Jack Dudley was looking uncommonly glum, the pint of beer in front of him, like those of Harold “Chimdy” Sweep and Frank Badger, all but untouched. I took a sip of my own and asked them what the matter was.

“I cor really put me finger on it,” replied Jack, “It’s just… I dunno.”

The other two murmured agreement. I passed out Woodbines, which were accepted gleelessly.

“There’s a match on, you know, you lot” I said, yet I also knew how they felt. This was the first time Wolves had ever been to Brighton, and something about the place was different to anywhere we’d ever been. Different, and just not right.

The weather, overcast almost to the point of rain, wasn’t helping, and the poor light was augmented inside the public bar by a single dim bulb. The smoke lifted blue and slow into the air.

“That’s flat,” said Jack, returning his pint to the table.

“That’s flat,” said Jack, returning his pint to the table.

The locals didn’t seem to be faring much better. Laudanum palours and autumnal knitwear was the fashion here, and the only woman in the place had six-inch white roots to her jet black hair.

There had to be a better pub. Spotting the floodlights in the distance (unlit, as yet), we headed towards them through grey pebbledashed streets. We felt no sea air. Our legs were heavy and the impending fixture still hadn’t lit my heart as any Wolves game naturally did. We called in at the Cooper’s Arms, not because it looked appealing or that we had any great thirst or desire for a chat, but simply because the road seemed long and uphill. I missed Wolverhampton, and the St Martins summer we’d been enjoying up there, with long evenings of bowls and beer at the Stile or the Molineux.

Inside the Cooper’s there were more grey faces, more flat beer, more unappreciated cigarettes. We continued toward the floodlights, still unlit. We began to make out some chanting:

Ignatious Stark’s grey and brown army…

Frank gave my a puzzled look. “I thought they played in blue and white?”

“Ar, that’s what Pete Frazier told us,” I said. Pete sometimes watched Walsall when Wolves were away, and had seen the Dolphins play at Fellows Park.

“Eh! And I thought it was the ‘Goldstone Ground’!” cried Jack Dudley, pointing at a sign on the facade of the stand that said, “Welcome to the Leadstone Ground.” Though we had the correct change in our hands, we decided to retire to another pub and try to work out what was going on. The floodlights came on as we were leaving, dim bulbs bereft of lumens. To see a team in brown under such light could wreck a man’s eyes.

The beer was no better in the Sombreton Arms, but there was more desire to drink it. Chimdy dismembered a cigarette packet and began sketching furiously. I brought him some toilet paper, but his fountain pen blotted right through it. Finally, in a low voice, he said, “I’ve heard of this sort of thing before.”

“A different ‘dimension’?” I asked. “Ar, a different ‘dimension’?”

“What’s going on, then, Chimdy?”

“Somehow we’ve stepped into what they call an ‘alternative reality’.”

“‘Alternative Reality’?”

“Ar, an ‘Alternative Reality’. We’re at the right coordinates in space and time, but in a different version of reality. A different ‘dimension’, if you like.”

“A different ‘dimension’?”

“Ar, a different ‘dimension’. I do’ reckon this is just a different Brighton. There’ll be a different London, a different Coseley – even a different North Street.”

“A different North Street?”

“Ar, a different North Street. We need to get back to our reality: not just to see the match, but…”

“…to get home,” said Frank Badger.

“Exactly.”

“What are you three on about?” asked Jack Dudley, who’d finished his pint while we were talking and sat with a bewildered look.

“Get another round in, mate,” I suggested, “we’ll fill you in when you get back.”

While Jack was gone, Chimdy and I batted ideas about. We didn’t get very far. Though technically-minded, Chimdy would have been the first to admit that cross-dimensional tele-transportation wasn’t his area of expertise, while I was relying on common sense and Frank things he’d seen in Flash Gordon. I was beginning to feel quite apprehensive about the task ahead of us. As Jack finally approached the table, I thought of his Madge, and then quickly checked my thoughts. All things considered he’d probably want to see her again.

“What took you so long?” I asked when he settled in his seat.

Agnes and Philomena

“Sorry,” he said, rummaging in his pocket for his Woodbines, “I saw Agnes and Philomena at the bar and they were pestering me to buy them a drink. I couldn’t get rid of them.”

“Agnes and Philomena from the Coven Coven?” asked Frank.

“They’re not with the Coven Coven now,” I said, “They’re freelancing out of Cross Green, I think.”

“Coven Heath,” said Jack.

“No, they gather on the Heath, but they live by the Fox and Anchor. I saw them when we took the cut up to Stoke…”

“What are they doing here, Jack?” asked Chimdy, a little impatiently, I thought.

“Drinking, as usual. But they said something about a witches’ convention.”

“Drunken hags,” said Frank.

“Stafford Road scum,” said Jack.

“That’s a big strong, Jack,” I protested.

“Gentleman,” said Chimdy, “Do you not think that witches that we know from home who are here by choice might be useful, in some way?”

There was silence. I lit a Woodbine and waited for Chimdy to enlighten us.

“You don’t think, for example, they might be good people to ask about, you know, getting back to our own dimension?”

About to take a sip of beer, I held my pint before me and stared at Chimdy. “Harold Sweep,” I said broadly, “you are a genius!”

“Yeah,” said Chimdy wearily, “That’ll be it.”

□ □ □ □ □

We eventually tracked the witches down to a pub called the Hare, which was a good deal more lively than the other seven we’d visited in Sombreton. We had to ply Agnes and Philomena, plus the entire Coven Coven, with whom they were apparently reconciled, in order to get the simple instruction: walk back to the railway station, cross the footbridge twice, spit on the platform, and call the guard at the ticket barrier an oaf. To this day I’m not convinced that the last instruction was a necessary part of the spell, but running away from the 6’2”, sixteen-stone ticket guard gave us a head start to the Goldstone Ground.

I don’t know whether it was the contrast with Sombreton but Brighton seemed amazingly gay and colourful that day: light danced off the sea and everywhere you looked there was bright paisley and interestingly-coloured trousers. “Marrakesh Express” played in almost every shop doorway, and blond-bobbed girls in mini-skirts smiled disarmingly. Even Chimdy thought it “fabulous”. After a quick pint in a shimmering place called the Heart and Hand we headed to the game and were in before kick-off. Wolves weren’t at their best; on sixty-five minutes, and two-one down, Chimdy wondered out loud whether the real Wolverhampton Wanderers were stuck in Sombreton, and I began to regret not visiting the Leadstone Ground when we had the chance. But Hugh Curran managed to brighten things up and sent us home with a 3-2 win.

Back in Wolverhampton, Madge Dudley waited impatiently on the doorstep, to tell North Street the time and remind Jack of his responsibilities. Thus, any lingering doubts that we had returned to the correct dimension were thoroughly dispelled, and I headed home secure in the knowledge that there were two quart bottles of brown waiting for me in the pantry.