Chương 85: 12.5 - Black and White

5.

"What's black and white and red all over? A newspaper." - Traditional British joke Monday, October 13 The season had settled into a new rhythm with Bumpers Bank as the bass drum. Bom bom bom, train, eat, improve. I was constantly pulling players aside having little talks with them. Rainman, Sharky, Sunday Sowunmi.

A common experience was me going into one of the cabins and feeling slightly happier without quite knowing why, then discovering that Spectrum had installed acoustic foam in the Sin Bin or Ben's dad had been to fix the flickering lights in the showers.

I thought we would get a few months of this downbeat upward mobility, that I would be able to focus my attention on Relationism and fundraising. Mmm, not quite. Change was afoot. But one foot I hoped wouldn't need changing was Pascal's. (Wow. Terrible. Cut that.) The man in question was with me in the clinic, alongside Physio Dean, as we waited our turn for an X-ray.

Having to wait was fairly surprising because every time I had been there in the past, including for my 'medical' when I first came to Chester, I'd had the place to myself. Coming on a Monday morning made me realise this was a busy organisation.

"I suppose that's why they call it a business," I said, but Dean hadn't been privy to any of my prior thoughts so he gave me a blank look and returned to his phone. He didn't really want to be indulging my weirdnesses, especially with a full slate of battered and bruised footballers waiting for him. I got a text from Emma's dad. Sebastian: Oh me lads, you should've seen us gannin'! Me: Pardon me, sir, are you quite well? Sebastian: Another win for the mighty Toon! Me: New phone who dis?

Sebastian: You talk a big game, Max. If you think you can beat Noocastle, put your money where your mouth is. Your thousand against my two. Me: The Newcastle squad cost 500 million. Mine cost 500 thousand. By my maths, you need to beat us by 10, 000 goals or you've underperformed. Sebastian: You won't have a friendly wager then? What would change your mind? Me: If I had three lightning fast forwards.

"Excuse me," said a rando. It was a middle-aged woman we were sharing the waiting room with.

"Are you that Max Best?"

"Yes."

"Oh, I knew it. My Alan's a big fan."

"I'm a big fan of Alan's."

"Oh, you are funny. I don't much follow the football, if I'm honest. I like to see the boys doing well, though. How are the boys doing?" I looked up.

"What a question. Pascal?"

"Ugh," he said. He was anxious and didn't want to make small talk. I had promised him his leg wasn't as badly broken as the doctors feared but in this medical space filled with highly-trained professionals striding confidently through the spaces, it was hard to believe they might have made a mistake. I smiled, but I was stressed too. The curse couldn't be wrong, surely? We would know soon enough.

"Well, Mrs, er..."

"Turner," she said.

"But call me Charlie."

"Hang on," I said.

"Your husband is Alan Turner?"

"Yes, do you know him?"

"He's the manager of Newcastle United." Charlie Turner smiled.

"Oh, he's not that one."

"Oh, good."

"Do you not like him?"

"No, he's one of the worst men in football. I think he might be the actual worst." Physio Dean stirred.

"Worse than Chip? Worse than Folke Wester? Worse than the president of FIFA?" I thought about it.

"Yeah. I think so. Turner is everything that's wrong with football, society, and the human condition. He's a smug apologist for football's greatest excesses." Dean's eyes drifted left and right.

"We're playing them in a couple of weeks. October 28th, isn't it? You're not going to go full Max, are you?" I pulled my bottom lip.

"No... No, I don't think so. For, like, ten reasons, including the fact that we'll lose and you can't speak your mind if you get beat. Do you know what I mean? Sounds like sour grapes, no-one listens. No, there's no point laying into him this time. I'll have to be patient."

"He might be the England manager by the time we play Newcastle next." I scoffed, with just a hint of bitterness.

"That'd be perfect. He's the perfect candidate for the English Football Association after they dared appoint a world class German. What they need next is a man with no moral compass, a man who can be bought and sold, a man you can sell to Daily Mail readers."

"I read the Daily Mail," said the woman.

"Yeah," I muttered, tuning out.

"That's why you married a guy called Alan Turner." Pascal had been my assistant manager in the 3 R Welsh project for a few weeks and he stepped into the role once more.

"Our recent form is much better, Mrs. Turner. We surprised Fleetwood Town in the Vans Trophy. Max tricked them by putting out a weakened side against Wigan and a strong one against Doncaster. It very much appeared as though we were kicking the Trophy in the ton. Fleetwood rested their best players."

"Oh," she said, and I realised that to an outsider, much of what we did sounded like gibberish. It didn't help that Pascal had used an obscure German idiom in the middle of his speech.

"We knocked them out of the AOK Cup and have probably knocked them out of the Vans Trophy. We also snatched a draw against them in the first league game of the season. They do not like us much."

"No," said Mrs. Turner. She knew one thing to say to football fans.

"What was the score?"

"One-nil," said Pascal.

"Max scored."

"That's good," she said, making an impressed face. The really impressive thing was that we had won the key match without using Bench Boost and I wouldn't need to use it in the third and final group stage tie either. The Vans Trophy was made up of teams from the third and fourth tiers, plus under 21 sides from the academies of big clubs. Chester's third group stage tie would be against Liverpool under 21s. The academy sides in the Vans Trophy had played a lot of great football but had lost almost every match.

It was amazing experience for the future stars of Liverpool, Brighton, and the rest, but the youngsters didn't have the nous or experience to actually beat rugged teams of hard men who didn't want to be humiliated by kids. When Chester were in the Premier League, I would manage our under 21s and we would win the Trophy. Why? Because why not. That is, if we were allowed to compete. Currently the tournament was only open to clubs with Category 4 Academies and I was running Chester outside the official Academy system.

The aim of that was to help protect my young players from being poached by big clubs - that concept was about to be tested. Liverpool were trying to steal my tiny goal machine, Simon Black.

"This weekend we had a setback," said Pascal.

"An away draw to Sutton United. Two-all after leading two-nil."

"Oh no." Dean shook his head.

"Away point's a good point."

"Max rates them the weakest team in the league. We have to win such matches."

"Away point's a good point," repeated Dean.

"Beggars can't be choosers."

"No," I said.

"It was bad. My fault. Sent on too many kids, didn't I?"

"Yes," agreed Pascal and Dean, simultaneously, which made them smile. I rubbed my face. I had given Christian Fierce a rest, played the first twenty minutes as captain, created space for Henri to score, whipped in a corner for Lee Hudson to nod home, and until the 70th minute we had bossed the game. When I sent on Dan and Lucas Friend (the young left back), Sutton hadn't shown any ambition, so I'd thrown on Sunday Sowunmi and Tyson, too. Why not?

Well, the reason why not was that Sutton saw the average age of the team had fallen to about ten and had come at us hard.

"That was one of the biggest fumbles of my management career," I mused. Our starting CA of 73. 3 was higher than Sutton's 72 and we had played ten points better than them, but the mania for youth development had gone a step too far.

"It was bad timing to drop two points."

"Why?" said Dean, sharply, but the Polish doctor came to get us. Pascal hobbled on his crutches into the private room where his brace was carefully removed. The doctor complained that this whole session was stupid, a very terrible idea, a waste of time, but she got things set up and we stepped out. She clicked a button and X-rays smashed into Pascal's leg. We went back in and waited.

Our nerves weren't as frayed as when we had finished our last game of the season and had to spend four dreadful minutes waiting for the Grimsby result to come through, but it was close.

"Crappity crap," said the Pole when the black and white image came on her screen.

"We did the wrong leg." I punched the air.

"Yes," I hissed. I felt Dean's eyes on me as I bounced around the room.

"I fucking knew it."

"What's happening?" said Pascal, who was lying down with his arms over his head.

"You're all better," I said.

"Get up off the bed and get back to work you lazy bastard. What the fuck." I checked his Condition score. The curse rated him as 30% fit. Dean rushed forward.

"No no no, don't move. There has been a mistake. The images are mixed up."

"No they're fucking not," I said. I exhaled massively. What a relief! Yes I was one step closer to being burned as a witch, but I was also one step closer to being able to play 3-4-3 diamond. Get the fuck in!

"Okay let me think about this. Pascal, they're gonna keep you here while they take more photos of your lovely legs but I've seen enough. I'm going. So the question is, do you want to play against Tranmere or Newcastle?"

"Fuck sake, Max!" cried Dean.

"He's not playing this month! Not this year!"

"Course he is. He's fine. Pascal?"

"Newcastle."

"Top. Don't tell anyone you're healed. Seeya." I was striding out when Dean stopped me.

"Max. No."

"What now?" He pointed.

"His leg can't have healed. It can't." Pascal said, "Can I tell my mother? What about Tiggy?" I gently eased Dean out of my way and moved to the table.

"Only if you can trust them not to tell anyone else. Like not a single soul. Why don't you say you had some good news about your recovery? That'll cheer them up and you can bat away any follow-up questions. They've already been through the worst and they don't need all the good news in one pop. I'd like to unleash you, mate. You know, as a surprise, as a fucking bolt from the blue. Newcastle have analysts for days but they won't be doing reports on a guy who has eight months to go in a long term injury, will they?

"I know you like being analysed but I like winning matches. I have zero chance to beat Newcastle but if you can give me ten minutes that increases our odds to one percent. Two percent. Okay let's be straight up, I'm not going to take the slightest risk with your health for the slimmest possible chance of winning a match but if your rehab goes well and if I get the sense that Newcastle are going to put out an under 21 side, I'd like the option of using you. We can beat a Prem under 21 side. We can!

Finish this, then I want you off to a counter-current pool in Manchester where you can get moving again without putting strain on your bits and without being recognised.

"When Dean gets over his shock he's going to get you back in the groove in record time. When you're not training you're wearing your brace okay? For show. Can you do a sad face?" He was smiling pretty hard.

