Free Knees Up Mother Earth by Robert Rankin

went with this land that made Brentford a separate principality. I am presently researching into where these land titles eventually went. Who actually owns what? It is fascinating stuff. And it might well prove that Brentford is a separate state – indeed, a separate country.”
    Omally stifled a yawn. And did so with considerable skill.
    “If it turns out that I own the rooms I’m renting,” said Jim, “then please put me down for a copy of your book when it’s published.”
    “Oh, I don’t ever expect it to be published.” Professor Slocombe finished his sherry. “This is more a labour of love. My love is for knowledge. All knowledge.”
    “Do you know anything about football?” Omally asked.
    “Aha, at last.” Professor Slocombe grinned from ear to ear. And his ears, as befitting an elderly gentleman, were large for the size of his head. For men’s ears keep on growing, as those who know these things know well.
    “Football.” Professor Slocombe tugged upon the overlarge lobe of his fine left ear. “Now what do I know about football?”
    “I don’t know,” said Omally. “What?”
    “Well,” said Professor Slocombe, “I know that the game began right here in Brentford.”
    “It did
what
?” The voice of surprise belonged to Jim Pooley.
    “My researches disclose that the game began in the year AD thirty-nine, when Julius Caesar kicked the skull of a Briton across the ford of the river Brent and a plucky Brentonian booted it right back. The skull struck Caesar in the head, unseating him from his horse.”
    “One-nil to Brentford,” cried Jim, beginning a Mexican wave.
    “Something of an own goal, I’m afraid,” said the professor. “Caesar had his troops lay waste to Brentford. His troops then played an impromptu game of soccer with the plucky Brentonian’s head on the very area that is now Griffin Park.”
    “Significant,” said Omally.
    “That an Italian took the first kick? Possibly so; football is considered Italy’s second religion.”
    “Griffin Park,” said John. “The football ground. That’s what we’ve come here to talk to you about.”
    “It was John’s idea, sir,” said Jim. “I’ve been telling him not to waste your time.”
    “My time is
never
wasted.” Professor Slocombe raised a fragile hand. “Word has already reached me regarding the decision of the local council to sell off the ground. I regret that I never stood for one of the vacant seats. I could probably have stopped it. I certainly would have put my name forward, had not Neville done so.”
    Omally chewed upon his upper lip. “It’s a sad business,” said he, “a part of Brentford’s glorious history being ripped like a bleeding heart from the prone body of the borough.”
    “Most colourfully put, John. I did not know that you were a football fanatic”
    “It’s ‘fan’,” said John, “and I’m not really. But this isn’t right. You of all people, with all your knowledge and love of the borough, know it’s not right.”
    Professor Slocombe shook his old white head. “It’s not right,” he said. “But I do not possess the financial wherewithal to pay off the club’s debts, if that is what you were thinking to ask me.”
    “Well …” said Omally.
    “You
weren’t
?” said Jim. “That’s not what you were thinking?”
    “It was a thought,” said John. “A thought, no more.”
    “And that’s why we came here?”
    Omally shook his head. “There’s more,” he explained. “The club can be saved – in theory. Neville got it written into the contracts. A company known as the Consortium has taken over the club’s debts, but if Brentford can win the FA Cup this season, then the debts will be cancelled and the club saved.”
    “Brentford win the FA Cup?”
    Omally nodded.
    There was a brief moment of silence and then Professor Slocombe exploded into laughter. His frangible frame rocked and great tears welled in his dew-blue eyes. He clasped the desk with his delicate fingers