Starring:

Captain JACK Aubrey, RN
Dr. STEPHEN Maturin
KILLICK
BONDEN
William Babbington
Victoria Beckham [POSH]
Baby Beckham [Brooklyn]
Terrace Chanters [Hooligans, or Hool]
and DAVID Beckham

Our heroes sit in the pitchside dugout, watching Arsenal versus Manchester United, and getting themselves comfortable. There are only two people missing. Rather predictably - STEPHEN is late, and KILLICK has scuttled off to get food, it being nearly JACK's dinnertime at ten to three, and not trusting the ground staff to bring food unmolested. DAVID is not playing, as he has his foot almost entirely coated in plaster, and Victoria is almost totally covered in William Babbington.

JACK: Well! The VIP box! What an honour, upon my word.

DAVID: Er... well, the VIP box is up there, actually [points to distant glass cabinet next to the commentary box] - I thought you'd have a better view down here.

JACK: How kind. It's very... cozy ... BONDEN, please get off my lap, there's a good man. So, if you would be so kind, might you run over a few of the rules for me?

DAVID: Right - well. Those two boxes at the ends of the pitch are goals. The teams need to get the ball in the goals. The man standing in the goals have to stop the other team from getting the ball in the net, yeah?

JACK: My, what pressure. And all the other men cluttering up the pitch help, I suppose?

DAVID: [Grins] Uh, yeah, that's about the size of it. But half of them help keep the ball out of the net, they're defenders, and the other half help to get it down the pitch to score a goal themselves in the other net.

BONDEN: Can I support Arsenal?

JACK: No! Support Manchester United to support our host! What a fellow you are, BONDEN!

BONDEN: [Wretched] But... Arsenal are called the gunners! I'm a gunner!

DAVID: You can support Arsenal if you like...

JACK: You are too kind. BONDEN, you're supporting Manchester United, and that's all there is to it! [Looks about with a sigh] And where is the tardy Doctor, exactly?

STEPHEN: [Irritable, clambers into seat] Here!

JACK: Far be it from me to be picking fights, STEPHEN, but did I not say, quite specifically, that I would meet you on the steps of the Weatherspoons Inn at half past two? It's just as well as I have your measure, giving you the ticket yesterday. I can't trust you to keep an appointment at all, can I?

STEPHEN: If you'd allow me to explain, brother, I was somewhat held up by security for, apparently, bearing an offensive weapon-

JACK: Oh you didn't bring your pistols?

STEPHEN: Astonishingly, amazingly, they did not spot those, although they make a considerable lump beneath my JACKet, me being the slim individual that I am, but no. Apparently, that was not the issue. [Holds up bottle of Volvic mineral water, without the lid.]

JACK: [Blinks] That's scarcely enough liquid to drown the opposition team, I must comment.

DAVID: [Snickers] They let you keep your guns, and took your bottle lid?

STEPHEN: I have never encountered such contrary logic! There I was, virtually aswarm with instruments of maiming, and they removed my bottle lid, indeed. They fear, it would seem, that I might get irate and fling the deadly object upon the pitch. What nonsense! Nevertheless, despite all vindictive interruptions to my journey, I am arrived. A pleasure to meet you, Mrs and Mrs Beckham.

DAVID: Please take a seat - budge up, Vic!

POSH: Ermm... I can't move far...

STEPHEN: [Coldly] Babbington, if you do not remove your arm from the back of the Lady Captain's seat, I shall give you cause to wear Plaster of Paris myself, and so I shall.

Babb: Oh, Sir!

STEPHEN: [To DAVID] I apologise for him; the boy is a walking gland, with no concept of etiquette-

Babb: [To Victoria, in a seductive moo] Helloooo

POSH: [Blushes] Oh! Hello!

Babb: Comfortable? [Grab, grasp, hug, fidget]

POSH: [Giggles] Yes! Oh! Come here little one... Oh, okay, completely ignore me then, Brooklyn...

JACK: [Looking down and observing tiny person at his knee, yanking at his jeans] Well, hello there! This is your little squeaker, eh?

DAVID: Yeah, that's Brooklyn. He's two.

JACK: Up you come... [lifts with no effort until his borrowed Levis rearrange his groin for him] Yeowch, these are snug!