"Not right now, boss, no."

"Imagine I've turned down a five million pound bid from Newcastle United for you."

"Why would you do that?"

"Because while you'd look amazing in that famous old black and white kit, I don't want you playing for Alan Turner." Pascal frowned. I perked up.

"There we go! Visualisation works. Maybe you don't need those acting lessons after all."

On my way out, I felt my phone vibrate. Sebastian: Come on, Max. Be a sport. Your thousand, my three. Four grand in the pot, winner takes all. All you have to do is beat Newcastle. What's stopping you? Me: I don't have a good scam. Sun Tsu told me to pick my battles.

Outside the clinic, I hopped on the Green Baron, my cute little e-scooter, and did my customary curse check before turning off the screens so I could focus on the roads. Life was a lot more fragile without a sturdy metal shell around you. At some point in the very recent past I'd got cursemail. When I opened it, I almost had a dizzy spell. It was a monthly perk, but that made no sense because I had already been offered one on October 1. There were now two October perks in the shop.

I had barely read the first one - I was determined to buy Relationism as soon as possible so I could get the fuck on with revolutionising football. The imps were trying to make me buy all kinds of vaguely-worded power-ups so that I would have to keep grinding for XP to unlock my full potential. No thanks. No distractions! As shocking as it was to be offered a second perk, it was just as shocking to read what it said.

Seasonal Special Offer New perk collection available to buy until the witching hour on All Hallow's Eve: Shocktober Cost: 2, 777 XP Effects: Increases your chance of winning when playing a team with higher reputation in the month of October. This special offer contains three mini-packs: Expected Ghouls; The Full Protonic Reversal Pack; A Nightmare on Filbert Street. It was one of the earliest perk offers, repeated!

The original offer, made two years prior, had seemed like an excuse for the imps to get silly and write loads of Halloween puns. There were three 'mini-packs' which contained lots of 'mini-perks'. The imps had clearly enjoyed themselves coming up with the ideas but the perk itself had been easy to turn down. Too expensive, not enough benefit. It would help me win - to cause shocks - against bigger teams, which was almost everyone, but only in October. This time, though, I was more tempted.

For a start, I was managing more matches. When Shocktober had first appeared I was the manager of the Beth Heads, end of list. Now I was the boss of Chester, who were in three different cups as well as the league, I was managing the worst unit in the army, and I was planning to take over the boy's team. The men's team had three big league games coming up - Walsall, Tranmere, and MK Dons, plus the AOK Cup match against Newcastle.

We also had a Cheshire Cup match, though there was no chance we would be considered the underdogs. In short, the value proposition was completely different, and there was the question of when to rearrange our Vans Trophy match against Liverpool. The logical thing would be to reschedule it the first week of November, but if we kept it in October this perk would kick in. Whether they were fielding their kids or not, Liverpool were a bigger club than Chester.

Scheduling the match in the last week of October would have been tight, but manageable. If we binned off the Newcastle match on the Tuesday, went hard at Liverpool on Thursday, we could put out a weak team on the Saturday - it was against Coalville Town F. C. in the FA Cup First Round. Easy. But when I checked the wording of the perk, a couple of things had changed and the second change was very significant.

In the original version, one of the mini-perks had said this: Frankenstein Is The Doctor Not the Monster - Referees will make decisions in a fussy, pedantic manner. Activation optional. The name of the perk had been changed to: Frankenstein Is The Doctor And the Monster. Okay so one of the imps had been to a book club and learned that the so-called monster wasn't the villain of the story. I didn't think it was that black and white but fine. An interesting if utterly irrelevant change.

But a whole segment of the Shocktober curse listed clubs against whom the mini-perks would always work (in October). For example, Frighten and Hove Albion and Shuddersfield Town. It was fairly unlikely I would ever play against those particular clubs in October, so it wasn't awfully appealing. However, a new name had been added to the list: Nuke Hassle United. The imps thought adding that name would tempt me into spending my XP. Huh. I folded up the Green Baron, tucked it under my arm, and walked.

Tuesday, October 14 Cheshire Cup 1st Round: Chester versus Stalybridge Celtic FC Stalybridge came to town with an average CA of 25, which meant we could field almost any eleven and expect to win. Sandra and I had spent most of Monday morning bickering about a potential line up. She was in charge of the match but it was too good a chance to give minutes to younger players for me to not stick my oar in. As recompense, I promised to come off the bench and save the day if anything went wrong.

I suggested using 4-4-2 to make it easier to integrate the under 18s. She asked for Ben (CA 67) in goal, and that was fine by me as long as Banksy (23) could come on for ten minutes if we were far enough ahead. A back four including Cole Adams (55), Sunday (33), and Jamie Brotherhood (20) was youthful, to say the least, but I let Sandra convince me to use Zach (74) in the match to provide some stability. From left to right of midfield: Josh Owens (55), Dan Badford (50), Andrew (56) and Noah Harrison (27).

Up front, Tom Westwood (52) and Benny (35). Overall, a very respectable average of 47. 6. It was amazing to think that when I had joined the club there were four members of the first team squad whose PA was under 40 and our starting left back was CA 29. We had come a long way since the days of Trick Williams. Sandra was happy to run the whole show and let me take the evening off, but there was one thing she thought was better coming from me - telling Zach he was Chester captain for the night.

Have you ever seen a man's chest inflate to three times its usual size? I have, twice. (The other being a baddie in a James Bond movie. He popped.) The match wasn't all that interesting - we were better and it showed but we weren't so much better that we could take the piss with slick moves. It got scrappy. Still, I was on fairly friendly terms with the Cheshire FA these days - I'd raised a ton of cash for the schools programme - and they had graciously permitted us to set our own prices for the match.

We were charging a pound a person with cheap beer and that had attracted just over 700 to come - amazing numbers for the competition.

Once again the Harry McNally was filled with people wearing bright yellow, while the stewards were in orange. Sebastian: 14 sleeps until the big night! Alan Turner's a handsome fellow, isn't he? Wonderful man. You're lucky you get to meet him. While I was in the messages app I saw a text from Secretary Joe begging me for a final decision about the Liverpool under 21s game. I replied with the logical, sensible course - we would play it in the first week of November.

No extra help from the curse, then, but if we did decide to go hard at Newcastle, we wouldn't have to worry about fixture congestion. Physio Dean was next to me in the dugout. He had barely spoken to me since we'd seen Pascal's X-rays, but he seemed to snap out of whatever spell the image had cast on him.

"Boss," he said.

"Seriously. How did you know about...?" He looked around, remembering the news was supposed to be kept under wraps for now.

"I didn't know, man," I said, sliding my phone back into my kit bag.

"I just... Just had that feeling, you know? Like, I almost wanted to be wrong because I believe in science but there was something telling me it would heal fast. No harm in checking, is there?"

"I suppose not."

"Let's not make a habit of getting long-term injur - you know what? I'm not even going to tempt fate."

"I think that's called character growth."

"How was he today?"

"Cloud nine. He wanted to go longer in the pool but I insisted he rest. Rest is just as important as the work he's doing. I'd rather you didn't use him for a while."

"Yeah, well. I'm probably not gonna. But..." Dean was something of an expert in self-deception and he seemed to know what I was thinking.

"What's your deal with Alan Turner? I had a look and couldn't see a connection between you. You've never played, never done a transfer. There's no reason to hate him." I thought about covering my mouth to defend against lip readers, but there were no cameras getting close-ups of the dugout action. For now.

"He's a good coach, improves players, good on the tactics. If he was manager of, I don't know, Bournemouth, I'd have a lot of time for him. He's maybe about thirty percent too cheaty for my tastes but in a way I don't mind him bending rules until they break - I more blame the feeble-minded weaklings who don't enforce the rules. No, my problem with him isn't football. It's political."

"Political?"

"Yeah. I don't really want to get into it, not this time, anyway."

"Not this time?"

"This time I'll focus on the positives. The beautiful black and white kit, stories of Jackie Milburn, all that stuff I like. But we're gonna play Newcastle again in the future and whoever is in the job then is gonna get it."

"Get it? What's it?"" It is that Chester will be sponsored by Amnesty International for one match and we'll be shining a light on human rights abuses in countries that own English football clubs. The week before the match I'm gonna legally change my name to that of a journalist who was butchered by his own state and I'm going to wear that name on my shirt.

Newcastle fans shouldn't be happy they were bought by a regime that makes the Harkonnens look cuddly but I've spent enough time with Emma's dad to sort of get past that. Mostly. I might land a few jabs... But nah. They can't choose who they support, right? They want their team to do well. Fair enough." Sandra danced along the touchline shouting 'Switch! Switch!' Noah clipped the ball ahead, Tom got there, pulled it back, Benny applied the finish. Four-nil!

"Yeah, the fans are the fans," I said, returning to the topic.

"And the country is the country. But the manager is there by choice and unless he's pushing back against human rights abuses, he's a toadie, he's a stooge, he's a servile coward. It is my professional opinion that Alan Turner is a fucking ghoul. There was a match early on where he was asked what he thought about the 80 citizens who were beheaded the day before and he said yeah if I start talking about that I'm on dangerous ground. Right. Dangerous ground.

Like the embassy where they murdered the journalist while his fiancée was waiting outside.

"That story haunts me, Dean. I think about it all the time. Fuck," I added, because I was getting wound up. I had been trying hard to keep my flappy Manc gob shut. I was a failing League Two manager. My opinions were worthless. I needed to get to the Prem before I went supernova but even then, what difference would it make? None. Almost none. There was one thing I could do. One thing that my powers would allow me to do better than almost anyone in the sport.

"Alan Turner pretends he doesn't know exactly what he's doing but he does. The closer we get to the match the more I think it's my duty to fuck him up. His only dream in life is to become the England manager and if I can end that dream I will think I've accomplished something. Fuck, wouldn't that be amazing? I could be the agent of cosmic justice." Dean side-eyed me.

