had done with his wondrous words.

“Lucky suit,” said Jim and he said it slowly and with thought.

“Or so I heard,” said John, with haste. “Is everything hunky-dory?”

“Our rivals are changing next door – the Campbell is looking after them.”

“Lucky them.”

“And the BBC? You said you were making phone calls on your portable telephone. Are the BBC going to cover the match?”

“Ah,” said John.

“Ah?” said Jim.

“Well, I had a bit of trouble with the BBC. They said that they were covering a match involving a team called Manchester United tonight. Some bunch of Northerners.”

“So they won’t be covering us?”

“Sadly, no. But I got the next-best thing.”

“And what is that?”

“The voices of Free Radio Brentford.”

Jim made groaning sounds. “Those mad blokes – Terrence Jehovah Smithers and the Second Sponge Boy?”

“They’re cult figures. They have a lot of something called ‘street cred’.”

“And what does that mean?”

“I’ve no idea,” said John, “but they’re very popular. They’ll be covering the match live, and their portable transmitter is very powerful. They say they’ll turn it up full blast and it will cut into every radio and TV channel in a five-mile radius. Think publicity, Jim. Think further sponsorship.”

“Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear,” said Jim.

“The professor is waiting for you on the bench,” said John. “Oh yes, and he told me to mention that –” Omally perused his wristlet watch “– it’s five minutes now to kick off.”

“Four minutes now to kick off,” said Terrence Jehovah Smithers. “Should we go live, do you think?”

“Give it another minute or two,” said the Second Sponge Boy. “We’re all linked up, aren’t we?”

The two of them lay commando fashion, in the company of many cans of lager on the roof of the executive box. They had microphones strapped about their necks and headphones on their heads. Cables ran from their portable transmitters, conveying their words to a knackered VW camper van that kept constantly on the move through the eveningtime streets of Brentford. From this van their words would be broadcast to each and every thing of an electrical nature within a five-mile radius, including pop-up toasters, hairdryers and items from the Ann Summers catalogue. It was all very hi-tech, bought-over-the-Internet and utterly illegal.

Terrence Jehovah Smithers and the Second Sponge Boy, cult figures and local legends, were not, as such, much to look at. They were slim and pale and pinched; they wore baggy trousers and training shoes (although neither of them were actually sportsmen) and the “hoodie” – a kind of hooded jerkin much favoured by the criminal underclass in order to evade recognition on CCTV.

“Let’s go for it,” said Terrence. “The teams are coming on to the pitch.”

The Second Sponge Boy clicked on his microphone and spoke the words, “Go live,” into it.

In the rear of the ever-moving camper van, a fellow who in legal jargon is known as “an accomplice” pressed a button upon a small black box and replied with the words, “You’re on.”

“Good evening, all,” said Terrence, “and welcome to the big match.”

And all over Brentford – and, in fact, for a five-mile radius – his words poured forth from every television set and radio set and crystal set and—

“Oh my goodness,” said Peg, who, left to her own devices at home, was enjoying one of these devices. “Who’s in there?”

And moving swiftly on.

“I’m Terry,” said Terrence.

“And I’m Sponge,” said Sponge Boy.

“And we’re broadcasting to you live from Brentford, where giant-slayers the Bees are preparing to make short work of Orton Goldhay Wanderers.”

“Very short work,” said Sponge Boy, “positively dwarflike. And the teams are marching out on to the pitch, the home team in their distinctive stylish kaftans—”

“It’s what everybody will soon be wearing this year,” said Terrence.

“Is it?” said Sponge Boy.

“It is.”

“Well, I won’t be.”

“Just get on with the commentary,” said Terrence.

“Absolutely. The home team – deprived, I understand, of their right-winger, Billy Kurton, but with a most unique substitute in the twin figures of Don and Phil English, who, I am told, are currently appearing in Count Otto Black’s
Circus Fantastique
on Ealing Common.”

“Were you paid to say that?”

“Of course I was.”

“Then open up a beer.”

Beers were opened and guzzlings were done.

“The home team,” said Terrence. And he proceeded to name the home team and sing their praises.

“And the other mob,” said Sponge. “And the ref is tossing the coin. And the home team have won the toss.”

On the bench, Jim Pooley eyed Professor Slocombe.

“Did you?” he asked.

Professor Slocombe smiled back at Jim. “As if I would,” he said.

“And what is this?” said Terrence. “What kind of formation would you call that, Sponge Boy?”

“Well, Terry, as you know, you have your four-three-threes, your three-three-fours, your two-four-fours and your four-four-twos. And, of course, if you’re into DIY, you have your two-by-one.”

“I know a song about that,” said Terrence.

“Me, too,” said Sponge Boy. “Positively Eurovision.”

“So what would you call the formation the home team are employing tonight?”

“A ten-zero-zero, I suppose,” said Sponge Boy.

