‘This wasn’t how it was supposed to go, you know,’ said Glenda out of a feeling that she should defend the bloody mess.

‘It generally isn’t,’ said the doctor.

They turned as the noise of the nearby crowd changed. Juliet was coming down the steps glittering. The silence followed her like a lovesick dog. So did Pepe and the reassuring bulk of Madame Sharn, who might be a useful barricade in case the Hippo became a cauldron. Trev, tagging along behind them, seemed like an afterthought in comparison.

‘All right, dear, what’s this all about?’ said Pepe.

‘I ain’t going,’ said Juliet, ‘not while Trev’s in here. I ain’t leaving without Trev. Pepe says he’s going to win the match.’

‘What have you been saying?’ said Glenda.

‘He’ll win,’ said Pepe, winking. ‘He’s got a star in his hand. You want to see him do it, missy?’

‘What are you playin’ at?’ said Trev, angrily.

‘Oh, I’m a bit of a conjurer, me. Or maybe a fairy godmother.’ Pepe gestured around the arena. ‘See that lot? Their ancestors screamed to see men killing one another and beasts tearing decent folks apart. Men with spears fighting men with nets and all that kind of ugly shite.’

‘And they have cart-tail sales here every other Sunday,’ added Glenda.

‘It’s always been the same,’ said Pepe. ‘It’s one big creature. Never dies. Crying and screaming and loving and hating all down the generations and you can’t tame it and you can’t stop it. Just for you, young lady, and for the soul of Mister Trev, I’m going to throw it a bone. Won’t take a mo’.’

His slim and slightly spidery form disappeared back up the steps just as the whistle blew. Glenda made out Bledlow Nobbs taking the kick, but Ridcully had made the mistake of thinking that a man who was as big as he was was as clever as he was. And there it was, it was the old game all over again. United were stampeding down the pitch, the old cloggers making way for Andy’s army as they bore down against Nutt. The kick took him in the chest and lifted him into the back of the goal. The whistle blew and was followed by, ‘DON’T TOUCH THAT, BOYO! YOU DON’T KNOW WHERE IT’S BEEN!’ which was followed by, ‘I really am very sorry about that, I don’t know why it happens,’ which was followed by… absolute silence.

Which was broken by one voice, ‘Likely. Likely. Likely.’ It started up in the stand, somewhere near where Pepe had gone.

The beast had forgotten the name ‘Orc’, but certainly remembered the name ‘Likely’, a name that had fed it so often, a name it had given birth to and eaten, a name that was football, the very heart of the beast. And here, on this broken field, it was a name to conjure with. ‘LIKELY! LIKELY! LIKELY!’ Hardly a grown man hadn’t seen him. He was the legend. Even after all these years, it was a name that cut through other loyalties. You told your grandchildren about him. You told them how he lay there bleeding and maybe how you dipped your handkerchief in his blood and kept it for a souvenir.

‘Likely,’ intoned the baritone of Madame Sharn.

‘Likely,’ whispered Glenda and then ‘LIKELY!’ She could see the little figure running along the top of the stands, the chant tailing after it.

Tears streamed down Trev’s face. Mercilessly, Glenda looked him in the eye. ‘Likely! Likely!’

‘But my ol’ mum!’ Trev wept.

Then Juliet leaned over and kissed him and for a moment, the tears were silver. ‘Likely?’

Trev stood clutching and unclutching his hands as the chant went on, then he gave a sort of shrug. Then he took his battered tin can out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Glenda, before turning to face the pitch again. ‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ he said, taking off his jacket, ‘but this is football. And I don’t even have a jersey.’

‘We thought of that,’ said Glenda. ‘When they were being made.’ She pulled one out of the depths of her bag.

‘Number four. That was my dad’s number.’

‘Yes,’ said Glenda. ‘We know. Listen to ’em cheering, Trev.’

Trev looked like someone trying to find an escape clause. ‘I’ve never even trained with the new football. You know me, it’s always been the tin can.’

‘It’s a football. It’s just a football,’ said Nutt. ‘You’ll get the hang of it in a second.’

The former Dean strode up. ‘Well, this is all very gratifying with a touch of welcome pathos, ladies and gentlemen, but it is time we continued this football match and I would be very grateful if all non-players could stand back behind the touchlines,’ he said, shouting to make himself heard above the noise of the crowd.

Trev left Nutt at the goal. ‘Don’t you worry, Mister Trev,’ said the orc, grinning. ‘With me saving and you striking we can’t lose. They won’t get me the same way a second time.’ He lowered his voice and grabbed Trev’s shoulder. ‘When it starts to get hot down this end, run like stink towards the other and I’ll make sure you get the ball.’ Trev nodded and walked across the turf to the cheers of the crowd.

The editor of the Times later reported as follows: At this point, United seemed to feel that they had a working strategy and poured every resource into the university side in a mêlée that was clearly beyond the referee to control. The plucky orc custodian had also learned a lesson and two or three times recovered the day with magnificent saves, on one occasion kicking the ball, in our opinion, directly at the head of one of the milling opponents, stunning him and then catching it upon the rebound, dropping it on to the boot and sending it far into the opposing half where Trevor Likely, son of the famous football hero, ran pell-mell towards the goal where Mr Charlie Barton had happily been provided with a chair, a table, a late lunch and two stalwart defenders, whose clear purpose it was to see that none shall pass. All breathing in the park surely ceased as the young paladin fired off a tremendous shot, which was, alas, out by a few inches and only served to rattle the woodwork and rebounded towards the defenders. Nevertheless, Likely tackled like a man possessed and spirits lifted once again as the two defenders got in each other’s way just sufficiently for the boy to once again power the sphere back towards its intended resting place. Your correspondent believes that even the supporters of United joined in the groan as once again this second shot failed to find a slot and this time rebounded almost to the feet of H. Capstick, who lost no time in sending it screaming towards the Academicals’ end before it could do more harm. Once again, the indefatigable Mr Nutt warded off a number of attacks while the rather pathetic remnant of the university boys’ defence proved that prowess with the magic wand is of little avail if you do not know what your feet are for. At this point, Master of the Dark Arts Dr J. Hix was summarily dismissed from the field after the crowd’s persistent chant of ‘Who’s the bastard in the black?’ alerted the referee to his attempts at endeavouring to strike down F. Brisket, one of the notorious Brisket boys, with the soul-eating dagger of the Deadly Vampyre Spider Queen. Which, as it transpired, turned out to be neither magical nor, as it turned out, made of metal, but one of a number of similar items available in Boffo’s Joke Emporium, Tenth Egg Street. Ranting apparently fearful oaths about university statute, Dr Hix had to be dragged from the field by members of his own team, leaving our spirited magicians in an even more depleted spell of difficulty, probably wishing they had a magic carpet to get them out of there!

At least Dr Hix’s tirade and attempts to drag the ground with him bought them some time. Glenda ran on to the pitch to a dishevelled and downcast Trev.

‘What happened, Trev?’ she said. ‘You had it right there in front of you. You had it in your hands, well, on your boot, anyway.’

‘It doesn’t do what I want,’ said Trev.

‘You’re supposed to make it do what you want. It’s just a football.’