"Is this because of Raffi Brown?"

"What? What do you mean?"

"The Saudi Pro League bought him against your wishes."

"It's got nothing to do with that. If they want to spend their money building up their football league so it's the best in the world, that's cool. That's what you should do if you have a spare couple of trillion. If they had bought R. Brown six months later I would have been the happiest man who ever blew his lottery win on solar panels. Honestly, I don't mind the SPL. Why shouldn't Saudis have amazing players at their local clubs? If I was them I'd be buzzing. No, I know who was behind the R.

Brown deal; I know who I should blame. What I blame Saudi Arabia for is buying Newcastle and turning English football into just another battleground in their endless geopolitical cold war and for revealing the moral bankruptcy of so many people." Dean said, "If you believe all that, why not say it now? You might not get another chance."

"They'll still be chopping people up next time, believe me. Their cruelty towards their people is all I have ever known."

"I meant we might not get Newcastle again."

"We will. But anyway, it's a tricky time. We're trying to get people to invest in the stadium rebuild, right? I need to be diplomatic until we get the money."

"Oh, is that happening?"

"Yeah. There's only one real option - it involves a Newcastle fan, by the way, so there's another reason I need to be diplomatic - but we have to look into other financial instruments to show the fans that we're running the club properly. We will announce something soon. It'll have to be soon because we need to get a wiggle on if we're gonna demolish a stand this summer. Fuck."

"What?"

"Alan Turner makes four million a year, did you know that? The twat earns as much as this football club. I hate him and his smug face! Right, anyway. I'm mature, I'm diplomatic, I'm sophisticated, and when Newcastle come I'm going to play five-five-oh, try not to get beat too hard, and I'm going to project a bright, happy, shiny image of the future and not mention assassinations." Dean scoffed.

"Most people find it easy not to mention assassinations, boss. Football managers, in particular, find it easy." I didn't smile.

"Don't buy an English football club to distract from all the murders you do and I promise I'll never mention all the murders you do. Deal?" I thought about getting my phone out and sending Sebastian a provocative reply, but there was one thing I could do that would make Alan Turner and Sebastian Weaver green with envy.

"Gaffer?" Sandra came over.

"Yes, boss?"

"I'm in a mood. Can I go on and hit the ball very hard, please?"

Wednesday, October 15 I was alone in the Sin Bin watching videos on the big telly when Zach and Alex Short came in. Clearly they were going to have some therapy and I was in the way.

"Just leaving," I said.

"We're early," said Alex.

"No rush." I ripped my thoughts away from the screen.

"Captain Zachtastic. Seven-one. Did you enjoy that?"

"Yes, Max. Would have preferred a clean sheet but a win's a win."

"Mmm," I said. I had thoughts about Zach's performance but wondered if I should bother explaining them. After all, when you're in a hole, stop digging. Me being me, I ignored my own advice.

"Zach, er, it's hard for me to remember how it used to be, but when I used to play Sunday League there was a lot of shouting, a lot of caveman nonsense. They don't want it! Win the second half! Get stuck in. You know, a whole load of dumb shit based on nothing and I think it's obvious that my way's better. Assume everyone is trying to win, focus on the process, get technical."

"Yeah," said Zach.

"But every now and then I'd be struggling, having a bad day, ball's squirting off my shins, can't beat my man, all that, and one of the lads I respected would scream get your head in the fucking game or something like that. And sometimes it helped. Sometimes you need a great big American doofus to give you the hairdryer. Get you fired up." He didn't smile.

"You want me to be... more vocal?" I shook my head, nodded, shook my head again. I was shit at this.

"There were a couple of times last night when I would have liked to see the captain melt someone's face off. When we had our last talk, I didn't want to change your personality. You're the squad's vice-vice-captain and if you see something you don't like you're allowed to mouth off. Hairdryer on the pitch, arm around the shoulder in the dressing room, that sort of thing. You did half of it last night but ever since our talk I get the feeling you've overcompensated.

I feel I'm bad at putting what I want into words but when I see something's right or wrong, I see it. Wow. That was lame." Alex tried to articulate what I was saying.

"Coming from a place of togetherness, understanding, and emotional intelligence, Zach is allowed, encouraged even, to yell at Dan Badford if he tries a stupid show-off trick that lets Stalybridge launch a counter-attack." I smiled.

"Yes. Thank you. That's it."

"Understanding that we're all on different parts of our journey doesn't mean accepting mediocrity." That was even better.

"Yes!" Alex made strong eye contact with me.

"And how should he react if his boss is messing about trying to hit longer and longer crossfield passes?"

"He should keep his flappy Texan gob shut because that's my therapy process."

"Is it?" said Alex.

"Yeah. Football therapy. It's like art therapy but instead of painting kittens it involves kicking the ball as hard as possible while maintaining accuracy." Zach said, "It was a sight to behold. Why not shoot instead of launching balls at Noah Harrison?"

"Shoot?" I scoffed.

"Because there are goalies. It would just be giving the ball away." And also because there was a cosmic policeman known as The Sentinel who would squash me flat if he caught me abusing my powers too hard. Most of what I did wasn't extreme enough to attract the attention of the mainstream media, let alone eternal entities. Lots of players in the lower leagues could take a vicious corner and there were a few free kick specialists. There weren't too many scoring from 40 yards four times a week.

Zach said, "I think I know what you mean about yelling, boss. I have to find a balance. I hear ya. What were you watching?"

"Bradford," I said, with a touch of guilt.

"Anything interesting?" I played the last two clips I'd watched.

"Last-minute equaliser. Last-minute winner. They're bouncing. There's spirit, togetherness, fire, much less stupidity. The fans are starting to like Chip Star. Some kid stole a shopping trolley and pimped it up as his Chip Van. USB lamp, portable speakers, beers, put a towel over the top and got his mate to push him around."

"Christ," laughed Alex.

"What are we gonna do about it?" demanded Zach.

"We're gonna beat them," I said.

"That's all we can do. But, listen. You live in Wrexham, right? I'm going there in a bit to do my army coaching. Pascal's busy. Come and be my assistant manager for the day. Bring your dogs!"

"I'd like that. Do you mean now?" said Zach.

"No, after your therapy."

"Sure thing, boss!"

"One thing," I said, as I slipped off the table and turned the screen off.

"In front of the army guys, Pascal has been calling me Commander-in-chief so if you could stick to that there would be less confusion."

"Sure, boss." I ambled out and as I clicked the door behind me I was pretty sure I heard Alex say, "You know this isn't therapy, right?"

CrunchyAbs Had a shit day at work. Hoping BG will pop in with another update on his story. BrokenGround Guys, we won! We won. We beat RAPTC. They're like the army's P. E. teachers so obviously they're fit. They're pretty much the best of the second-tier units, if you get me. The army's version of Leicester or Leeds. There was no Pascal but Best brought Zach Green with him, and Zach brought his dogs. CrunchyAbs Please tell me you have photos. (Of the dogs.) BrokenGround No I wasn't thinking straight.

It was a bonkers day and I'm still calming down. But they're good boys. They're called One, Two, Three in different languages. Er, so what happened? We went to Colliers, did the usual pre-match routines. Best was really interested in PTC's warm ups. Somehow from that he could tell they had great coaches so we should get funky. He told us we would play 'normball' first half so that the coaches wouldn't be able to get involved at half time. First half we played 4-4-2 without Fatso, did the old stuff.

Instead of watching us, Zach walked his dogs and Fatso and two other subs went with him, which I think tells you how entertaining it was (and how cute the dogs are). At half time Best puts on Fatso and everything goes haywire. We do blobs, we do artillery launches to zone 15, one-twos, all the hits. Zach's jumping around - he can't believe it. And PTC don't know what the fuck has hit them! The coaches are yelling things, trying to reorganise.

They switch to five at the back but with the five shifted across to our strong side so it was like they had two left backs. So Best calls Fatso over, they have a chat, and now we attack down the left instead. It's not as natural because we've mostly got right-footers, but it messes PTC up for a minute. They reorganise again. We stay where we are except we put The Midnighter all the way on the right, all on his own. One of the defenders goes across to cover him, right, so Best puts Hot Rod over there, too.

PTC put another guy there. So our blob is two men smaller but we've got less opponents and we're moving the ball nicely. The wide men aren't just for show. Fatso gets the ball, turns, hits an up-and-under towards the right. At first I'm excited - it's two attackers against two defenders and you like those odds - but the ball's behind everyone and PTC get a break. Danger! Except we've been doing Best's 'Run You Worms' drill and we get behind the ball, nice and solid, before PTC know what's up. Still nil-nil.

Best calls Fatso over. Fatso jogs back, comes over to me.

"Gaffer wants you to play the big diags."

"Me?"

"Yeah. Stick to the blobs until the oppo is drawn over. Be patient. But if you think it's on, go for it. Just don't do what I did and play it too short. Better too long than too short, right?"

"Right," I say. Too long and it's a goal kick or a throw in. Too short and it's a dangerous counter. Exciting! Best thinks I'm the best at long passes. That's a rush but I've got to play smart. We form the blob, lose the ball, hustle to get it back, chill, form the blob again. Repeat, repeat, repeat, which could be demotivating except we can see the oppo losing their minds. They don't know what to do, they don't know how to play. When they rush in, Fatso clips the ball to a runner and we get shots.

If they don't rush in, we keep the ball. What are they supposed to do? This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work. I get the chance to hit a big pass but I'm not sure so I keep it simple, play it to Fatso, we go again. I glance over and Best is gripping Zach's arm like 'oh my God he did it right I can't believe it' which is, you know, both annoying and motivational.