STEPHEN: Yes, well I did warn, if you recollect, that a 36 inch girth might be a little adventurous for your current-

JACK: STEPHEN brother, another word, and I shall join the gentlemen upon the grass-

DAVID: 'Pitch' mate, 'Pitch'

JACK: I shall join those gentlemen upon the pitch and kick you about myself!

[Brooklyn, never having seen a rounded belly before, gives it an affectionate and intrigued poke] Yes, Lad, I'm very hungry. I do hope KILLICK lights along with the food shortly, I'm rumbling like a frigate in a blow.

STEPHEN: Aha! I do believe it's kick-off. [Leans over to BONDEN] might I take the programme from you?

BONDEN: Here y'are.

STEPHEN: Patience JACK, I shall light it along directly when I have absorbed the names of the teams! [Looks at the team line up, groans in anticipation] Off! Off!

JACK: Who's the chap with the long hair in the clubbed style? He looks quite the seaman...

POSH: [Under her breath] Looks like a german porn star to me...

DAVID: Er, that IS DAVID Seaman

JACK: Truly? You don't say? You don't suppose me to swallow that? [Eyes gleam] - Did you smoke it? Expect me to 'swallow the seaman' Oh, ha ha ha!

STEPHEN: Oh no, here we go...

JACK: Ha ha ha ha ha!!

POSH: Swallow - oh neh heh heh hi hi hi hi hi!

STEPHEN: [whining] Please don't encourage him...

JACK: Oh ha ha ha ha!

POSH: Hee hee hee hee hee! Porn star... semen... tee heee!

JACK: [Barely recovering himself] KILLICK! KILLICK there... light along those sausages!

KILLICK: [With an armful of footie grub, hotdogs and burgers etc] Which they ain't sausages, are they? Least, not any sausage I've ever come across looks like these...

DAVID: [Inspects one curiously] What's wrong with them?

KILLICK: Ain't you ever eaten a decent sausage? These are spongy, they was boiled - BOILED I tell you, not a chargrill in sight behind that bar - and they smell funny. And they dropped them greasy onions all over them without me asking, like.

DAVID: Oh onions! Great!

KILLICK: It ain't natural. And the mustard, now that I can deal with, but the red stuff, it's everywhere! And I'll bet you a guinea - a long time of wages for me - that the Captain will get it all over his-

JACK: Oops.. sorry, KILLICK-

KILLICK: AGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

POSH: [Taken aback] Gosh!

JACK: Settle down there, you grousing villain - it's only a dab on the sleeve-

KILLICK: Only a dab? ONLY A DAB? Ain't you considered how long I'll be up later, scraping and soapin' and.....[trails off into a grousing sulk, cramming his own hotdog into his mouth after all the others have taken theirs. Reluctantly...] Mmmm...

STEPHEN: [observing pitch through telescope - Gunner striker is writhing on ground, clutching knee] Whatever is the problem with him?

DAVID: Can I, mate? [takes telescope] looks like he's strained a muscle.

STEPHEN: And do all footballers react in that mad, wrenching, contorting fashion when they strain a muscle?

BONDEN: Just a muscle? All that screamin' and yellin' for a muscle? [Yells on pitch] PANSY!! GETTUP!

POSH: [giggles] Awwwwwwww baby! Someone give him a rusk!

[Vieira is carried off on a stretcher, as fans on the terrace behind sing 'Off! Off!']

STEPHEN: Gets paid a lot for that, does he?

DAVID: [Smirks] a fair bit!

STEPHEN: My, how prosperity makes people soft - I've removed a bullet from JACK's back, wedged between two vertebrae and he didn't make that much noise...

POSH: [Admiring] Gosh!

DAVID: It's called playing for time, mate, as you can see, it's not popular.

STEPHEN: And why on earth would they want to do that?

[DAVID's explanation is drowned out by the commentator announcing the substitution of Patrick Vieira for Carlin Itonga

Hools in background bellow tuneless chant of "Who the Fucking Hell are you... who the fucking hell are you?"

STEPHEN: [Rifling through the programme, looking through the reserves and substitutes section] 'Number 28.. Number 28... Aha!

DAVID: [Still drowned out by chant] Oh he's a young one - it's customary to taunt people on the pitch, put them off their stride a bit... Where are you going?

JACK: Er.. STEPHEN... Oh dear...

[STEPHEN climbs out of dugout and predictably falls flat on his face, making them all wince, before unflappably rising to his feet and making his way over to the nearest chanting fan behind, and helpfully points to the right section on the programme]

Hool: [Singing boisterously, making all his neck tattoos jump] WHO THE FUCKING HELL ARE YOU... What do you want?

