The giant screen flashed the result.

England 4 - 2 Croatia

For perhaps three seconds, the stadium simply stared. Then the cheering began.

It started in one corner. Spread to another. Crossed the stands in a great wave and returned even louder than before. Flags appeared from nowhere. Scarves spun through the air. Emergency snacks were abandoned as their owners leapt onto chairs.

Nobody had anticipated this level of success. Several gerbils immediately attempted victory laps despite not having participated in the match. Others climbed onto seats and delivered emotional speeches to anyone within earshot. Most of the speeches consisted entirely of the score repeated at increasing volume. The inflatable banana was carried triumphantly around the stadium by supporters who had become convinced it had contributed in some meaningful way.

Granite attempted to record the result. This proved difficult because every time she wrote “4-2” someone nearby cheered and knocked over her paperwork. Gadget declared the Match Preparation Centre a complete success. Nobody could remember what it had predicted. This did not seem important.

Across the stadium, Gubbins finally unveiled her special musical performance. Reports that it involved three triangles turned out to have been optimistic. Witnesses later estimated the number at somewhere between twelve and twenty-seven. The resulting concert could be heard from several neighbouring postcodes.

The elephant shrew referees watched the celebrations with mild concern. They had the distinct impression that the crowd was behaving as though England had already won the entire World Cup.

Technically, England had merely won one group match. Nobody appeared interested in technicalities.

By midnight, unofficial commemorative banners had appeared. By half past midnight, unofficial commemorative mugs were being sold. By one o’clock, somebody had begun constructing an unofficial commemorative statue of the inflatable banana. The statue was eventually abandoned when its creators became distracted by highlights.

The giant screen replayed the goals again and again. Each replay was greeted with the same enthusiasm as the first. Sleep became impossible.

The Gerbil World Cup schedule for the following morning was quietly postponed. Football, everyone agreed, had been absolutely magnificent. And for one glorious evening, the entire stadium believed England were unstoppable.

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Granite attempted to continue updating the standings. Nobody listened. Glyph attempted to explain a tactical diagram involving arrows, circles and what appeared to be a decorative swan. Nobody listened. Even the elephant shrew referees appeared distracted.

By half past two, groups of gerbils had gathered around every available surface. Match previews were being conducted. Expert analysis was being offered. Vast quantities of speculation filled the air.

Most of it was nonsense.

A debate about likely scorelines lasted nearly forty minutes and ended only when participants became distracted by an argument about mascot design. The inflatable banana was present throughout and appeared to be gaining influence.

At three o’clock Gadget unveiled what she described as a Match Preparation Centre. This turned out to be six chairs, a blackboard and a complicated chart showing possible outcomes. Nobody understood the chart. Not even Gadget. Nevertheless it attracted considerable interest. Soon dozens of gerbils were studying it intensely while reaching completely contradictory conclusions.

By four o’clock the excitement had become self-sustaining. The crowd was now cheering things that had not yet happened.

Several practice celebrations were held. One group rehearsed what they intended to do if England won. Another rehearsed what they intended to do if Croatia won. A third rehearsed what they intended to do if something particularly interesting occurred involving a corner flag.

Gubbins spent the afternoon composing a special pre-match musical performance. Reports suggested it involved three triangles. The reports were later revised upwards.

As the afternoon wore on, concentration became impossible. Training sessions achieved very little. Committee meetings achieved less. The official standings remained exactly where Granite had left them because every time she attempted to update them, someone interrupted with a fresh prediction.

By six o’clock the atmosphere resembled that of a major final. The fact that kick-off was still three hours away seemed irrelevant. The giant screen had been cleaned. Flags had been arranged. Seats had been claimed. Emergency snacks had been stockpiled.

One particularly enthusiastic supporter had painted “COME ON ENGLAND” on a banner so large that it accidentally obscured part of Group F. Nobody minded.

As dusk began to approach, the stadium hummed with anticipation. The players scheduled to take part in the next Gerbil World Cup match eventually gave up trying to train and joined the spectators instead.

Football, everyone agreed, was about to happen.

Not Gerbil World Cup football.

Real football.

Which, for reasons nobody could adequately explain, was somehow even more exciting.

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Scotland.................17
Morocco.................12
Brazil..............….....11
Netherlands......…....9
Australia..........……..8
Haiti................……...6
Turkey..............….....5
Paraguay...........…...4

ADDITIONAL AWARDS

Most Impressive Slide...........……………………………………………..………..Australia
Loudest Supporters..............…………………….……...…….…..……………….Scotland
Best Flag Waving................……………….……...……...……….…………….….Morocco
Most Confusing Tactical Innovation………….……...…………………….Brazil
Most Mud Acquired Per Player....………………….……...………………....Netherlands
Most Likely To Support The Hanseatic League Anyway.…....Paraguay

Nobody can explain how the points are calculated.

Granite can.

Unfortunately the explanation requires three charts, a measuring tape and a seventeen-minute lecture about enthusiasm coefficients.

The Hanseatic League itself is currently ranked 11th despite not participating.

This is largely due to enthusiastic support from Bluestocking patrons, two letters to the tournament organisers and one exceptionally persuasive banner.

Most observers consider a top-ten finish entirely achievable.

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The teams emerged to a tremendous roar. The elephant shrew referees marched onto the pitch with expressions suggesting that they had prepared thoroughly for every possible eventuality. This confidence lasted approximately four minutes.

The weather had been pleasant all morning. Bright sunshine illuminated the stadium. Not a cloud was visible anywhere overhead.

As the players lined up for kick-off, Geography happened to glance towards the horizon. She frowned. There was a cloud. It was not an especially large cloud. Nor was it moving particularly quickly. It simply sat there in the distance looking suspicious. Geography continued watching it.

The cloud appeared to be growing. A few moments later there were two clouds. Then four. Then what seemed to be an entire committee of clouds.

The crowd paid no attention. The whistle blew. The match began. For nearly ten glorious minutes, football happened. Not good football. Not even competent football. But recognisably football. There were passes. There were tackles.

Grenadine successfully dribbled around three opponents before becoming distracted by cheering and accidentally joining the crowd. The spectators loved it.