Second chance, I take a touch, look to the right where we've got the two guys waiting to attack their two, I compose myself, try to hit the ball behind the defenders, away from the goalie, give our lads half a chance of getting onto it. I don't get a clean contact - I'm too excited - so the ball spins like a gyroscope. A defender's in the way and he sticks out a foot to control the ball but all the spin makes it squirt off him in the direction of his own goal!

It's basically a perfect cushioned pass and The Midnighter is onto it in a flash. He's got Hot Rod with him, and we've practised this a hundred times. It's the other side of the Run You Worms drill. Engage the goalie, sideways pass, open net, goal, piece of piss. Piece of actual piss. We go nuts. Complete breakdown of discipline! Court-martials all round! It's one-nil, final score, with some nervy moments at the end. There's another great bit.

When we're done, we're at the side of the pitch taking on water, waiting for our debrief before Best rushes off. Zach goes, 'Well, fellas, that was the craziest shit I've ever seen' and we have a good laugh. He looks at his boss.

'Are we gonna be learning this, General?'

'Maybe.' Zach looks at me.

'I guess I'll be playing the BrokenGround role. Guard the base, short passes into the mist, line-breaking passes out wide.'

'Mist?' says Best, and they go into a discussion about metaphors. I tune out. The BrokenGround role! I've got a role! Lads, I'm buzzing. I've been walking around with a big cheesy grin for two hours.

Pascal Bochum Condition: 36% Saturday, October 18 Match 12 of 46: Chester versus Walsall After watching 3 R Welsh win their match - they were so happy - I bought the Shocktober perk. It was unusually short-term of me, but if my instincts were right, a short-term burst of optimism could help us very much in the long term.

In gaming parlance, the perk mostly offered passive effects - when we were at home, the fans would be noisier, for example, without me clicking on anything - but there were two parts that needed to be activated.

First, I had to play Murder on the Dance Floor by Sophie Ellis-Bextor in order to boost Morale. Second, I got the option to make referees run the game in a fussy, pedantic manner. That didn't sound fun, but maybe I would use it against Newcastle. I mean, why not, right? They were used to getting decisions their way all the time. What if a ref actually applied the laws of the game? Could be an area of opportunity... For the Walsall match, Sandra and I settled on 4-1-4-1.

Fierce was back but I wanted to give Dazza a break. His Morale was fine but every match that went past without scoring was weighing on him and the best way to combat that was to talk to the psychologist and to train. I had considered letting him play against Stalybridge to get a goal, but what if he hadn't scored? What if he had scored and then heard everyone say it was only the Cheshire Cup so it didn't count? Nah, he had to do it in a real match.

He was up to CA 81 and showed no signs of slowing - we were coaching the shit out of him, double sessions multiple times a week. Training was going well. Without me really noticing it, Eddie Moore had crept up close to his ceiling. He was only two points away from his PA of 75. Huh. He was doing all right defensively although we weren't asking him to join attacks because otherwise he would get destroyed.

A player hitting his limit was normally an excuse to get rid of him asap, but Eddie's backups were twenty points off the pace so I couldn't see a way to sell him until the summer. Youngster hadn't improved for a while - he was CA 90. Nothing to worry about as long as the plateau didn't last too long... Lee C had got his head down, trained, and was trying to find his place in the group. He had crept up to CA 79 and was only one point away from what I was calling 'Gold' for League Two.

His midfield partner Ryan Jack was improving at a glacial pace - fitting, in some ways, given how he ran - but he was improving. His CA clicked over to 70. Not amazing, but he was 37 years old and had had a major injury. All things considered, I felt like I was managing his minutes pretty well.

He hated being subbed off all the time, but in the calm and respectful shouting matches we'd had on the topic, he had informed me that he preferred the current state of affairs to being kicked up the arse and stuffed into a wheelie bin. I was using the following levels to classify the players. CA 0-59 Tin 60-69 Bronze 70-79 Silver 80-89 Gold 90+ Platinum In our squad of 24 players (excluding me), we had 11 tin, although Wibbers and Sharky wouldn't be there for much longer.

11 out of 24 who weren't up to the standard of being a backup for the first team. There were 3 bronze. Three guys good enough to be a backup. Fine, but this group included Ben and Sticky - whoever I chose, I had a backup playing in possibly the most important position. Six silver. Being at that level meant you were a high-end National League player or solid League Two performer. A lot of the first team were in this group - three of my first-choice back four, my two best central midfielders, and Pascal.

Gold - players with the ability to perform at the higher end of the spectrum. We had three: Fierce, Henri, and Dazza. Henri was a couple of months away from hitting his ceiling. Would I use God Save the King to give him a further boost? It wouldn't be logical or financially beneficial to me or the club. But yeah, I probably would. Youngster had gone platinum, though that in itself caused a very minor headache. My best player was a DM, so I wanted to use formations that had a DM by default.

If I used DM-less formations like 4-4-2 or 3-5-2, I often used my solitary deformation to open a slot for Youngster. There were times I might have benefited from tinkering with the attack instead, but Youngster only played to gold level when he played central midfield.

Walsall came with a youthful team, expertly assembled on a tight budget. For 44, 000 pounds a week they'd put together a team with an average CA of 80. Very, very impressive and I made careful note of their staff profiles. Sadly, their goalie was shit.

Match report from News of the Blues, the leading news and views platform for all things Chester FC. Author: D. Cox Chester 3 Walsall 2 - Seals Exhale Sigh of Satisfaction as Saddlers Self-Sabotage Chester won a topsy-turvy affair at a packed Deva stadium earlier today, thanks in part to Walsall's hapless goalkeeper. In fact, the match could be characterised as two promising, youthful, equally-matched teams being equally let down by their sticksmen.

The deciding factor was, as it often has been this season, Max Best's ruthlessness. Twice in the last ten minutes, Walsall's goalie misplaced a pass to the midfield, and twice Best latched onto it, drove forward, and lashed the ball into the net. The first half was entertaining, with both sides attempting to pass the ball and create openings. Chester's creaky defence was supported by Youngster, and boy did they need support. [And so on and so on. All a bit over the top, tbh. The win was never in doubt.] That evening, I noticed something strange - or I thought I did. During the match, Sandra was her normal self. Professional, demanding, focussed. She reacted with delight to our goals and with a huge, relieved smile to the final whistle. So far, so normal. But later I caught her leaning against a wall, staring into space, with the same vaguely haunted look on her face as when we were bottom of the league. We were 18th and flying, so what was that all about?

I wished I had a Morale perk for my staff, but I didn't, so I resolved to keep an eye on her.

Sebastian: You're unbeaten in six. Well done! I'm starting to think you might never lose another football match and I'm willing to bet on it. Your thousand to my five that Newcastle do what few can and beat Max Best's Chester. Me: Or I could withdraw a grand and burn it while singing What Time Is Love. We have no chance, I told you. Plus we have a hard tie against MK Dons a few days before. Pick your battles, remember. This is Alan Turner's problem: he goes hard at every game and his players get burned out.

You should call your mates at Newcastle and tell him it's okay to rest some of his lads against us. You can't win a cup on goal difference. Sebastian: I can't tell if you're planning to throw the match or not. Pascal Bochum Condition: 44% Tuesday, October 21 Match 13 of 46: Tranmere Rovers versus Chester This was a big game, a huge game. A titanic derby! The first encounter between the clubs in years!

The vibe I got from outsiders, from social media, and from my friend Mateo - the owner of Tranmere, no less - was that the tension was rising. Not in Bumpers Bank. I spent Monday morning in the Sin Bin showing the lads some clips of their next opposition.

With the acoustic panels, a chair I could actually sit in, and a very slightly upgraded speaker setup, the Bin was becoming a tolerable place to spend twenty minutes watching videos. I pointed out the basics, starting with the fact that Jimmy Mustard was using 4-5-1 in an attempt to stop the beatings his team was getting. I wasn't keen to let Tranmere boss the midfield - I had some dignity - so I was toying with doing 4-1-4-1 again, possibly 4-5-1, but it would be the strongest possible team.

We would then either go strong against MK Dons in the league or against Newcastle in the AOK Cup but not both.

"I haven't decided yet," I admitted.

"Luckily it doesn't affect how we need to approach the Tranmere game." I suggested that this would be a battle between Sam Topps and Lee Contreras. That got Lee's jaw going - he had been let go by Tranmere because the new manager didn't rate him - so I reminded him that if he got sent off, that would prove Mustard right. Lee got the message.

I went through Tranmere's squad, pointing out that their new Panamanian defender Tony Herbert was mint and class and wasn't to be underestimated, that left back Jack the Lad was prone to lapses in concentration but would likely be fired up against me, and that Junior, the striker, was liable to finish any chances we allowed him. I noted that they had two young guns on the bench - Lucas Cook and Bark - who I had wanted to sign.

"So there is talent in Tranmere, okay? But they're not as good as us and Mustard is limited. If we get ahead he'll stand on the sideline waving his arms around like a twat and his players aren't paying much attention these days. Right, train as normal, don't let the hype get to you, this one is going to be straightforward." Tranmere's average CA was 77. I liked a lot of their players but there were low ceilings all over the place. Jack the Lad was PA 80, as was my former Darlington teammate Junior.

Sam Topps was PA 60. Their high PA squad members were almost exclusively ones I had recommended to the club - the right midfielders Bark and Nelson Smith-Howes (PA 130 and 139 respectively), the striker Lucas Cook (142), Tony Herbert (150). Gabby, the Brazilian striker I'd found in Sao Paulo, would join in January. Their Morale was falling, ours was rising. Conditions were perfect to give them a good tonking. In the end, it was a shit match. The midfield was clogged, the scene of numerous running battles.

Lee Contreras put himself about trying to do an all-action display. Ryan Jack couldn't find a yard of space. Wes Hayward's passing was wayward. Henri worked hard, but as so often, we couldn't get the ball to him. We lacked a spark. Some guile in midfield. I found myself wondering if Mateo would sell me one of Bark or Smith-Howes on the cheap, since fucking Jimmy Mustard didn't want to give them a chance. The game-within-the-game proved vital once more.

