Chương 105: 7.1 - Wales, Golf, Madrid

Soccer Supremo 7 The story so far: In six short years as a football manager, Max Best has taken a ramshackle old rowing boat named Chester FC and transformed it into a speedboat with laser guns and cool grappling hooks and a black flag featuring a grinning skull holding a sharp dagger between its mocking teeth. But when one sails into deep waters before the crew are ready and before the hull has been fully plated, one is liable to sink.

The good ship Chester flew too close to the sun and landed on the mountaintop that is the Premier League - this is great writing - but after a series of setbacks and scandals, with the team leading against Liverpool at Anfield, just as it seemed that they might actually stay afloat, the captain jumped ship. (Some say he jumped a couple of sharks along the way.) That's right - Max Best quit as Chester manager, leaving them rudderless and with half the deck underwater.

Max himself is on dry land - the humour in Finland is very dry - but a lifeboat is approaching. Its flag is green and white with a gleaming red dragon. Will he hop on board to continue his voyage?

"It's not the big that eats the small, it's the fast that eats the slow." Jason Jennings 1. Wales, Golf, Madrid Red Army is a hard-hitting Wrexham AFC podcast, unique in that club's media ecosystem for believing that the club's Hollywood owners should spend less money on new players. The podcast has a Discord chat server open to its Patreon supporters; one of the channels is simply called Wales.

Monday, September 18, 2028 BrokenGround Lads, I've been activated! ButteryCrumpets Dylan, wrong channel. But just in case anyone has Let's All Laugh At Chester muted... Chester 0 Aston Villa 2 Lol. They've got minus 3 points after 6 matches. They are currently averaging minus half a point per match. Lol! And their talisman, Max Best, is away without leave, hiding under a rock, tail between his legs, and we'll never hear from him again. LOL!!! BrokenGround Ah, yeah, not sure about that, Crumpets...

But yes, I'm in the right channel. The call came from Gwen at the FAW... ButteryCrumpets The Football Association of Wales? Hol' up. Our boy Dylan got called up for international duty? Mate! I'm made up for you! Stoop But that means Best will be the Wales manager after all! BrokenGround That's my guess, too. All I know is that I have to get ready and get to the airport. I'm off to Helsinki! JustOneCornetto I'm out of the loop. Who's Dylan and what's happening?

TopPoppy Dylan's in the army and does security on the side. He was in the regiment that got special training from Max Best, if you remember that. They got all the way to their cup final, which was as monumental an achievement as Leicester winning the Prem or a tiny regional Welsh side getting into the Champions League.

Dylan wrote out the whole story in LALAC with some updates in the Always Bet on Best channel because we quickly realised we had insider info and could make a bit of cash on the side if we were smart with our bets. Stoop Can't spell bets without Best! TopPoppy Basically, all the mad stuff Best did, like centralising the top young players at Saltney Town, building the training centre there, how he's been working with the FAW, Dylan's had a ringside seat.

If history repeats itself, we're about to find out what's going on with the Welsh national team, how Max Best is feeling, whether he's going back to Chester or not, and all sorts. Should be fun and we might get some tips out of it. Me? I could use an extra fifty quid right about now. JustOneCornetto Huh. Okay. I've got to say I'm not pleased Best doesn't want to turn up for his day job but thinks he can do Wales on the side. We should have higher standards than that. And the manager of Wales should be Welsh.

Just my opinion. But congrats to Dylan if he's getting a trip to Finland out of all this. Me and my missus couldn't afford to get away this summer, what with the prices and everything.

Tuesday, September 19 BrokenGround All right, it's happening! Last night, I get to the hotel in time for the kitchen to make me a late supper, then I hit the hay. Up bright and early for breakfast, expecting to see Max there so he can tell me what he needs. The new manager of the Welsh national team is conspicuous by his absence. I spot Well In (that's what everyone calls Llewellyn Kenrick, the assistant manager, who might well think he has done enough as a manager to get the top job himself).