Then a raindrop landed on Gadget’s nose. She looked upwards. Another landed. Then another. Around the stadium, heads tilted towards the sky. The players slowed. The crowd murmured. The elephant shrews exchanged glances.

Rain was not particularly unusual. The amount of rain arriving, however, was becoming noteworthy. Within moments the shower had intensified into a downpour. Flags drooped. Programmes dissolved. The crowd squealed. The pitch darkened. Water splashed beneath every running paw.

Still the match continued. At first the conditions merely made football more difficult. Then they made football irrelevant. Gladioli attempted to stop suddenly and travelled another six metres. Gazpacho launched herself heroically towards the ball and accidentally reached the halfway line.

Several players discovered that sliding through puddles was vastly more entertaining than scoring goals. The crowd rose to its feet. Nobody was watching the football anymore. The football had become secondary. The real spectacle was the mud.

The pitch was transforming before their eyes. Patches of grass disappeared beneath shining pools of water. Channels formed. Puddles merged. Entire sections of the field developed distinct personalities. One corner became known as Lake South-West. Nobody remembered naming it. The name simply appeared.

The ball rolled into the lake and stopped. Twenty-two players charged after it. What happened next could no longer reasonably be described as football. Gallantine reached the puddle and slid straight through it. Grapejuice followed. Then Guppy.

Within seconds the entire match had become a mass participation mud-slide. Players hurled themselves across the pitch. Supporters abandoned the stands. Even the elephant shrew referees found themselves skidding uncontrollably through several feet of water.

The stadium erupted with delight. The rain continued falling. The mud became deeper. The slides became longer. Soon elaborate techniques were being developed.

Granite achieved remarkable distance by launching from a small mound. Glyph attempted to diagram the optimal trajectory while moving. Gubbins slid past carrying her triangle above her head like an Olympic torch. Nobody had the faintest idea where the football was. Nobody cared.

The World Cup had discovered a new sport. And it was magnificent.

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The teams emerged to a tremendous reception from the crowd. National flags waved. The elephant shrew referees looked noticeably more cautious than they had before the opening match. One was carrying a much thicker rule book.

The first surprise came during the national anthems. Nobody had arranged any music. Gubbins volunteered. This seemed reasonable until she produced a triangle and announced that she would perform all the anthems herself.

The crowd applauded politely. The teams looked uncertain. The elephant shrews exchanged concerned glances. Several minutes later nobody was entirely sure whether the fourth anthem had finished or the fifth had started.

Play eventually began. This match immediately demonstrated a new tactical development. Several players had realised that chasing the ball was exhausting. Instead they waited patiently near the opposition goal and hoped something useful would happen. To everyone’s astonishment, this strategy worked.

The ball emerged unexpectedly from a midfield collision, rolled the entire length of the pitch without anyone noticing and was discovered sitting beside the goal line by a delighted striker who immediately claimed it had all been part of an elaborate plan.

Granite began taking notes. Glyph started drawing arrows. Gadget became convinced that football strategy was entering a revolutionary new phase. The elephant shrews remained unconvinced.

The match settled into a rhythm that could loosely be described as football if one were feeling generous. There were passes. Some of which were intentional. There were tackles. Most of them involved gerbils running into one another because they were looking at something else. There was even a spectacular save by a goalkeeper who later admitted she had been attempting to tie her shoelace at the time. The crowd loved every minute.

By the final whistle, the score was three-two. Unlike the previous match, everyone agreed on the score. The disagreement began when somebody asked which team had scored the second goal. By sunset, three official reports, seven witness statements and one detailed diagram by Glyph all reached different conclusions.

The Gerbil World Cup therefore moved into its second round of fixtures carrying a proud new tradition: Nobody knew what was happening.

Everyone was having a wonderful time.

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The stadium was packed. Every seat was occupied. Several seats appeared to be occupied twice. Flags fluttered from railings and barriers. Whistles shrieked from every direction. Somewhere in the crowd an inflatable banana bobbed above the spectators after somebody had heard a rumour that human football supporters considered such things essential. Nobody knew whether this was true. Nobody knew where the banana had come from. By this point, nobody was prepared to ask.

At the centre of the pitch, the elephant shrew referees stood in a perfectly straight line. They looked calm, authoritative and entirely in control of events. This lasted until the whistle blew.

Every gerbil on the field charged directly at the ball.

For several seconds it vanished completely beneath a rapidly moving sphere of fur, tails and determination. The crowd roared its approval. The commentators abandoned all pretence of objectivity and began shouting contradictory descriptions of the action. The referees attempted to identify who had possession and immediately discovered that possession appeared to belong to everyone simultaneously.

The furry mass rolled twenty yards downfield. A paw emerged. Then a tail. Then Gadget appeared carrying the ball in both paws. The nearest referee blew her whistle so hard she nearly fell over. “That’s not allowed!”

Gadget stopped and looked genuinely puzzled. “Why not?”

The match paused while officials consulted the rule book. The consultation took some time because nobody could remember who had written most of the rules. During this discussion, Gubbins accidentally scored. Nobody noticed.

For almost three minutes the stadium’s attention remained fixed on the debate surrounding ball-carrying while Gubbins wandered away from the goal looking mildly surprised by recent events. It was only when someone happened to glance at the scoreboard that questions began to arise. A replay was demanded.

The replay revealed that Gubbins had not actually kicked the ball. She had tripped over it, bounced off two teammates, collided with a corner flag, spun through half a circle and somehow propelled the ball into the net using a part of her anatomy not generally associated with football technique. The crowd considered this magnificent. The goal stood.

By half-time nobody was entirely certain which team was winning. Granite had begun compiling statistical analyses on a clipboard. Glyph had produced three tactical diagrams and was halfway through a fourth. Geography had wandered onto the pitch with measuring equipment because she had become concerned about the precision of the touchline markings. Gadget was attempting to construct a video assistant referee system using six magnifying glasses, a biscuit tin and what she described as “advanced optical principles”.

The elephant shrew referees held an emergency meeting. Their expressions suggested that the meeting was not going well.

The second half somehow became even more chaotic. Whether this represented an improvement depended entirely upon one’s definition of football.