The 20 minutes when I was on the pitch was completely different to the rest of the 90. I replaced Ryan and roamed around, though I couldn't stay away from CM for too long or chaos would ensue. I got myself into position to have a couple of dribbles at Jack the Lad - the prick had been flirting with Emma in front of me - but he stuck to his task well and I got no change from him. When Tranmere had the advantage I dropped next to Youngster. But mostly I was trying to get up to support Henri.

One of those times saw Eddie Moore hit a hopeful ball forward. I gambled that Henri would win the header. He did. It skimmed off his head and I latched onto it. Tony Herbert followed me but was left bamboozled by a chop-back. After I passed Herbert and lined up a shot, the Panamanian slid in to block, but he caught my standing foot. Penalty! (Penalty and a mangled ankle. That night it looked like a shrivelled pumpkin. This from a man I'd plucked from obscurity. Truly, no good deed goes unpunished.) I shook off the pain, rolled the ball into the net, and did an exaggerated 'don't celebrate in front of your former team' celebration. And that was it - I expected Tranmere to come at us, but they stuck to their plan of keeping things stodgy and didn't even get the usual end-of-match barrage going. Three points, a clean sheet, up to 15th in the league. Sandra celebrated... until she thought no-one was looking.

Mateo had invited us to dinner. Sandra wanted to get home, so the blue corner was me and the Brig. On the Tranmere side was Mateo, his wife Rachel, driver John, plus Jimmy Mustard and a couple of coaches.

"And whose side are you on?" Mateo said to Emma.

"Max's," she said, hugging my arm.

"And when they play Newcastle United?" She shrugged.

"I want them both to win."

"But if you had to choose one."

"I choose one to win and the other to not lose." She suddenly got a bright smile.

"A draw."

"It's a cup match," smiled Mateo.

"Someone's going out."

"Okay then I choose Newcastle to win." That stunned me. I had a blob of soup on the way to my mouth; its journey was put on hold. I decided I would have a sip of wine after all, and Rachel asked the most important question of the age.

"Why?"

"Max can take losing much better than my dad." She didn't give us much time to live with that statement.

"Talking of losing with dignity, thanks for dinner, Matty."

"Ouch," he said.

"The worst part for me was that Max barely celebrated. A few high fives, hugs, clap the away fans, job done. There's something ominous about it. Like he thinks we're one of the worst teams in the league and are beneath his notice." I jabbed my spoon in his direction.

"We did a video analysis session about you. We don't do that with every team." Mateo seemed pleased.

"Oh. That's good."

"Yeah," I said, loading the next spoonful.

"It's always good to start the week with a spot of comedy." Emma, the Brig, and John Driver stifled laughs while Mateo looked up at the ceiling with good-natured exasperation. He tried to tease me about making him sign Tony Herbert.

"It helps that you've planted a double agent."

"Yeah," I said.

"So-called because you will double your money on him. He's class." I nearly added, 'He's so good even Jimmy can see it,' but just about held my tongue. It was annoying that Mustard was there because I wanted to rip into the useless prick. My current Chester team had a poor midfield, one of the weakest defences in the league, and the worst goalkeeper. It was crazy not to throw the kitchen sink at us for the last ten minutes, at least.

I wanted to get promoted this season and then drag Tranmere one division below me so I would have an ally close to our level. Jimmy Mustard wasn't the man to get them promoted, no matter how many top talents I sent to Birkenhead.

"I told you I'll be first in line to buy Herbert when you want to sell." A throb of pain ran up my leg.

"That said, next time he kicks me I'm going to fuck him up. Let him know." My phone vibrated.

"Huh." Emma said, "What?"

"Your dad's absolutely bonkers about the match. He's just texted, one week to go! He keeps trying to make me have a bet with him about who'll win. Strangely, he won't let me take the Newcastle side of the bet."

"He's not stupid," said Mateo, which was a fair dig. I raised my wine to him.

"Really, though, you haven't got a prayer, have you? Or have you?" I leaned forward and got intense. Me at my most charismatic.

"I love my boys and I believe in them. If we all pull together, fight for every ball, stick to the plan, trust in each other... we might only lose 7-0."

"Well," said Mateo.

"At least Mr. Weaver will be happy."

"Ah," I said, with a slight smile.

"Maybe. I plan to text him just before kick off saying I know what his club means to him so I've decided to let them win. It will take about ten percent off his enjoyment."

"Max," complained Emma.

"What?" I said, innocently. She turned away from me and said, "How are things in Gibraltar?" The question cheered Mateo up.

"Great! College are second. The Red Imps are first, three points ahead. They look unbeatable this season but we have thrown a completely new team together and we need time to gel. We're still winning most games easily, though." Emma slapped my arm.

"I thought we were going to win!" I rubbed the spot.

"College and the Imps are evenly matched. I did say to Mateo that College needed one more player to make sure of the title but he wanted to be a cheapska - he wanted to be cost-conscious about it." He scoffed.

"There's nothing cheap about what we did. I'll admit to getting cold feet quite a few times in the process. Glenn Ryder? I didn't see it. But he's out there dominating matches, being a leader in training, all that good stuff. I would be happy with finishing second in the first season. Then we will add two, three players with enough quality to give us a chance to get past the European qualification stages. Right, Max?"

"Sounds good," I said, but I was drifting out of the conversation. College, Saltney, West, all the Chester teams - everything was on track. Going great. Smooth sailing. So why did it feel bumpy?

Pascal Bochum Condition: 52% Wednesday, October 22 Sandra took training and it was as good as ever. Better, even, because we had our routine down pat. Sandra in the middle, the ringmaster, doing 80 percent of the sessions. Around, spread two-dimensionally onto our overflow pitches, spread three-dimensionally to later in the day, were the skill-specific sessions. Dazza learning to turn his man, Zach passing through waves of zombies, Wibbers sprinting fifteen yards onto passes before hitting long shots. It was mint.

I wanted it to go like this forever. I was in the Sin Bin watching videos of Newcastle in the AOK Cup. Their lineups were tailored for the opposition - against no-marks like Chester they would field a team that cost one hundred million pounds instead of one that cost five hundred million. That was one factor in our favour. Another was that Alan Turner never changed his system. I knew how they would play. Could I stop them? Er, no. Not with the players I had.

But I had the slightest inkling of a possible plan if we drew them in a cup next season... I had the door open so that I would hear when the session ended. Sandra yelled, "Well done, lads. Well in." There was the sound of a lot of sweaty men walking in the same direction, laughing and joking, then a door being swung open and the sound of boots clomping indoors. Some of them touched a sign that was up. It read, Prize Money: 30, 000. I counted to ten then stuck my head out. Mostly all clear.

"Vimsy," I called out as I paced towards the grass pitch.

"You can pick up, yeah?" Vimsy looked up to where Sandra was gathering the cones nearest her.

"Sure, boss."

"Sandra," I said, jerking my head. Not knowing what was going on was eating away at me. Time to gently prise the plaster off. Something was bothering her big time. My guess? She had been offered a job, a good one, and she didn't know how to tell me. She fell into step beside me.

"All good, boss?"

"Oh, I'm tremendous," I said.

"Not doing anything weird at all. No sighs. No forlorn glances. If there's anything on my chest, I've long since got it off. Feels good, man, feels good." She stopped.

"Oh." I spun on my heels and waited. She closed her eyes.

"We're doing that."

"Only if you want," I said, softly.

"It's just that I have the emotional range of a bowl of porridge and if I've noticed, so have half the lads. Henri has probably written a Christmas musical called What's Eating Sandra Lane?" She hesitated, started walking again, and we got to the car park.

"What are you doing?" she said. I was standing on the Green Baron, my fancy e-scooter. I showed that there was space at the back where a woman's foot could just about fit.

"Hop on," I said.

"Let's take mine," she said, and beeped open her new car. I settled down into the passenger seat. I fastened my belt but Sandra didn't and after a while I realised we would talk right there. I unclipped myself.

"What have I been doing?" she said, not looking at me.

"Um, not much. Absolutely nailing your assigned tasks before staring into the abyss, sighing. That sort of thing. You were getting pretty stressed when we were losing. We started winning, no change. That's not good. I insist on perfect happiness at all times." She needed more time before opening up, so I tried to ease her into the chat by saying random stuff.

"Dieter Bauer has been calling me a lot."

"What? Why?"

"I don't know. As far as I can tell Bayern Munich are in rude health so it can't be about football. I mean, I know it's arrogant to think he would want to talk to me about football but what else? He's not calling an Englishman to ask for cooking lessons."

"Maybe he wants you to do World Cup commentary with him."

"Er..."

"What?"

"Didn't I tell you? I thought I told you. We're probably going to do something together in the USA. Remember I painted an expensive camera with an enormous hot dog? And threatened a cameraman? They said they wouldn't sue if I did some comms for them next summer. I pretended to complain, suggested they get Dieter over, too, and it's looking likely. Not sure how much I'll end up on screen because my profile is still pitiful but they liked my segments with Dieter. We're a good team, apparently."

"Emma must be delighted."

"I mean, I haven't told her I'll be on TV because it might not happen. When it's on paper in black and white, I'll let her know. We're almost certainly going, regardless. I'm not going to try to scout every World Cup game but I'll go to a few. It'll be one-tenth work, four-tenths pleasure, five-tenths food coma."

"When you think of America and pleasure, what comes to mind?"

"Drive down route 66, see the world's biggest Cowboy Boots - those are in Texas, would you believe? - do a Fallout 4 tour of Boston."

"Fallout 4," mused Sandra.

"That's the one with the dogs."