After some small talk I ask what I'm supposed to do. He doesn't know, and he doesn't know where Max is. Well In says that if Max doesn't turn up I can be his security... and maybe help lay out the cones. I don't laugh - of course I'm happy to do anything and everything for the national team. Well In jokes, 'It'll be a step down from the quality you're used to at 3 R Welsh, but you might enjoy it anyway!' I laugh, but I'm already off balance. How can I protect Max if he's not here? Stoop Oh, shit.

I placed a cheeky tenner on Wales to beat Finland on Thursday. I was kinda basing that on Best being at the wheel. Kenrick is good but he's not Max Best good. JustOneCornetto It doesn't matter much, does it? It's almost the same exact squad as last time round. It's not like Best convinced Gareth Bale to come out of retirement. Same squad, same results. It stands to reason.

BrokenGround Oh my God. Stoop What? BrokenGround Training just finished. Max turned up - eventually - and, well, I need a stiff drink. Give me ten minutes and I'll start writing what happened. Stoop Come on, children. Gather round. It's story time! BrokenGround Where do I start? So I go to the training pitches with the lads. Roddy Jones knows who I am, and he chats with me, asks after Bonnie, asks what it's like dating a top football executive.

Teasing me, but I was glad of it because the others must have been looking at me going who's that weirdo? Roddy knows I'm Wrexham so he introduces me to our new signings. (Remember Max was ripping into us about us not having any Welsh players? We fixed that in the summer, didn't we?) First it's Clive Allen, who's even more massive than he looks on TV. I'm shaking his hand thinking this guy's never gonna get a minute in a Max Best team, but then I remember Max has had big, strong, slow strikers before.

There was that guy Goliath. Henri Lyons was a lump, for all he wants you to think he's a sophisticate. Allen sees me looking at him funny and goes, 'What?'

'Oh, shit. Was I staring? I'm just wondering if you'll get minutes.' His eyebrows rise.

'Do you know the team?'

'I don't know anything! I don't even know why I'm here!' He relaxes.

'To stop the gaffer being smashed on the head, innit? So you've not heard anything? Team? Tactics?'

'No. I haven't seen Max at all. Have you?'

'Yeah, we seen him around. He's with his wife and the big security guy. Don't go picking any fights with the big man, Dylan. I seen him in the gym last night chucking weights around. He'll crush you.' I don't know why he needs to tell me that, but I'm not worried about Brick - he's a top bloke. I'm more worried about Max's mental state. Last I saw him, he was abandoning a Premier League game, then quitting his dream job a minute later.

'Did he look all right? I sent him some texts, concerned, but he only sent me a poem back.' Roddy goes, 'A poem?' I get my phone out and read it to them.

'Wrexham is red, Wales is too. Everything's red with tritanopia type two.' Roddy snorted.

'His poems are as good as ever, I see. Have you met Dean and Joe?' Stoop Look at Dylan, on first name terms with the Wrexham boys, hanging out before training! Dean Earnshaw's a good goalie. Best will rate him. Joe Ford, God bless him, has his faults but he'll work hard and pop up with goals from midfield. I can imagine Clive Allen not starting on Thursday night but those two will, I'm sure. BrokenGround If they manage not to kill Max before then, yeah.

Let's just say there's a reason he's got two bodyguards with him. All right, the other key characters in this little tale you can probably guess. Ray Jordan, Leeds centre back, Wales captain. Neco Price and Chris Morgan, the fast wingers. Everyone agrees if Wales are gonna do anything in the Nations League or the World Cup qualifiers, they will be the ones doing the damage. It's an open secret that Max doesn't rate Neco Price even though he's our highest-profile, highest-paid player.

In terms of wages, Ed Heath would be next, wouldn't he? Stoop I think Heath will be on more. Price might have kept his Spurs wages when he moved to Crystal Palace, but they got relegated so he probably took a 50% pay cut. And I think Ed Heath got a big new contract to keep him at Fulham when it looked like he would move on a free. BrokenGround Ah, that's probably right, yeah. Anyway, there are seven key players in the squad, in my opinion.