When the final whistle finally sounded, the crowd erupted. Players celebrated enthusiastically despite some uncertainty regarding the result. Officials looked exhausted. One elephant shrew sat down and stared into the middle distance as though reconsidering several life choices.

Later that evening the official match report was released. It recorded one goal, forty-seven arguments, twelve unscheduled pitch invasions and one inflatable banana. Under the heading Understanding of Football Laws, the report simply stated: Under review.

The Gerbil World Cup was officially underway. From an organisational perspective, this was perhaps unfortunate. From the perspective of everyone watching, it was perfect. Even if no-one was entirely certain which country had actually won.

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Gadget climbed onto the box with a clipboard tucked beneath one paw. “Right,” she announced. “We are packing everything away in an orderly manner.”

Three seconds later, order ceased to exist. Gazetteer vanished beneath a landslide of South American flags. Glyph was attempting to arrange the entire collection alphabetically according to country, continent and colour simultaneously. Glimmer had become entangled in Denmark. Gossamer appeared to have wrapped herself inside Brazil for reasons known only to herself. Granite was sitting firmly on Germany.

“Flags do not escape,” said Gadget.

“That sounds like something somebody would say immediately before a flag escaped,” Granite replied.

Across the room, Gubbins had acquired a length of string and was attempting to tie bundles together. Unfortunately, she had started somewhere in the middle. The resulting structure now connected Argentina, Japan, Morocco, Scotland, a chair and part of the refreshments table. Nobody wanted to investigate too closely.

Realising that events were slipping away from her, Gadget climbed into the box itself and began directing operations from within. “Pass me Scotland.” A flag arrived.

“Pass me Brazil.” Another flag arrived.

“Pass me England.” Three arrived.

Gadget stared at them. “Why are there three England flags?”

Nobody answered. The gerbils exchanged nervous glances. At length, Gazetteer raised a paw. “I may have printed extras.”

“Why?”

“In case England won.”

“They haven’t even played their first game.”

“I like to be prepared.”

One by one, the flags finally began disappearing into the box. As the piles shrank, parts of the office slowly reappeared. Tables emerged. Chairs emerged. A notebook that had been missing since Tuesday emerged. A surprisingly large number of gerbils emerged.

Eventually only a single flag remained. Gadget picked it up. Nobody recognised it.

The gerbils gathered around for inspection.

“Does anyone know what country this is?” asked Gadget.

Thirty-two gerbils studied it carefully.

“No.”

“Did we use it?”

“No.”

“Should we keep it?”

“Absolutely.”

The unknown flag was placed carefully on top of everything else. Gadget lowered the lid. The box now looked tidy, organised and professional. The gerbils sat back to admire their work.

A muffled voice came from inside. “Could somebody let me out?” Then Gossamer’s voice added, slightly more urgently, “It’s quite dark in here.”

The gerbils looked at the box. Then at one another. Then back at the box.

The World Cup preparations, everyone agreed, were proceeding extremely well.

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The cheerleaders turned out to be a mistake. Not because the gerbils lacked enthusiasm. Quite the opposite. The problem was that nobody had established what a cheerleader actually was.

Granite had assumed it involved logistics. Glyph had produced eighty-seven hand-painted signs reading SCOTLAND! in increasingly artistic fonts. Gazetteer had brought maps. Gubbins had brought her triangle.

“We need a pyramid!” shouted Gubbins.

This was immediately accepted as sensible.

Within moments, gerbils were scrambling onto tables. Several climbed onto other gerbils. More joined them. Gubbins fought her way to the summit carrying the triangle above her head like a trophy. The resulting structure swayed alarmingly from side to side.

“Is this safe?” asked Geography.

“No!” shouted Gubbins happily. She struck the triangle. TING!

The pyramid collapsed. Fortunately, it landed on a larger pile of gerbils.

Meanwhile, Granite had interpreted cheerleading as requiring equipment and had constructed enormous pom-poms from shredded tournament paperwork. Several fixture lists disappeared forever. Nobody noticed.

Across the room, Gazetteer was attempting to lead chants. “What do we want?”

There was a pause.

“Scotland?” suggested Glyph.

“Yes!”

“When do we want them?”

Another pause followed.

“Before Morocco?” offered somebody.

“Yes!”

The chant never improved.

The elephant shrew referees observed proceedings from a safe distance and made notes for future disciplinary hearings.

The official tournament bulletin eventually recorded:

Group C Update

Scotland 1–0 Haiti

Brazil 1–1 Morocco

Scotland top the group.

The gerbils added a second bulletin directly underneath:

Group C Update

SCOTLAND ARE WINNING THE WORLD CUP!

Technically this was premature. The gerbils saw no flaw in the reasoning.

Gubbins, now standing on top of a filing cabinet and waving a pom-pom larger than herself, announced that if Scotland beat Morocco in the next match, the cheerleading pyramid would be rebuilt.

The elephant shrews immediately began reviewing health and safety regulations. Just in case.

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Now comes football.

Or, more accurately, gerbil football.

This means:

• Nobody is entirely certain of the rules.

• Several teams have different copies of the rules.

• One team has developed a tactical system based entirely on optimism.

• Another has brought seventeen analysts and no goalkeeper.

• The elephant shrews are already issuing stern warnings despite no offences having occurred.

The first match will probably be something suitably dramatic.

Mexico v South Korea will be an excellent opener because both teams have already demonstrated an alarming tendency to win matches. The gerbils respect this.

Meanwhile:

• Geography is producing wall charts.

• Gazetteer is compiling historical statistics nobody requested.

• Glyph is designing commemorative programmes before any games have been played.

• Granite has started expanding the stadium because attendance exceeded capacity by approximately 400%.

The commentary team will be a disaster. Garrulous will speak continuously for ninety minutes. Glossary will interrupt to explain obscure terminology. Gumption will insist on reading tournament regulations during stoppage time.

The elephant shrews will become increasingly convinced that nobody is taking the competition seriously. The elephant shrews will be correct.

The next chapter will be actual football. Which means the tournament committee immediately loses control of events and becomes hostage to whatever absurd thing happens on the pitch.