"Yes," I said, because if Sandra had watched her partner play that game and that was what she remembered, er, okay I guess? I waited. Sandra wriggled on her seat until she was comfortable, leaned forward, sat back, tried leaning forward again.

"When you came back from your Christmas break, after we bought Christian Fierce, we had a drunken night out and you promised me we would get promotion and I would get a pay raise." That made my brain explode. This was about money? What did she mean I promised a raise? She got it, didn't she? Had MD not been paying the wages that were due? Was the accountant fan right that MD had been skimming? What? Sandra wasn't looking at me, so she hadn't seen the panic and mild rage I was displaying. She licked her lips.

"Aiden and I, well, we decided we might try fertility treatment again." I took every thought I'd ever had, put them in the shredder, and placed a blank page in front of Sandra.

"It's five grand a pop and that's loads but I knew you would come through - I'll be honest, I thought it'd be through the playoffs - and that soon I'd be on what you call lobster money so why not, right? We want children. Let's try. So we tried. And it worked. This time it worked, almost right away, Max. She's pregnant." That sounded amazing, but the way the story was being told shredded me up. I couldn't deal with baby stuff.

"There have been complications."

"Fuck no. No." I wanted to get out but I couldn't move. I couldn't feel my legs. Couldn't feel anything.

"I'm gonna need time off." My cheeks were stinging.

"Yes. Of course. Whatever you need. Is Aiden okay?"

"Everyone's okay, Max. It's all going to be okay."

"I'd prefer if you told me that with some confidence."

"It's going to be okay."

"That was worse. Fuck. What the fuck, Sandra? What can I do? I need to do something. I need to help." She did a tiny, heartbreaking sigh.

"No-one can help. It's up to God." I clenched my fists. Old Nick. I'd do him a favour. I'd give him something and he would sort this out. My fists loosened. And then what? He'd tell me about every sick baby in the world. I could save one if I went to watch Swansea versus Sunderland. I could save another with Leyton Orient versus Lincoln City.

"I'm floundering."

"I know, Max. I didn't want to tell you until there was more to say. When we were losing I knew it was part of the plan but even the vaguest hint of relegation was making me think shit, I sure could use a stable income right now. You're always worried about me running off to other clubs but that's not..." I was quite still but my head was spinning harder than a long pass from a 3 R Welsh defender. Poorly babies with their tiny little stubby fingers, their helplessness...

"Okay my imagination is running riot, can you please tell me the basics of what I need to know?" Sandra gripped the steering wheel pretty hard, then sat back and spoke in a flat voice.

"The doctors are hinting at a premature birth sometime in December. I... If it goes well I'd like to spend time with Aiden and our child. If it's..." She couldn't say it.

"Scenario B," I offered.

"Scenario B, I'd still like to spend time with Aiden."

"Time means... years?"

"Days, Max."

"Days? Don't talk shit! Who have we got in December? Forest Green are awful. Crewe are my bunnies. Take December off. Bosh, sorted. New Year you're off. Come say hi to Foquita when he arrives and you can have January off, too. Don't worry about it." We sat in a heavy silence. I felt the need to fill the vacuum so I picked up on the least important thing I'd heard.

"Don't worry about money. You'll always have a job here, or at Saltney, or at West. You can work in Gibraltar if you want. I'm scared of you leaving but I'd be more upset if you never left. You have to challenge yourself. We are House Chester and there is no call we do not answer. Unless it's about consolidating our loans." Sandra tried to smile.

"That's nice Max but you just told me you can do without me for two months."

"Yeah," I said, with a hint of petulance.

"Because I've got an all-star cast who can run training for a couple of weeks. I've got Well In, Jackie Reaper, Clive OK, Ray Hart. I've been mollycoddling them and now it's payback time."

"Well In doesn't work for Chester. The rest need careful handling or you'll scare them away."

"Fine. I'll do Relationism."

"You said it was way too early. You said you were years away from being confident enough to do it with the first team." She was right. I needed her. But by the time she went on leave we would already be competitive in the league and I would have had time to look around for options. Plus my needs were trivial. Max Best, Perspective 20.

"I'll work it out." I settled back on my seat.

"I was worried we were improving too fast anyway." Sandra laughed. She laughed until her face crumpled, but it didn't last long. She was all cried out. Fuck. She could use a little cheering up - I had been saving something for the right moment. Seemed like now.

"Can you keep a secret?"

"Yes," she said.

"Pascal might be fit for the Newcastle game." She shot upwards; the car shook.

"What?"

"His bones have healed and I've had him secretly doing water-based training for, like, ten days. He's doing ball work today. I've told Dean and the Brig I want ten minutes against Newcastle and then they can go back to normal rehab. That's what they're working towards."

"Ten... Newcastle... Why?"

"I don't want Alan Turner to get the England job. Ever. If I can beat him with a League Two side, that's a stain on his CV he'll never erase. But... if I go full Max it'll be drama and attention and it'll be another club who won't hire you."

"Newcastle?"

"Yeah." Sandra wrung her hands.

"I loved Kevin Keegan's Newcastle. They were amazing. That five-nil against United was one of my earliest memories. I've got a soft spot for the club." I rubbed my jaw.

"I've heard a lot of people talk like that. Heard Newcastle played mad, attacking football and were everyone's second favourite club. They're not that club any more. I don't think," I added, to give her a chance to push back.

"No, they're obviously not what they were. But..."

"Ah, it doesn't matter," I said.

"Okay, let's not rock any boats. I'll be chill. You'll shake the twat's hand for the cameras, we'll defend with a weakened team, keep the score respectable, go full tilt at MK Dons instead." I was trying to end the conversation, maybe ask the follow-up questions about the baby a socially normal person would ask. Sandra eyed me, though, and asked, "What's your problem with Newcastle?"

"What's black and white and red all over? A Newcastle United kit at a public execution."

"Fuck, Max." I rubbed my temples.

"I know. I'll keep my mouth shut. I promise. You don't need my shit right now. I get it." Not sure why, but I felt the paralysis in my body again.

"I'll be good," I said, as much to my legs as Sandra.

"Have you thought about baby names? I'm ace at names. Got a great name for you. Three letters, symmetrical. Surprisingly big advantage when dealing with mirrors." She looked away.

"We don't want to jinx it."

"Jinx was a spy in a James Bond film. She was supposed to get her own spinoff but she was the least popular character ever. Right. Bin off Newcastle. We know the plan against MK Dons, yeah? They've got Jayden Ward at left back but the rest of the defence is dodgy. They'll have loads of the ball but I'll pick them off when their goalie makes mistakes."

"Yes," said Sandra, checking her face.

"Spectrum counted nine big chances the goalie had given away in thirteen games. No sign of them changing tack."

"These fuckwit managers are always asking their players to do things they can't."

"Aren't you asking some randos in the army to play fantasy football?" I let out a laugh, but I got an idea. A big idea. A way I could actually help my assistant. Assistant? Friend, I hoped. Talking about football, even for a minute, had put some colour back in her cheeks. There was no point her going home to worry. Until her child was born there was nothing she could do. As luck would have it, I had a secret weapon - a bunch of Chester-hating wretches who didn't know how transformational they were.

Pascal had seen some of the development so he knew the 'before' as well as the 'after'. Zach had seen a dogshit 4-4-2 nothingburger of a first half and then the miraculous transformation of the second half. Sandra had seen a few minutes of training at Saltney but if she watched a 3 R Welsh match she would get the blob and nothing but the blob.

"I know what you need," I said, with such a wicked smile Sandra laughed, recoiled, and said 'no no no'.

"Yes," I said.

"Call Aiden and tell her I've dragged you to Aldershot."

"Well," said Sandra, looking at the time.

"Can she come?" I slapped the dashboard with delight.

"Let's fucking go!" I clicked my seatbelt back on.

"Uh," said Sandra.

"Might just call her first? And nip to the loo? And get my stuff?" I released my belt and got out. People have no sense of narrative propulsion.

"Sir?" said the Brig, while I pottered around, kicking stray stones. He was at Bumpers pretty often doing one-on-one physical work with guys who weren't quite delivering in some area, or mentoring young players who might need a bit of encouragement.

"Is everything in order?"

"Yes," I sighed.

"No. Maybe. It will be. It better be." He nodded.

"Private?"

"Yeah, probably."

"I thought so, but then wondered why you'd do it in a car." I frowned.

"So no-one could hear us." He tried to hide a smile under a cough.

"A car is one of the worst places for privacy, sir."

"The hell you talking about?"

"Laser eavesdropping has been in use since the 1940s, sir. It is really trivially easy to listen in on someone if only a pane of glass separates you from their conversation."

"Trivially easy?" I looked at the car park imagining anyone could listen to any conversation I had in my motor. Well, I didn't have a car. Checkmate, spies!

"Can you do it? Have you got a thingy?"

"Do I possess or have access to a laser microphone? Is that your question, sir? I believe you are testing my ability to lie while winking. I most definitely do not have the requisite thirty pounds for a base entry model."

"Thirty pounds to spy on someone?"

"No-one with any self-respect would carry such a basic model. Mine cost over four thousand pounds."

"Four... what?"

"I note that you didn't see me winking. Ah, well." I wasn't in the mood.

"Do you have one or not? Jesus."

"No," he said, flatly.

"But I do have a specialist microphone I use for my greatest passion in life - birdwatching. These days, many birds are kept indoors. Budgerigars, for example." He winked enormously.

"Or the house martin." He scanned the skies.

"Of course, they will have flown to Africa to escape the British winter. Nice to have wings." I pressed my middle fingers against my thumbs and said 'hommm'.

"John, can you get your lasers, please? I have a mission for you. It's not black ops. It's not white ops. It's black and white ops." He got serious.

"Very good, sir. Grey mode activated."

