Knees Up Mother Earth

44

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.”

“No!” said Jim, turning to the team. “Is this true?”

Heads nodded sombrely.

“The bastard,” said Jim. “The evil bastard.”

“We’d like to stay,” piped Admiral Theodore Peanut. “We’d really like to win the match for you, Boss, but …”

Jim Pooley sighed. “It’s not your fault,” said he, reaching down to pat the midget’s tiny shoulder. “I should have known. This Starling made attempts upon the lives of John and me. He was thwarted and forced to swear that he would never do so again. But it all makes sense now, why we lost Brentford players before each match. He swore not to harm John and me, but—”

“He snuffed out the team,” said John in an appalled tone.

“The circus folk substituted and so he bought out the circus,” said Jim.

“So they’re dead.” John Omally, although made of sterling stuff, found his knees now trembling. “Alf and Dave and Ernest and all of them.” John’s voice trailed off.

“Or maybe he just put pressure upon them,” said Jim, “like he has here. Told them to get out of town, or else.”

“Let’s hope so,” said John.

Jim slumped down upon a bench. “It’s all over,” he said. “Starling has won.”

“We really would like to help,” said Admiral Theodore Peanut.

Jim waved a hand. “You’ve all done your best,” said he. “You have all done wonderfully, every last one of you, and I thank you for it. I can hold nothing against you. You must put your loved ones first. Go now. Go to your loved ones and go with my blessings.”

“Thank you, Boss,” said Admiral Theodore Peanut.

And with that, the circus folk left the changing room, each in his or his/her own special way.

Leaving Jim alone with John.

“We’re doomed,” said Jim. “This time we’re really doomed.”

John slumped down on to the bench and gave Jim’s shoulder a pat.

“We’re finished,” said Jim, and there was a tear in his eye.

John put an arm around his best friend’s shoulders. “You did your best,” he told him. “You really did, Jim. It’s not your fault. Everybody tried their hardest – you, the professor, the circus performers – but Starling outsmarted us. Big business, Jim. Big business and big, big money. An undefeatable combination.”

“But there must be something we can do, John. It can’t just end like this.”

“We can’t play without a team, Jim. I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do.”

Jim’s head slumped further and then it jerked up. “We could,” he said. “We could do something.”

“What?” Omally asked.

“Get the lads together, all the lads from The Flying Swan, and you and me – we could make up a team.”

John looked hard into the eyes of Jim and then John shook his head. “Can’t be done,” said he. “It’s against the rules. You can’t field an entirely new team in the second half.”

“Perhaps if I asked the referee nicely,” Jim suggested.

John squeezed Jim’s shoulder. “Sorry,” he said, “but it was a nice try. I’m afraid that nothing short of a miracle is going to help us. We’d need God himself to walk into this dressing room right now.”

The dressing room door swung slowly open.

John looked at Jim.

And Jim looked at John.

And then the both of them looked …

At Norman.

Norman stuck his head around the dressing-room door. He had dyed his wig the team colours. “Hello, lads,” said he. “How’s it going? Two-all, eh? Pretty good going. But I just saw the Brentford team getting on to the bus.”

“A miracle?” said Jim. “We’re doomed.”