That is where the real World Cup begins. ⚽🐹🏆

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This was not because seven o’clock had been selected. It was because Gumption had announced that everything must be ready by six o’clock, which guaranteed that nothing would be ready until seven.

The stadium—constructed entirely by Granite without authorisation—was packed. Gerbils filled every seat. Additional gerbils occupied aisles, staircases, railings, and several locations not generally recognised as seating.

The elephant shrews stood around the pitch looking official. This alone improved discipline considerably.

A fanfare sounded. Or attempted to. The Library Orchestra had rehearsed for three days but had reached different conclusions about both the tune and the key. The resulting noise startled a pigeon several streets away. Nevertheless, the crowd applauded enthusiastically.

A parade of nations followed. This had originally been intended to feature thirty-two countries. It expanded to forty-one when Gazetteer insisted on historical accuracy. The Kingdom of Burgundy appeared. So did Prussia. Nobody could remember who had authorised the Hanseatic League. A brief disagreement broke out when Atlantis arrived carrying a flag. The crowd chose to ignore this.

Gladiator, observing from a sensible distance, made a note not to get involved.

Next came cultural performances. Geography unveiled a giant illuminated globe. Glyph projected artistic highlights from around the world onto enormous screens. Granite accidentally detonated the fireworks six minutes early. The timing was unfortunate. The effect was magnificent. Thousands of sparks burst above the stadium. The crowd erupted. The elephant shrews looked sternly at the sky.

Then came the ceremonial entrance of the World Cup Trophy. Four gerbils carried it onto the pitch atop a velvet cushion. Three others followed carrying backup cushions. A further seven accompanied them carrying contingency cushions.

“You can never be too careful with international silverware,” explained Gazetteer.

Nobody argued.

Finally, Gumption stepped onto the centre circle. The stadium fell quiet. She unfolded a speech. The speech fell open to page thirty-seven. She quietly folded it shut again.

“Welcome,” she announced.

Cheers echoed around the stadium.

“We have no idea what we’re doing.”

Thunderous applause.

“We are behind schedule.”

More applause.

“Several countries may not be in the correct groups.”

Wild cheering.

“The referees are elephant shrews.”

The loudest cheer of the evening.

“But despite all that, the Gerbil World Cup is officially open.”

The crowd exploded into celebration. Fireworks erupted again. Nobody knew why. A brass band accidentally played three national anthems simultaneously. The elephant shrews marched across the pitch with tremendous dignity.

And somewhere high above the stadium, Granite was already drawing plans for the closing ceremony. It was scheduled for next month. Construction had begun yesterday.

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“Apparently,” said Gumption, reading over the top of a newspaper three times her size, “the World Cup has already started.”

Twenty-three gerbils immediately stopped what they were doing.

Gladiator, who had no involvement whatsoever in the tournament committee and had intended to keep it that way, looked up from her coffee. “What do you mean, started?”

“The opening ceremony was yesterday.”

Geography dropped a pin. Glyph dropped a magnifying glass. Gazetteer dropped an entire lever-arch file.

“Yesterday?” said Gussie from inside a cabinet.

“Yes.”

“We haven’t had ours.”

“No.”

“We haven’t even built the stadium.”

“No.”

“We haven’t appointed referees.”

“We have appointed referees,” said Gumption.

Everyone looked at her.

“The elephant shrews.”

That was different. The elephant shrews had been appointed immediately because they looked authoritative and possessed impressive noses.

A meeting was called. This resulted in six meetings. By lunchtime, the situation had become considerably more organised and therefore much worse. A giant chart now covered one wall. Another chart covered a second wall. A third chart attempted to explain the first two charts and had achieved only limited success.

“The problem,” said Geography, standing on a ladder and pointing at something with a ruler, “is that we have become distracted by country selection.”

“We spent four days arguing about whether Atlantis should qualify,” said Gazetteer.

“It has excellent historical credentials.”

“It doesn’t exist.”

“That is merely one interpretation.”

“What happened to Wales?” asked Glyph.

Nobody knew. A search party was organised. Wales was eventually discovered in Group F underneath a pile of administrative notes relating to Luxembourg.

By mid-afternoon, the gerbils had accepted a difficult truth. Real World Cup organisers did not spend weeks debating the geopolitical status of fictional island kingdoms. They simply got on with things.

“Right,” declared Gumption. She drew a thick line across the giant chart. “New plan.”

Everyone leaned forward. “We have five weeks.”

“Reasonable.”

“We need stadiums.”

“Yes.”

“Fixtures.”

“Yes.”

“National anthems.”

“Yes.”

“Opening ceremony.”

“Definitely.”

“Commentators.”

“Important.”

“Merchandise.”

“Very important.”

“Security.”

“Less important.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re all attending anyway.”

This was considered sound reasoning.

Assignments were distributed immediately. Geography began constructing tournament maps. Glyph started designing programmes. Gazetteer produced a twelve-page briefing document entitled A Short Introduction to Every Country in the Tournament, which was neither short nor an introduction.

Granite started building a stadium. Nobody had actually asked her to build a stadium. Granite simply assumed one would be needed and had already completed the foundations.

Meanwhile, the elephant shrews arrived for referee training. This consisted entirely of walking around looking stern. To everyone’s surprise, they were exceptionally good at it.

By evening, the library buzzed with purpose. The tournament was behind schedule. The opening ceremony was overdue. The infrastructure was largely imaginary. But at last the gerbils were moving in the same direction.

Which, for the World Cup Committee, represented a significant and largely unexpected improvement.

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A large map of the world had been pinned to the wall. A second map of the world had been pinned to the first map because Geography had decided the original map lacked sufficient geographical detail. A third map had then been added by Gazetteer, who considered both previous maps “unhelpfully map-like.”

Nobody knew what that meant.

The draw itself took place in the Grand Hall, which was actually a storeroom. Granite had constructed an official draw machine from a biscuit tin, two teaspoons, string, and a level of confidence unsupported by engineering principles. It rattled ominously.

“Perfect,” said Granite.

Inside the tin were folded slips of paper containing the names of countries. All 48 participating nations had been selected according to a rigorous process involving geography, football history, flag attractiveness, and whether a gerbil happened to like the sound of the name.