“And let’s see how it’s going. They’re dribbling the ball between them. Cardinal Cox, Orton Goldhay’s left-winger, has come in for a tackle. Now they’ve closed ranks into a sort of circle formation and they’re moving forward … ah … and now they’ve broken into a kind of dance. What kind of a dance would you say that was, Sponge?”

“A kind of Russian dance, Terry, in a circle. Positively Cossack.”

“Orton Goldhay are massing their forces now. All their players are trying to kick their way into the circle.”

“Now that’s fouling, Terry. The ref won’t have that.”

“No he won’t, Sponge, he’s showing them all the yellow card.”

“But Brentford are still moving forward, if in a sort of circular pattern.”

“It’s very graceful, though, isn’t it? That’s a sort of square-dance formation now, isn’t it?” said Terrence.

“More of a line-dance, I’d say. That Mahingay is very light on his toes for a Sikh.”

“Not as light as that Dave Quimsby.”

“I heard that,” said Dave Quimsby. “I hope you’re not implying that I’m a poof.”

“They’ve almost reached the box,” said Terrence.

“Very nice for them,” said Sponge Boy.

“And the Orton Goldhay team are in the box, too. They’re confused. The goalie is confused. He’s running from side to side.”

“Positively crablike, Terry.”

“Oh and there it goes. The ball is in the air. The crowd is on its feet. And
IT’S A GOAL!
”

“Oh, and what a goal, Terry. And a victory dance, too. What kind of dance would you say that one was?”

“The macarena, Sponge Boy.”

“The macarena,” said Jim. “Did I say anything to you about doing the macarena?”

Jim was in the changing room now. The team was in the changing room now. It was half-time now. The team were eating their oranges. Now.

“Did I say anything to you about doing the macarena?” Jim asked once again.

“No,” said Alf, “you didn’t.”

“Then why did you do it?”

“Well, Boss, we got carried away, what with the early goal and everything.”

“And so what happened next?”

The lads’ heads went down.

“They scored two goals, Boss. On the trot.”

“On the trot,” said Jim. “
Two goals
. And so what happened next?”

“You shouted at us, Boss.”

“And I heard you, Boss,” said Dave Quimsby, “and I passed it on.”

“You did,” said Jim. “And so what happened next?”

“We scored three more,” said Alf, “on the trot, while doing the Wall Street shuffle.”

“You did,” bawled Jim. And he flung his hands into the air.

There was almighty cheering and Jim was lifted shoulder-high. Which was a pity as the ceiling was low and Jim’s head hit it with force.

“Are you all right, Boss?” asked Trevor Brooking
[31]
, fanning at the semi-conscious Pooley with a programme.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” said Pooley, who wasn’t. “Perhaps a tad confused. Go back out there and give ’em Hell. What are we?”

“We are the lords of the dance, are we,” went up the chorus.

“Oh yes we are,” said Jim.

“And it’s coming up to the second half, Terry,” said Sponge Boy. “Would you care to make any considered observations regarding the team’s performance during the first half?”

“Not many, Sponge. They were strong, I thought, on the modern dances, particularly the twist and the watuzi. But they were definitely weak in the old-time numbers. Their waltz lacked for finesse and the tango would have been spoiled altogether if it hadn’t been for the English brothers, who I felt gave a spirited interpretation, especially when they neatly covered that professional foul on Orton Golday’s striker Micky Carroll.”

“Do you think we’ll be seeing any free-form in the second half?”

“Self-expression through the medium of dance?”

“That’s the kiddie,” said Sponge Boy.

“I shouldn’t think so. My guess would be that they might go for a conga.”

“But that’s only your guess.”

“Or possibly the birdie.”

“One of my all-time favourites.”

Brentford’s glory boys left out the lambada. They turned down the tango, they shunned the shimmy, they side-stepped the sand dance and avoided the vogue. They pooh-poohed the polka, shirked the shake, dodged the disco, bypassed the bumps-a-daisy, spurned the salsa, flouted the flamenco, rejected the rumba and baulked at the bolero—

They even nixed the knees-up, Mother Brown.

“It’s the Tennessee wig-walk, Terry.”

“No one remembers the Tennessee wig-walk, Sponge.”

“Then they’re walkin’ the dog.”

“I beg to differ with you, Sponge, I think you’ll find they’re doing the Lambeth Walk.”

“It’s definitely a very ‘walk’-orientated dance.”

“Perhaps they’re doing the ‘Walk of Life’ by Dire Straits,” said Terrence.

“Perish the thought, but whatever they’re doing, it’s
ANOTHER GOAL!
”

The home crowd were doing all manner of dances.

The executive boxers did the March of the Mods.

“Don’t do that,” shouted Omally. “The floor will go through.”

“They’re certainly leading Orton Goldhay a merry dance, Sponge.”

“They certainly are, Terry, positively lurch-puddle-like.”