Free Knees Up Mother Earth by Robert Rankin Page A

and laughed and laughed and laughed.
    Jim Pooley shivered. “Now I know how Neville felt,” he said. “It’s horrible when you see someone else do it.”
    Omally crossed himself. “Holy Mary, mother of God, have mercy upon us,” he prayed.
    At length, Professor Slocombe ceased his frantic hilarity. He sucked draughts of air into his narrow chest, mopped his eyes with an oversized red gingham handkerchief and repositioned his pince-nez on to his nose. “You will indeed be the death of me,” he gasped.
    “But it is possible,” said Omally.
    “John,” said Professor Slocombe, “many things are
possible
– but just because something is
possible
does not imply that it
can
or
will
be.”
    “But it is possible,” Omally protested. “Brentford could in theory win the FA Cup.”
    “Could it?” Jim asked.
    “Certainly,” said John, “and in as little as eight games. Don’t you know anything about football, Jim?”
    “I remember Stanley Matthews,” said Pooley. “Didn’t he marry one of the Beverley Sisters?”
    “That was Billy Fury,” said John.
    “Wright,” said Professor Slocombe. “Billy Wright.”
    “They were brothers,” said Jim. “They invented the jet plane.”
    “Whittle,” said John.
    Jim whistled.
    “Not whistle, Whittle, Frank Whittle.”
    “What team did he play for?” Jim asked.
    “He didn’t play for any team and he didn’t marry one of the Beverley Sisters,” said John.
    “Then you’ve got the wrong fellow,” said Jim, “which goes to show how much you know.”
    Professor Slocombe raised his hand once more. “Stop it now,” he said, “or I might be forced to give you both a smack.”
    “I don’t know much about football,” said Jim, “but I know what I like.”
    “Which is?” said John.
    “Half-time,” said Jim. “They give you an orange to suck, or is it a lime?”
    “Limes are the navy,” said John. “To stave off scurvy.”
    “Scurvy?” Jim asked. “Which team does he play for?”
    “Enough,” said the professor. And he meant it.
    “What I’m saying,” said John, “is that it is
possible
for Brentford to win the FA Cup. And in eight games. It doesn’t matter that they’ve lost every game they’ve played so far this season. Those weren’t FA Cup qualifying games. Those are the only ones they need to win. It works out at eight games, if they get eight straight wins.”
    “Well,” said Jim, “that seems relatively simple. How come the team’s never thought of doing that?”
    John almost gave Jim a smack, but he restrained himself. “I’m quite sure the team
have
thought of it. Many times. At the beginning of every season. The problem is that the team is not a particularly talented team. It is a team that lacks for the vital spark which—”
    “What John is trying to say,” said Professor Slocombe, “is that Brentford United are, I believe the word is,
crap
.”
    “Ah,” said Jim, and he tapped at his nose. “I see.”
    John Omally rolled his eyes.
    Professor Slocombe shook his head. “Exactly what do you want from me, John?” he enquired. “Since financial support is out of the question, what is it that I can offer you?”
    “Ah.” John Omally now tapped at
his
nose. “Well, here’s the thing. The Consortium have granted Neville the opportunity to appoint a new manager for the club.”
    “Ah, I see.” Professor Slocombe now tapped at
his
nose.
    “There’s an awful lot of nose-tapping going on,” said Jim. “Is it a Masonic thing?”
    “I understand you,” said the professor to John. “You are thinking that I might use my connections to secure a new manager for the club, one who might take them on to glory.”
    Omally nodded enthusiastically.
    Professor Slocombe tugged open a desk drawer. “I’ll have a look in my address book,” said he. “I think I have Sven Goran Erickson’s telephone number.”
    “You do?” said John.
    Professor Slocombe raised an eyebrow and slammed his desk drawer shut. “No,” said he,