Glyph climbed onto the table. “As Chair of the International Gerbil Football Federation—”

“When were you elected?” asked Gosling.

“I appointed myself this morning.”

“Fair enough.”

Glyph nodded. “Let the draw begin.”

Granite turned the handle. The machine immediately detached from the table and rolled across the floor. Six gerbils chased it. One collided with a chair. Another disappeared behind a curtain. The biscuit tin struck a wall and burst open.

Forty-eight countries scattered across the room. There was a brief silence.

“Well,” said Glyph. “The countries appear to have drawn themselves.”

Nobody could fault the logic.

Twenty minutes later, after recovering Uruguay from beneath a bookcase and locating Morocco inside a slipper, eight groups of four countries were finally assembled.

Gingersnap raised a paw. “Can Scotland play England in the final?”

“No.”

“Then the draw is flawed.”

Gazetteer was already drawing arrows and possible knockout routes. Granite had begun building a trophy. Glyph was preparing an opening ceremony involving bunting. Gingersnap was attempting to learn all the national anthems simultaneously. And somewhere in the back of the room, Gussie had become trapped inside the draw machine. Again.

Gloopy said, “There are only 32 teams, not 48.”

The International Gerbil Football Federation immediately launched an inquiry. The inquiry concluded that sixteen countries had been omitted. The inquiry also concluded that the same gerbils responsible for organising the draw had been appointed to investigate it. No further action was taken.

The second draw took forty-three minutes and somehow resulted in Gussie being trapped inside the draw machine twice. The gerbils immediately forgot about competitive balance and spent the next hour arguing over whic

flags looked best.

Gingersnap remained furious that Scotland and England could not meet in the final. Granite insisted this was exactly the sort of thing knockout rounds were invented to solve.

Nobody listened.

The Gerbil World Cup was officially underway. 🏆🐹⚽

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By late afternoon the habitat was divided into three camps.

The Enthusiasts

Gingersnap, Glitter and Gumdrop have painted tiny England flags on absolutely everything. Nobody knows where the flags came from. There seem to be more flags than gerbils.

Glitter has produced a banner reading: COME ON ENGLAND! Unfortunately it is hanging upside down. Nobody has mentioned this.

The Analysts

Gasket has become convinced she understands football. This conviction appeared around lunchtime. By evening she was explaining formations to anyone within earshot despite having never seen a match. Her tactical board currently contains three tunnels, a food dish and something labelled “Midfield Region”. No one understands it.

Least of all Gasket.

The Casual Supporters

Gooseberry is mostly interested in whether match nights involve snacks. She has heard rumours of special snacks. She is monitoring the situation carefully. Every ten minutes she asks if the football has started. Every ten minutes she is told no. This information appears genuinely surprising each time.

Meanwhile Gherkin has become concerned about international fairness. She has constructed a list of countries that may participate in the Gerbil World Cup.

The list currently contains:

• England

• Scotland

• Norway

• Brazil

• Tunnel

Nobody remembers how Tunnel got included. There is growing support for its participation.

As kick-off approaches, excitement spreads through the habitat. Gerbils begin gathering in front of the television. Some are facing the correct direction. Others are not. Gemima is sitting behind the television, apparently expecting football to emerge from the back. Gwendolyn has climbed onto the highest cushion and is observing events with the expression of a tournament organiser inspecting preparations. The actual football match is almost secondary.

What matters is that this is now officially World Cup Week. The draw is Wednesday tomorrow.

The tournament starts soon.

Countries have been selected only in principle.

Several administrative disasters are still expected.

Morale, however, is extremely high.

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It arrived on Wednesday and spread with alarming speed. By breakfast Gingersnap had overheard the phrase World Cup. By mid-morning nobody knew what it meant. By lunchtime everyone was participating.

The blanket mountain became tournament headquarters.

Gwendolyn claimed the highest point and immediately began directing traffic despite having no authority whatsoever. Gerbils hurried in every direction carrying scraps of paper, pieces of cardboard and objects that were clearly unrelated but had somehow become important.

Gherkin attempted to construct a map. Nobody knew what countries looked like, so she invented several. One appeared to consist entirely of corners. Another seemed to be mostly tunnel. A third was accidentally sat on before completion and thereafter represented a coastal region.

Glitter became responsible for decorations. This responsibility had not been assigned to her. She simply started decorating things until everyone accepted the situation. Before long strips of coloured paper appeared throughout the habitat. Loops were hung from bridges. Banners appeared over tunnels. A cardboard archway emerged near the food bowl.

No one knew what it said. It looked official. That was sufficient.

Meanwhile Gumdrop had discovered that international sporting tournaments apparently involved groups. Nobody knew what groups were either. By mid-afternoon there were groups everywhere. Some contained countries. Some contained cushions. One contained Gooseberry, who had fallen asleep in the middle of proceedings and become classified as Group D. The distinction was not always clear.

The atmosphere grew steadily more serious.

Gerbils raced through tunnels carrying folded pieces of paper. Important announcements were made. Lists were written. Lists were lost. New lists were created to replace the missing lists and then immediately misplaced as well.

At one point Gasket organised a draw. No one was entirely certain what was being drawn. The event was nevertheless considered a success.

As evening approached the habitat had taken on the appearance of a major international sporting venue designed entirely by enthusiastic amateurs.

Coloured markers appeared on cardboard. Countries existed. Teams existed. A tournament existed. The details remained vague. The excitement did not.

Everywhere Gingersnap looked, gerbils were hurrying somewhere with the urgent expression of creatures involved in something tremendously important. For the first time in their history, the Gerbil World Cup was underway.

Nobody had yet reached the football stage.

That could wait until Thursday.

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The Aftermath was extraordinary because nobody could entirely agree whether:

• the production had gone catastrophically wrong,

• or whether they had just witnessed avant-garde genius.

The debate continued until approximately 3am and remains unresolved.

Immediately after curtain fall, the Bluey dissolved into:

• cheers,

• hugs,

• emotional debriefing,

• and a level of glitter contamination now considered structurally permanent.

The audience would not leave. Every attempted exit turned into: “JUST ONE MORE STORY ABOUT THE CROQUEMBOUCHE.”