Sunday, October 26 I watched the women win in the FA Cup First Round - their fourth win in various cups in the month of October. They were going deeper into the cups, growing in confidence. The cup runs were helping Jackie to climb the list of the best managers in the women's game. Interesting, but my mind kept returning to one number in particular. A number that needed to hit 70 by Tuesday morning if I was to have any hope of progressing in the AOK Cup. Sebastian: One last try. Your thousand to my nine.

Me: You know I could get way better odds in a bookies: we're 20 to 1 to win. And you know I can't risk a real bet, even a private one, because the FA will use any excuse to smash me. I would do a thing where the loser had to do an hour in a food bank. Sebastian: That works. I'm up for that. Me: I just don't have the tools to win. It's not fun. Next time. Pascal Bochum Condition: 63% Monday, October 27 [No introductory music.] Boggy: Hello! J: Hello!

Boggy: You're listening to SealCast plus DevaStation - two podcasts, one episode. J: This is the most ambitious crossover event in history! Boggy: Is it? J: Yes. If you're listening to this on the SealCast feed, make sure you subscribe to DevaStation, the number one podcast by fans, for fans. With mild swearing. Boggy: This has all been rather hastily arranged so we haven't worked out who's in charge, really. Max: That'd be me, I reckon.

I control the horizontal and the vertical. J: Where do you come up with this stuff, man? Boggy: I think that was a Twilight Zone reference. From when television was broadcast in black and white. Max: It's true we haven't planned this. Where do we start? I want to start with the big news. J: No, Max. If we do that, everyone will turn off after five minutes and that's bad for our retention figures in the algorithm. Boggy's on salary but I'm paid by the click. Let's start small.

The fans know there's a huge, huge announcement coming; they'll stick to the end. Max: Are you sure? J: Max! See me bouncing? That's not fake. I think I know what's coming and I'm losing my tiny mind. Max: All right, I'm in your hands. You've washed them, right? Okay, begin the interview! What's your tiniest question? J: Boggy? Me? You sure? Okay. Tiniest. Ah... what are you doing in Wales? Max: You mean 3 R Welsh? I'm coaching them for my badges. What? Is that controversial?

I've got to do my badges so that I'm allowed to manage. You remember that English guy managing in France? He didn't have his badges and the club had to pay a 20, 000 Euro fine every match until he got them. J: No, we get that, Max. Of course you need your badges. It's just a strange choice of... But okay, how's it going? Max: It's fun. It's going well. I'm trying out some new things and I'm nearly ready to start doing them with our youth team. J: All right but you're training in Wrexham.

We see you on Instagram with Paul Parker, Muggles, all those guys. Max: So? J: So they're our rivals. Max: So? J: So we don't like seeing you with them. Max: You don't like me having friends at Tranmere but you like me taking three points from Prenton Park. You like being in League Two instead of the... er... I forgot what the league below the National League North is called. It's got the word Premier in it twice. Boggy: Northern Premier League Premier. Max: That's it.

J, I'm not coaching Wrexham, I'm coaching lads from the British army. When I started at Chester I had a vision that we would turn it into something like Ajax Amsterdam. Thousands of teams at all age groups, the entire city and beyond being trained up. In the meantime I've rejigged that plan. We have an elite core that gets proper looked after, but I haven't given up on everyone else. When we have more money we're going to be offering coaching on a huge scale. I want to be going into schools.

We'll coach Sunday League teams. The sport belongs to everyone. I believe everyone deserves a chance to play it. J: Except Andrew Harrison. Max: That was a good answer, wasn't it? I got my dreamy voice going. I was all optimistic. Well done, Max! Boggy: I have a slightly bigger question. How do you feel the season is going? Max: The women are crushing everything. The kids are bored of winning. The men are on target for promotion. J: On target for promotion? We're 18th in the league.

Max: We're only 12 points behind Bradford and Carlisle; it took us a minute to get our heads straight. Some of the lads are still doing that thing in cartoons where their legs are spinning dead fast but there's no floor under them. You know what I mean? They're like, wow, this is a step up! But we're already solid and it's just about bringing more aspects to our game. MK Dons came over the weekend and I thought we handled them pretty well. Their budget is 86, 000 a week, did you know that?

It's another club on three times what we spend. On the face of it, two-all is a miracle result. J: That was a strong team you put out. Does that mean you feel you can't beat Newcastle tomorrow night and you're going to bin it off? Max: Ah, bin it off. I wouldn't put it like that, although it's a sell-out so I suppose being honest won't hurt ticket sales!

We will battle hard for ninety minutes, I can promise that, but just one of their players cost more than every single penny that has ever gone through Chester's turnstiles in a hundred and fifty years, do you know what I mean? It's not a contest in the dictionary definition. A point against MK Dons, a bruising defeat against Newcastle, safely through the First Round of the FA Cup. That's about as good as we can do this week, right? J: That's another point our listeners wanted to raise.

Most people are happy we didn't put the prices up for the Newcastle match, but some wanted them jacked up to get more cash for the club from part-time fans. Max: That makes no sense. We share the gate receipts with Newcastle. What happens if we put the prices up? Newcastle get richer. I reckon everyone listening to this falls into two camps. One says why does a totalitarian middle-eastern dictatorship own a historic working class football club in England? The other camp says I don't care, stick to the football.

But I think both camps would agree Saudi Arabia doesn't need to be fed money from the hard-working people of Chester. So, no. Not putting the prices up. J: There are rumours of a falling-out between you and MD. Max: Nope. We're closer than ever. Only the other day I offered him a foot rub. [Laughs.] That's demented even for me. Cut that bit out. J: If we get promoted as you say, there will come a time where his, ah, frugality will hold you back. Max: Fine. I'm fine with that.

His only goal is to keep the club alive. If I can't achieve my goals within that framework, I'm not very good, am I? Boggy: He could maybe loosen the purse strings somewhat. Max: I want to achieve great things here and I will. MD is top. He's very easy to work with. He doesn't want the club to go bust and that's not a character flaw. We're in a league with 23 other clubs. Two or three break even or make small losses that can be covered by a local businessman or a Boost the Budget campaign.

Twenty of our rivals are piling money on the pavement outside the stadium and setting fire to it in a weekly orgasmic ritual of excess. It's absolutely insane. Okay my life is unimaginably difficult as a result but you know what? I don't like the idea of burning cash. I'll manage. Boggy: Max likes a challenge. Max: You know what I did? We had our first meeting of the EFL clubs.

They do the regular ones as a Zoom call and only get together in person if it's something major, so I was hanging around with MD while they all blabbed on about nothing. All I'm doing, right, is listening out for shady stuff that kills football and I have to say there was no sign of that. So far... But in the 'any other business' section I put my hand up and asked a question. I basically said you've talked loads about raising revenues but what about cost-cutting? J: Cost-cutting? Max: I don't mean sacking people.

I said, you're all blowing crazy amounts on mad stuff all the time. Is there any interest in some kind of money-saving knowledge sharing or even developing our own platforms? It's not my idea, it came from Brooke. She's startled by the difference from non-league to EFL. In non-league the clubs almost all use the same website maker, use the same video team, the same ticket selling platforms, email sending software, that kind of thing.

But go on five League Two club websites you'll see three, four, five different layouts. Why are League Two clubs investing in bespoke websites? Because it's a vanity project for the owners. Which, yeah, do what you want, but when you get bored and the club's relegated it's ten times more painful because all that crap has to go. Yeah, no-one was picking up what I was putting down so whatever. We'll blow past them, they'll wonder why, they'll redesign their badge for the third time in six years.

You know, get to the heart of what's important. Boggy: I think - Max: Bunch of clowns. Boggy: I think the last topic before the big one is the Vincent Addo situation. Max: Okay. It's pretty simple. The guy's quality and I want to sign him. We can sign two players on, what's the word, generous work permit terms. Not generous. Flexible. Loose. Like Darren Smith wouldn't qualify for a normal work permit but he gets one of these special ones. J: Maybe - Max: Don't say something stupid, mate.

Seriously, this isn't like Wes Hayward where we need a while to coach him and find the right matches to use him and all that crap. Dazza's ace right now. We're asking him to do weird things because I'm a weird person. When it clicks, it's going to click hard. J: I'm keeping shtum. But, if you don't want to hear spicy takes on Darren Smith's output, don't listen to any recent episodes of DevaStation, available on all good podcast platforms. Max: Okay, I won't. If that's your level of chat it sounds rank.

So these two slots. We've got Dazza and Foquita. Can't sign Vincent, then, can I? But I can get him to Saltney Town, make sure he's getting trained up the way I want, then bring him to Chester. That's all pretty clear. The only questions are one, am I right that he's good? To which the answer is duuuuhhhhhhh. And two, is the fee Chester have to pay acceptable? It's a million-pound player for three hundred K. It's free money for Chester Football Club.

Apart from anything else, if I have Vincent I can entertain offers for Youngster. If I don't have a defensive midfielder, I can't even think about letting our prize asset go. Boggy: There are strange rumours about Chester players helping you to raise money to do the deal. Max: There's nothing strange about it; that's what happened. It isn't just players, it's a syndicate that includes all sorts. Waitresses, kebab sellers.

I don't know exactly who's in it or how much they're putting in, but it's going so well they're already talking about doing another round so I can bring more players in January. What it does is take one enormous weight off my shoulders so I can focus on winning matches and my own performance levels and I think that's obviously a good thing for me and for Chester. Everybody wins on that one. Except Tranmere. Boggy: They would prefer if you were stressed and worried so you would have missed that penalty.

Max: Being on the pitch is a release from all the stress so I don't think I'd have played much differently but it's about having a clear head in the time leading up to the games. Making good decisions about the starting elevens and that kind of thing. October has been pretty perfect, hasn't it? Four wins, two draws. November will be good, too. There's only one game where we might get a bit of a kicking, but I hope you're pleased that I've brought such huge games back to the Deva. Boggy: I am!