STEPHEN: [Crossly] Number 28... The gentleman is Carlin Itonga. You only need consult the programme, there is no need for this bellowing... this uproar...

There is a stunned silence from the hooligan, followed by a swift consultation with his mates, all of whom approach threateningly as STEPHEN backs away. JACK approaches and pulls STEPHEN away rather desperately

JACK: Sorry about him, gentlemen... [hisses] STEPHEN, what are you doing?

STEPHEN: I was merely being helpful, and guarding the interests of the squeaker, for all love - language like that, and directly poured into his tiny ears...

Hools: [About twenty of them, new chant] WHO'S THE WANKER WITH THE BLONDE... WHO'S THE WANKER WITH THE BLONDE?

STEPHEN: [Rolls up sleeves, bows to the Beckhams as he and JACK approach with deadly purpose, followed by KILLICK, BONDEN and Babbington.]

[About thirty seconds later, twenty hooligans are semiconscious and draped over the barrier to the pitch. The police look on, astonished, as JACK and STEPHEN both calmly roll down their sleeves, and bow respectfully before clambering back into the dugout]

JACK: Sorry about that. Couldn't have honour going undefended, you understand. Mind there, STEPHEN - don't tread on DAVID's hotdog...

Commentator: It's a GOAL! A score for the Gunners- No - I stand corrected, the goal was offside...

STEPHEN: What was wrong with that?

BONDEN: Offside? Never!

KILLICK: Which the ball was clearly on the pitch, and not in our laps, like!

DAVID: [Laughs] It doesn't mean that... Offside is when at the start of the goal, there has to be a defender between the striker and the goal.

JACK: [Suspiciously] Are you practicing upon me?

DAVID: Eh?

STEPHEN: JACK is wondering if you are having a jest? A joke in explaining the rules at our expense?

DAVID: Er... no, seriously - Offside is a standard rule!

BONDEN: Seems daft to me...

JACK: Well indeed - in any other situation, if there were an obstacle between me and my goal, I would blow it into 80 tiny pieces...

BONDEN: Deliberately placing an obstacle in the way and having a rule to say it has to be there... that's suicide, that is!

DAVID: Well, it's only a ball...

JACK: It might only be a ball to you, but if I flung one of my balls at my enemy - one of my nine-pounders, say -

POSH: [Takes a keen interest in JACK's package] You have nine pound balls?

Babb: We all do. Some of us... [slips arm round POSH's shoulders] Some of us have... twelve pound balls...

STEPHEN: William, will you behave for all love? Forgive them DAVID, they are discussing Cannons and not testicles, as you might fear.

JACK: [blushing] As I was saying, if I were to fire one of my nine pound cannon balls at my opponent, they'd move sharpish- Where's my hot dog? [Looks about him in bewilderment] Where, in fact, is KILLICK?

BONDEN: Err...

JACK: BONDEN... tell Captain JACK, before he gets properly cross...

BONDEN: He er... which KILLICK's gone to get more hotdogs on account that he ate yours, and has grown fond of ketchup.

JACK: That mumping Villain!!!

STEPHEN: Come now, he has done you a kindness, a favour! Your jeans, they are too tight, unable to contain the strain of a further... okay, okay, I'm stopping... JACK, let go of my neck!!

[Two policemen emerge, each holding an arm of the indignant, furiously struggling KILLICK, his legs pinwheeling as his feet fail to touch the floor. KILLICK has a dozen hotdogs crammed into every pocket, and ketchup all over him]

JACK: Good grief...

Policeman: Is this yours... Sir?

STEPHEN: Yes...

Policeman: There's been some carnage at the hotdog stand.

He went wild - leapt over the counter, stuffed several into his mouth, and broke open the heater..

KILLICK: Which I only had a mouthful!

Policemen: And when we tried to pull him away.. he

squirted mustard all over the place. We're taking him down to the station, Sir, if you'd like to call a lawyer for his representation...

KILLICK: [Being dragged off] Goths! Onion-confiscators! Fucking killjoys!

STEPHEN: I'll go with him JACK, if you don't mind...

JACK: Thankee STEPHEN...

[STEPHEN resignedly gets up and leaves the game with BONDEN, leaving JACK with DAVID. Babbington and POSH seem to have mysteriously disappeared...]

JACK: Right... explain offside again?