Backstage
Pure devastation.
Beautiful devastation.
The set looked like:

• Paris,

• a bakery,

• and a meteor strike

had occurred simultaneously. Cream puffs everywhere. Sequins embedded in:

• curtains,

• instrument cases,

• and one extremely confused capybara.

The windmill emitted occasional regretful ticking noises. The velvet elephant had somehow rotated ninety degrees and now faced the bar permanently. No one has managed to move it back.

Gloria
Ascended briefly to another plane of existence.
She stood atop a crate amid the ruins clutching a cocktail shaker and declaring:
“WE HAVE REDEFINED THEATRE.”
At this point the audience believed her.
Someone from the snug yelled:
“ENCORE.”
Clara visibly reached for the emergency whistle.

Clara
The true hero of the evening.
Only after the audience settled did anyone discover:

• she had prevented three scenery collapses,

• caught a falling lantern one-handed,

• disconnected the overenthusiastic smoke mechanism,

• and physically restrained two gerbils attempting to “improve the ending” mid-catastrophe.

She accepted exactly:

• one mug of tea,

• half a profiterole,

• and a standing ovation she pretended to dislike.

The capybaras later awarded her:
Supreme Keeper of Structural Reality
A very high honour.

Gubbins
Quiet.
Thoughtful.
Sitting alone on the edge of the stage with her triangle in her lap while paper hearts drifted slowly down from the rafters hours later.
At one point Greta sat beside her and said:
“That final note saved the whole show.”
Gubbins considered this gravely.
Then replied:
“Timing matters.”
Which has now become:

• a pub motto,

• three items of merchandise,

• and, somehow, a minor philosophical movement.

Colin
Unquestioned icon.
Children asked for his autograph.
The badgers made him honorary union membership cards.
One of the guinea pigs painted his portrait in gravy.
He spent most of the evening asleep in the remains of the croquembouche wearing his cravat like a tiny victorious duke.

The Helicopters
Still unexplained.
Officially no helicopters were booked.
Unofficially Gloria keeps smiling mysteriously whenever anyone mentions airspace regulations.
Clara has stopped asking.
For her own peace.

Most Moving Moment
Long after midnight, once the audience finally drifted upstairs or home or into philosophical discussions about pastry symbolism, the cast gathered silently in the ruined theatre.
No costumes now.
Just tired gerbils with smudged makeup and aching paws.
The lights were low.
The windmill still.
The stage sticky with caramel.

Then softly, almost absentmindedly, someone began singing the final harmony again.
Others joined.
One by one.
No spectacle.
No audience.
No choreography.
Just the song.

And this time, at the very end—

ting.

Perfect.

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The orchestra began softly.
Accordion.
Strings.
A cautious triangle.
Gubbins, astonishingly, restrained.
Greta stepped alone into the spotlight beneath the glowing windmill, her red velvet coat shimmering with sequins like embers.
Above her, high in the shadows, Gwendolyn appeared slowly descending on the trapeze swing.
The audience sighed collectively.
Not applauded.
Sighed.
That dangerous sound audiences make when they’ve stopped observing and started believing.

The final duet began.
No spectacle yet.
Just voices.
Greta singing upward into the dark.
Gwendolyn drifting gently overhead like some tragic glittering constellation.
Even the gerbils backstage stopped moving.
Clara lowered her clipboard.
The croquembouche glowed softly at stage right like a sacred pastry moon.
And for one impossible moment:
everything worked.

Then Clara saw it.
A single profiterole shifted.
Tiny.
Almost nothing.
But Clara the Capybara had spent her entire professional life understanding load-bearing consequences.
Her eyes widened.
Across the stage, one caramel strand snapped with a noise like:
tick.
Meanwhile, entirely unaware, Gubbins stepped backward preparing for her Big Emotional Triangle Moment.
The heel of her tiny sequinned boot caught the gold tasselled lever marked:
ENCORE
(seriously do not pull)
There was a soft mechanical:
clunk.
The world inhaled.

At first nothing happened.
Then everything did.

The windmill accelerated abruptly from:
Elegant Parisian ambience
to:
Industrial prophecy.
Hidden stage lights exploded alive in violent gold and crimson.
Every remaining paper heart in the building launched simultaneously from concealed ceiling compartments.
Confetti cannons detonated.
The chimney emitted a towering plume of theatrical smoke visible halfway down Peak Woo.
Somewhere outside:
helicopters.
Actual helicopters.

And at the exact same moment—
the croquembouche began collapsing.
Not quickly.
Majestically.
Like the fall of an edible civilisation.
The audience gasped as glowing cream puffs cascaded in slow motion across the stage while spun sugar shattered into glittering amber arcs through the light.
A profiterole bounced off the accordion.
The accordion kept playing.

Backstage panic erupted instantly.
Gerbils ran everywhere.
Scenery revolved at frankly illegal speeds.
A backup chorus appeared accidentally from inside the elephant three scenes early.
One of the moon lanterns detached and drifted gently across the stage like an emotionally overwhelmed jellyfish.
And through all of it:
Greta and Gwendolyn kept singing.
Because Gloria — absolute theatrical maniac that she was — had realised the audience believed this was intentional.
So she committed.
Fully.
She burst onto stage screaming:
“LOVE DESTROYS ORDER!”
The audience erupted.
Gerbils immediately began incorporating the falling profiteroles into choreography.
One used a cream puff as an emotional metaphor.
Nobody knew how.
It worked anyway.

Meanwhile Clara moved through the chaos with terrifying calm.
Securing ropes.
Redirecting scenery.
Quietly catching one falling lantern without even looking at it.
At one point she physically stopped part of the rotating set with one paw while sipping tea.
Nobody noticed.
Which is exactly how Clara preferred it.

Then came Colin.
Out of the smoke.
Out of the confetti storm.
Out of the complete theatrical breakdown.
Tiny cravat immaculate.
He trotted calmly through the wreckage carrying one single perfect profiterole in his mouth.
The spotlight found him accidentally.
The audience lost its collective mind.
People stood up.
A badger shouted:
“YES COLIN.”
Someone else burst into tears.
Possibly several people.