J: You get a pass from me if we get tonked against Newcastle. It'll be a party atmosphere in the Harry McNally, whatever happens on the pitch. Max: Ah, top. That's ace. Right, here we go. You, the fans, have done what I asked. You've filled the stadium, it's noisy, you're letting me get on with the job without a board slowing me down. The fans have been great and that's why I'm here. To give something back. J: Argh, I feel like a toddler high on energy drinks.

Max: I feel like I should be dressed in a jaunty hat for this. Hello, sir, would you like to buy a monorail? [Laughs.] Okay who brought a drum kit so we can do a drum roll? Boggy: I can load one up. Max: Wow. You love all the audio stuff, don't you? No, let's stop teasing everyone. Here it goes. I'm about to drop the S bomb. J: ARGH! Max: Ladies and gentlemen, it's Max Best here. I've got good news and great news.

The good news is, thanks to our investment plans and some splendid cooperation from the local council, we have the chance to bring the Deva stadium back into Chester FC's control. [Sound of someone jumping around, not caring what equipment they bang.] Max: The great news is, everyone has a part to play in that process. I need to give a bit of background. The thing is, my top top top priority is actually the pitch, not the stadium, although that's important too.

I want to demolish a stand, dig up the pitch, put in top drainage, undersoil heating, and advanced stitching technology so that we can play three times as many games on the surface and not lose fixtures to bad weather. We will be able to bring the women's team home, host summer tournaments, all kinds of things. Boggy: So the pitch and the stadium project are intertwined? Max: Right. It's much easier to do the drainage and all that if there isn't a huge big stand in the way. That makes sense, right?

Now, I think the Harry McNally is the best place to start. We can knock it down after the last match of this season, work like demons - imps, I should say - and put up the new stand before the first match is played. I mentioned this on the EFL call, asking if we could plan to play our first matches next season away, just in case we weren't quite ready, and they said 'of course, do you think yours is the first stadium that's been rebuilt?' Boggy: And what of the council? The freehold?

Max: Credit to Brooke for her tireless work on this one. The freehold will go into a nonprofit that's controlled by Chester FC. Think of the club as having three departments - one, the players and staff, two, the stadium, three, the training ground slash charity work. With this development, all three will be powering ahead. Thundering ahead! J: [Quietly, almost sensually.] I need numbers. Max: Right now the McNally is all-standing, 1, 200 capacity.

The new stand will be 4, 000, bringing the Deva to an 8, 200 total capacity. We will have a decent amount of safe standing so we can keep the atmosphere. We'll be able to convert the rails to seating when we host European matches. Boggy: Is that a scene from one of your cheese dreams? Max: I wouldn't rule out us winning a cup, Boggy. We're one match from the AOK quarter finals. Imagine us next year! And Saltney will need a place to play their UEFA Conference League matches. It's Chester or Wrexham, isn't it?

Are you going to make me beg Ryan Reynolds? They'd love to have European football at the Racecourse. Wouldn't they? There would be a whole episode about it on their documentary. Boggy: [Laughs.] If it comes to it, I think I'd be all right with you renting the Deva. Max: Okay, what else? We expect the McNally to be pretty full all this season and project it will bring in a little under half a million. Half a mill for the whole season, not including cups. With the new stand we'd get about 1. 6 million. It's 1.

1 million a year extra, not including catering and all that. Boggy: An extra million just in ticket sales. Max: Yes. That extra income would be worth 20, 000 a week which would give us a fighting chance of survival in League One. We think we can sell that many tickets next season if we get promoted. J: And you'll jack up the prices? Max: No. No more than normal, anyway. It's the McNally, isn't it? It's for young lads who want to stand and sing and get mental.

We'll have seats around the sides and on the upper level around the hospitality boxes for people like MD who love the atmosphere but whose knees have gone, but it'll be the young, vibrant stand. Singing sections, drummer, a place where you're allowed to dance around and throw beer on each other. J: What will the new name be? Max: Well, it's a good time to rename it if that's what you want to do. That's something for the fans to decide. I'm happy with the Harry McNally.

We've got time to think of all that kind of thing. Today's about paying for it. Today's about money. Give me your moneyyyy. J: Before you said there's good news and great news. The great news is we get to pay for this. Max: Bingo. J: You're unbelievable. Max: We looked at different financing options but there's only one winner. It's called a mini-bond. Norwich City did one to build their new academy, and AFC Wimbledon and QPR have done similar.

How it goes is you, the people listening to this, invest money in the stadium starting with 500 pounds, no upper limit. You lend that to us for five years. Every year, we pay interest. 8%, in this case. That means if you lend me a grand, I'll bang you 80 quid back, per year, and at the end of the five years, I'll return your grand. J: That's not bad. Max: Yeah it's not bad but it comes with risk. If Chester goes bust, you're not getting your money.

The good news is the guy at the top is MD and ten minutes ago you were complaining he was too careful with the club's finances. Okay, but now it's your money he's looking after! You like him being careful now, don't you? J: I do like it. That's actually... Max: I have to be careful about making promises because it's, you know, the world of finance and stuff, and there are rules. The money we raise can only be used for the stadium.

We've got a page on the website showing what it will all look like for anyone who just wants to daydream, but we've got an investor's pack, too. Investor's pack, listen to me! What it says in a nutshell is that the club is more or less breaking even and we are doing good businessy things like reducing our electricity costs and generating income from our 3G pitches. We've got talented players, too.

As football clubs go, we're not that risky and to prove that I've promised to be on my best behaviour for a while so I don't rock the markets. Boggy: Rock the markets. I doubt the markets know what Chester FC is. Max: The plan is we get the money, we get the various builders lined up, Brooke project manages, it all goes seamlessly. And if it doesn't, I'll be on holiday in America with my phone off. Brooke can sort it out. [Laughs.] No, it's all pretty straightforward, really. Oh, apart from one thing.

J: Here we go. Max: So how these things work is you put a range. You say we need a minimum of three million, maximum five. Yeah? Norwich did it like that and they got to the maximum pretty quick. Their fans knew it was a good deal for their wallets and good for the club too. We're working with a law firm called The Wall - I should say that it's my girlfriend's dad who owns it, but they made a better offer than the other lot.

The Wall are trying to get into football and the legal stuff around this kind of investment is quite simple but I've put a twist on it. So basically the club needs five million pounds to complete the stand and that's our target. So far, so good. But we have the potential to make decent money in the near future. I'm talking cup runs, sponsorships, player sales. We were fifty-fifty to get an away match at Newcastle and that could have made us half a million.

What The Wall are letting us do is reduce the size of the mini-bonds in a dynamic way. If we get a big away day in the FA Cup and bank 500 grand, we can reduce the bond offer by that much. Boggy: So it would go down to 4. 5 million. Max: That's it. How I think it will go is, like, we'll sell half a million pretty fast. A local business will buy a five-year rent on a hospitality box and we'll put that into the mixer.

People will see the availability of the mini-bonds going down, there will be FOMO - Boggy: Pardon me? Max: Fear of missing out. We'll sell a player, more FOMO. It's going to be great fun. It'll be like a race to see who can get more money, me or the fans. J: Why don't you keep the money from all that and use it? Max: I don't want to pay 8% interest if I don't have to, J. That's lobster money, that. I don't really like debt.

The b-boys tell me debt used well can be good and obviously they're right but I'm not comfortable with loading unnecessary costs onto the club. I've had a couple of weeks to get my head around these mini-bonds and they do what we need but I'd like it to be as small as poss. What's fun is that if you want to make sure you get your money back all you have to do is come to watch matches at the Deva. Boggy: In the beautiful new stand we paid for. J: What's the minimum investment again? Max: Five hundred pounds.

One thing I'll say is that I'll be doing a lot of media stuff to promote this. I know you're used to me being all distant and uncommunicative but for five million quid I'll chat for England, do you know what I mean? It's going to be bland stuff. Just trying to sound like a normal person, someone who you could trust with your savings. I'm steering clear of all controversy startinnnnnng... now. Boggy: What do you think of Alan Turner? Max: Great coach, improves players, well worth every penny of his wages. See?

I can do it, Boggy. [Laughs.] Boggy: Why do I feel you practised that in front of a mirror? Max: Because I did. Right. Give me your money. Also, don't be mad when I keep banging on about this mini-bond. I'm doing this for you. Your city, your community, your club. J: Done. I just bought a thousand. Max: What, just now? J: Yes. Max: Wow. Seems like there should have been some identity checks or something but great! Come here. [Sound of aggressive hugging.] You coming tomorrow? J: Course I am! Max: Top top top.

Start saying farewell to the old Deva. The new Deva is waiting to rise. Rise? No, emerge. Waiting to ascend. I need to workshop this. Ah, but what a way for the Harry McNally terrace to say goodbye to the League Cup. Chester, blue and white stripes, against Newcastle, resplendent in their famous old black and white. Boggy: Sorry, what? [Nervous chuckle.] Max, you know they won't be wearing black and white. Max: What's that now? Boggy: The kits would be too similar. Newcastle will be wearing their change kit.

The green one. J: The one that's identical to the Saudi Arabia kit? Boggy: That's the one. Max: They wouldn't dare. Not here. Boggy: Max! They've already sent the details. I get them early so I can prepare my commentary. They will be in green. That's done and dusted. J: Max? Boggy: Max? Are you...? Should we...? Max: One second. [Sound of a phone dialling out.] Sandra, hey. I've changed my mind. Yes. Can you get the lads to Bumpers, please? Yes, now. [Max stands up, a chair slides across a smooth floor.] Lads, I need to go. Someone just called an emergency training session. J: Holy shit what's happening? Max: [Leaning into the microphone.] Chester, give me your money. I need your money. Thanks, bye.

Me: Pray for Alan. Sebastian: What does that mean? Me: It means it's on.