Jack Dudley was looking uncommonly glum, the pint of beer in front of him, like those of Harold \u201cChimdy\u201d Sweep and Frank Badger, all but untouched. I took a sip of my own and asked them what the matter was.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI cor really put me finger on it,\u201d replied Jack, \u201cIt\u2019s just\u2026 I dunno.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The other two murmured agreement. I passed out Woodbines, which were accepted gleelessly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThere’s a match on, you know, you lot\u201d 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\u2019d ever been. Different, and just not right.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The weather, overcast almost to the point of rain, wasn\u2019t 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThat\u2019s flat,\u201d said Jack, returning his pint to the table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThat\u2019s flat,\u201d said Jack, returning his pint to the table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The locals didn\u2019t 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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\u2019t lit my heart as any Wolves game naturally did. We called in at the Cooper\u2019s 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\u2019d been enjoying up there, with long evenings of bowls and beer at the Stile or the Molineux.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Inside the Cooper\u2019s 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:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ignatious Stark\u2019s grey and brown army…<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Frank gave my a puzzled look. \u201cI thought they played in blue and white?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAr, that\u2019s what Pete Frazier told us,\u201d I said. Pete sometimes watched Walsall when Wolves were away, and had seen the Dolphins play at Fellows Park.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cEh! And I thought it was the \u2018Goldstone Ground\u2019!\u201d cried Jack Dudley, pointing at a sign on the facade of the stand that said, \u201cWelcome to the Leadstone Ground.\u201d 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\u2019s eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n 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, \u201cI\u2019ve heard of this sort of thing before.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cA different \u2018dimension\u2019?\u201d I asked. \u201cAr, a different \u2018dimension\u2019?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat\u2019s going on, then, Chimdy?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSomehow we\u2019ve stepped into what they call an \u2018alternative reality\u2019.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201c\u2018Alternative Reality\u2019?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAr, an \u2018Alternative Reality\u2019. We\u2019re at the right coordinates in space and time, but in a different version of reality. A different \u2018dimension\u2019, if you like.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cA different \u2018dimension\u2019?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAr, a different \u2018dimension\u2019. I do\u2019 reckon this is just a different Brighton. There\u2019ll be a different London, a different Coseley \u2013 even a different North Street.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cA different North Street?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAr, a different North Street. We need to get back to our reality: not just to see the match, but…\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201c…to get home,\u201d said Frank Badger.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cExactly.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat are you three on about?\u201d asked Jack Dudley, who\u2019d finished his pint while we were talking and sat with a bewildered look.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cGet another round in, mate,\u201d I suggested, \u201cwe\u2019ll fill you in when you get back.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n While Jack was gone, Chimdy and I batted ideas about. We didn\u2019t get very far. Though technically-minded, Chimdy would have been the first to admit that cross-dimensional tele-transportation wasn\u2019t his area of expertise, while I was relying on common sense and Frank things he\u2019d seen in Flash Gordon<\/em>. 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\u2019d probably want to see her again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat took you so long?\u201d I asked when he settled in his seat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Agnes and Philomena<\/p>\n\n\n\n