Now the stage was pure chaos.
Paper hearts everywhere.
The windmill spinning like destiny itself had suffered a nervous episode.
Helicopters thudding overhead.
Gerbils improvising choreography around pastry debris.
And yet—
the final harmony approached.
The cast gathered slowly centre stage beneath the blazing windmill.
Greta.
Gwendolyn.
Gloria.
The orchestra.
The ensemble.
Colin sitting proudly atop a surviving chunk of croquembouche.
Even Clara had stepped into the wings at last.
The music swelled.
Then suddenly—
everything stopped.
The revolving stage jammed.
The lights flickered out.
The windmill shuddered into silence.
Darkness.
Complete silence.
For one dreadful second everyone thought:
this is it.
This is where it finally collapses.
Then, from the orchestra pit:
TING.
Gubbins.
Perfect.
Clear as crystal.
The single most beautiful triangle note ever struck by mortal paw.
The emergency lights glowed softly back to life.
Golden paper hearts drifted slowly through the darkness.
And the entire cast — voices ragged, emotional, glorious — sang the final line together without accompaniment.
No machinery.
No spectacle.
No choreography.
Just heart.
When the curtain finally fell, nobody moved.
Then the Bluey exploded.
Applause.
Howling.
Stamping feet.
Cheering so loud the glasses rattled behind the bar.
The gerbils collapsed into one another backstage laughing hysterically through exhaustion and glitter.
Clara sat down heavily at last and muttered:
“I’m filing absolutely none of this.”
And somewhere beneath the wreckage of spun sugar and sequins, Gubbins quietly polished her triangle like a warrior cleaning a sacred blade.

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Act II began with confidence.
Which, in retrospect, may have been everyone’s first mistake.
Not because it went badly.
Because it went too well.
The gerbils crossed the dangerous threshold from:
“we are surviving this”
into:
“we are artists.”
And that is always when things become operationally ambitious.

Act II Opens
The stage transformed during the interval with terrifying efficiency.
The windmill rotated away.
The lights dimmed to deep ruby and gold.
Smoke curled across the floorboards like secrets.
And then the velvet elephant moved.
Not metaphorically.
Actually moved.
A collective gasp swept the audience as the entire elephant slowly opened along hidden seams to reveal:

• cabaret tables,

• red lanterns,

• and an underground bohemian café somehow concealed inside it all along.

Clara immediately checked her clipboard to confirm this had passed inspection. Apparently it had. Barely.

Greta & Gwendolyn
This was the emotional heart of the show.
And unexpectedly… genuinely moving.
Greta’s poetry scene should not have worked.
On paper it involved:

• moonlight,

• accordion underscoring,

• and interpretive ribbon choreography.

Yet somehow the room fell utterly silent. Gwendolyn sat high above the stage on the trapeze swing, gently swaying while Greta sang from below beneath the glowing windmill. Even Gloria stopped moving for almost twenty seconds. A personal record.

Gubbins
Entered her experimental era.
She had added:

• suspended percussion,

• dramatic pauses,

• and what may technically have been a triangle solo.

At one point she produced a single tiny:tingduring a silence so profound the audience collectively inhaled. It landed perfectly. Gubbins herself looked startled.

The Helicopter Situation
Resolved.
Mostly.
Halfway through the big ensemble number, a powerful light swept briefly across the chimney from outside.
The audience murmured.
The gerbils did not falter.
Then, from high above the stage, Gloria improvised:
“Even the heavens search for love!”
Thunderous applause.
Absolute theft of the moment.
Professional-level recovery.

The Croquembouche Scene
This is where things escalated.
The glowing croquembouche was wheeled centre-stage accompanied by a solemn accordion hymn and six tiny candle-bearing gerbils.
Nobody knew why.
Then Greta declared:
“Love is fragile.
Like spun sugar.
Yet worth the risk.”
The audience lost its collective mind.
Three badgers openly cried.
One capybara whispered:
“Bloody hell.”

Minor Technical Incident
The revolving scenery briefly rotated too far.
For approximately eight seconds:

• the audience could see backstage,

• Gloria was visible drinking directly from a cocktail shaker,

• and Colin was discovered asleep in a prop basket wearing two feather boas.

The audience assumed this was intentional symbolism. The applause intensified.

Clara
Still monitoring everything.
But by now even she had begun smiling occasionally.
Though she did intervene firmly after discovering:

• two gerbils attempting aerial confetti deployment from the chimney,

• and a handwritten cue labelled:

• “release mystery doves?”

That was confiscated.

The End of Act II
Oh.
This part.
The lights dimmed to almost nothing.
Greta and Gwendolyn stood alone beneath the windmill while soft golden lights flickered through the croquembouche tower behind them.
The orchestra hushed.
Then the entire cast began singing softly from hidden places around the theatre:

• balconies,

• backstage,

• somewhere suspiciously inside the walls.

The sound surrounded the audience completely. And as the final note rose— tiny illuminated paper hearts descended silently from the ceiling. Not many. Just enough. For one suspended impossible moment, the whole pub looked like it was floating. Blackout. Silence. Then the loudest applause yet.

The final Act, Act III will be on after the interval.

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Opening Number
The orchestra began.
Perfectly? No.
Emotionally? Immensely.
Gubbins struck the triangle exactly on cue three times in a row.
At the fourth cue she missed completely and hit a spoon instead.
Nobody cared.
The audience applauded anyway.

Gwendolyn’s Entrance
Spectacular.
She descended slowly on the trapeze swing while singing the opening refrain in a voice so unexpectedly lovely that:

• conversation ceased,

• drinks stopped halfway to mouths,

• and one of the guinea pigs whispered:

“Oh… they’re actually good.” That was the precise moment the room surrendered.

Gloria’s Direction
Completely unhinged.
Inspired.
At one point the entire ensemble appeared unexpectedly from inside the velvet elephant during a key change.
This was apparently intentional.

Colin
Absolute star.
His entrance received:

• cheers,

• stamping feet,

• and one standing ovation from the badgers.

He trotted across stage in his cravat carrying a tiny note in his mouth, paused dead centre under the spotlight, and looked faintly surprised by his own fame. Then he sneezed glitter. No one knows how. The audience nearly collapsed.

The Croquembouche
Terrifyingly effective.
At the climax of the act its hidden internal lights activated fully for the first time.
The entire tower glowed like a sacred sugary monument while the cast sang beneath it.
Someone in the audience gasped:
“It’s… emotionally pâtisserie.”
Correct.

Minor Incidents
There were only a few.

• One can-can line drifted sideways into the orchestra pit.

• A feather fan caught briefly on a lighting bracket.

• Gubbins accidentally struck the triangle during a kiss scene, producing a tiny ting exactly as Gwendolyn fainted dramatically.

This unexpectedly improved the scene. The audience now believes it was symbolism.

Clara’s Current Status
Still vigilant.
Still scanning the trapeze rigging every six seconds.
But she has finally sat down.
Which may be the strongest endorsement possible.

Most Important Moment
At the end of the act, just before blackout, the entire cast gathered beneath the glowing windmill and sang the final harmony together.
And for one perfect breathless second:

• the lights,

• the music,

• the sequins,

• the dachshund,

• the absurdity of all of it—

came together completely. Then blackout. Silence. And immediately after: Absolute pandemonium of applause.

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The last ten minutes before curtain-up did not resemble theatre preparation so much as the final moments before either:

• a moon launch,

• a royal coronation,

• or an extremely emotional coup.

The Bluestocking hummed. Not loudly. Just… densely. Every room alive at once.

T minus 10 Minutes
The audience had begun settling in.
Glasses clinked.
The giant wombat dimmed the house lights one notch at a time with solemn precision.
Outside, Peak Woo glowed faintly in the dusk like it was trying not to interfere but was emotionally invested.
Backstage, the gerbils moved at impossible speed.
Not panicking now.
Flowing.
Tiny paws.
Sequins.
Clipboards.
Whispers.
Someone ran past carrying:

• a feather fan,

• three éclairs,

• and part of the moon.

No one questioned it.

T minus 8 Minutes
Clara conducted the final inspection.
She checked:

• the trapeze rigging,

• the chimney stabilisers,

• emergency exits,

• and Colin.

Particularly Colin. He was found asleep inside the velvet elephant wearing his cravat and one false eyelash. Assessment: “Fit for performance.” A small sticker was attached to him reading: SAFETY CHECKED.

T minus 7 Minutes
Gubbins vanished.
Immediate concern.
After a frantic search she was discovered sitting alone behind the scenery holding both triangles.
Silent.
Contemplative.
A nearby guinea pig asked softly:
“Are you nervous?”
Gubbins replied:
“Timing matters.”
Which may honestly have been the wisest thing said all week.
Then she rose and walked toward the orchestra pit like a tiny furry samurai.

T minus 5 Minutes
Gloria assembled the cast.
The noise backstage fell away.
Even the windmill seemed to pause.
She looked exhausted.
Mascara slightly smudged.
Gin held together almost entirely by willpower.
Then she said:
“Listen to me, darlings.
We do not have perfection.
We have heart.
We have sequins.
We have an emotionally overcommitted dachshund.
And tonight… that is enough.”
Absolute silence.
Then from somewhere in the back:
“Vive la gerbil.”
Muted applause.
One sob.
Possibly from Gloria herself.

T minus 3 Minutes
The orchestra tuned.
For the first time all week:
Gubbins hit the triangle perfectly.
A pure crystalline ting floated through backstage.
Everybody froze.
The gerbils slowly turned toward her.
Gubbins blinked once and said:
“Oh.”
Several cast members crossed themselves.

T minus 2 Minutes
The croquembouche lights activated.
Nobody had known it had lights.
Tiny golden glows flickered through the spun sugar tower like a confectionery cathedral.
The audience gasped from the other side of the curtain.
The effect was magnificent.
Also mildly threatening.

T minus 1 Minute
The house lights dimmed fully.
The murmur beyond the curtain softened.
Gwendolyn climbed carefully onto the trapeze platform high above the stage, glittering softly in the dark.
Below, Clara looked up and gave a single nod.
Secure.
Safe.
Ready.
Gloria took her place in the wings.
The accordion player inhaled.
Colin awoke abruptly and barked once at destiny.
And then—
From somewhere deep beneath the Bluey, hidden gears finally engaged.
The windmill began to turn.

Curtain Up!

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• 83% of the labour,

• 97% of the panic,

• and all available glitter.

So the possibilities are as follows:

Possibility 1 — Perfectly Innocent
The helicopters are unrelated.
Entirely plausible.
The sky does occasionally contain helicopters without:

• aerial sequinned choreography,

• emergency croquembouche logistics,

• or capybara engineering interventions.

Clara certainly hopes this is the explanation.

Possibility 2 — Gloria Has Escalated
More likely.
Earlier this afternoon she was heard saying:
“The audience must feel Paris in their bones.”
This is not the sentence of a gerbil committed to moderation.
There are rumours she attempted to acquire:

• atmospheric searchlights,

• theatrical rose-petal deployment capability,

• and “just one tasteful flypast.”

The wordtastefulhere should alarm us all.

Possibility 3 — The Finale Mechanism Has Become Aviation-Adjacent
This is the scenario the capybaras fear.
Particularly after discovering:

• pulley systems attached to the chimney,

• coded labels reading “Phase Moonrise,”

• and Gubbins asking whether triangles are “aerodynamically stable.”

Nobody answered her. Correctly.

Clara’s Official Position
Clara emerged backstage approximately ten minutes ago wearing:

• a hard hat,

• reading glasses,

• and the expression of someone carrying civilisation personally.

Her statement was brief: “There is no immediate danger provided nobody pulls the gold tasselled lever marked ‘encore.’” Unfortunately this implies:

1. such a lever exists,

2. it is accessible,

3. and somebody will absolutely pull it.

Current Mood in the Pub
Oddly calm.
The orchestra is tuning.
The windmill is glowing softly.
Colin is asleep in a feather boa beside the croquembouche.
And backstage, beyond the curtains, the gerbils are no longer rushing.
Just preparing.
Which, with gerbils, is usually the moment you should become slightly worried.

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