Dean Earnshaw, the goalie; Ray Jordan, captain; Chris Morgan and Neco Price, pacey wingers; Ed Heath and Joe Ford winning midfield duels, creating, scoring from midfield; Clive Allen, our biggest goal threat. Seven key players, yeah? Now count how many Max Best pisses off in his first morning as Wales manager. Stoop Oh, shit. No. Please tell me you're joking. I thought he hung around our camps all the time and knew everyone? BrokenGround Well In starts the session.

Warm ups, drills, the usual, backed by a couple of coaches and physios. It's lively, fast, frantic. There are laughs. The group is relaxed, friendly. Everyone knows and likes one another. There's a stray pass that comes to me. I send it back first time, right on target, and Clive Allen yells, 'Well played, Dylan!' and Joe Ford goes 'Tommy One-Touch!' and Roddy Jones goes 'Lads, that's Dylan, inventor of Bestball' so Ed Heath yells, 'Dylan, tell Joe his pressing's shit.' They're bantering me like I'm an old mate!

Then Max turns up. He's in a cheap tracksuit and expensive sunglasses. He scans the pitch for twenty seconds, frowns, and sits on a football. There's a load of tension in his face. He looks like he hasn't eaten, like the stress of being worldwide news for the best part of a week is eating him up from the inside.

'Max, how are you? You all right?'

'Not now, Dylan. Can't you see I'm literally running a country?' Winds me up, lads. Sometimes I think he wants me around because anyone who's going to slap him might decide to wait for me to do it first.

'We're all just worried about you.' He sighs, annoyed.

'The UEFA Nations League is a major, major tournament, Dylan.'

'No, it isn't. It's a series of glorified friendlies. It's the national team equivalent of the Cheshire Cup.' Well, that's the wrong thing to say to him, isn't it? He's the only man born in the last century who cares about that competition.

'Exactly,' he says, and mimes putting his sunglasses on even though he hadn't taken them off.

'Am I here as your bodyguard?'

'You're here as an avatar for every Welshman.'

'What?'

'Can you shush for a minute? I'm trying to work.' I'm not going to get a straight answer out of him, so I fold my arms and try to enjoy the rest of the session. The skill levels are high. Dean Earnshaw's agility is crazy. Ed Heath does things with the ball that are scarcely believable. There's an amazing moment where the three speedsters chase after the same loose ball. Neco Price, Chris Morgan, Roddy Jones, they're like electrons fizzing around a big metal loop before smashing into each other.

About ten minutes before the end, five strangers arrive. They're in matching tracksuits, aged from around 20 to 50. There's something very serious about them. The oldest one talks to Max, but I can't hear what they're saying. The guy comes to me and speaks with a heavy accent.

'Are you Dylan?'

'Yes,' I say, worried. What could this be? The guy stands to my left and the other four stand to his left. We're all there, in a line, and as ever I have no idea what is going on. Well In draws the session to a close and some of the lads applaud themselves and yell things like, 'Good sesh, boys! Love it!' They start to walk off, towards the dressing rooms, but Max - still sitting on a football - is in the way, kind of.

'Come in a second,' he says, and soon there's a semi-circle of players around him. I'm struck by a few facts. Max has achieved a lot in his career, and he has scored a goal in the Premier League, but a fair number of the lads have won matches in the Prem, and that's something Max can't say.

A fair few have played in the Champions League, too, or the group stages of other European tournaments, and Max has never done that (he has only played in qualifiers, which someone like Ed Heath probably doesn't even know exists). And everyone who is standing in front of Max has played in at least one major international tournament, and Max is as close to achieving that feat as either me or Stoop. He takes his sunglasses off.

'Good session, lads?' They nod, enthusiastically.

'Ready for Thursday?' More nods, little bits of chat. I notice Roddy Jones takes his hand off his mate's shoulder before backing away, just a little. He's the only one who senses what's coming. Max appears to be in a good mood, and asks innocently, 'What's the plan now?' Ray Jordan smiles.

'Some of us have a spot of golf lined up. There's a course near here and my expat mate's a member and he's got us a couple of flights.' There's a three-second pause before Max says, 'Golf.' I look to see what Roddy Jones is thinking, but he is hiding behind Clive Allen. Max frowns and scratches an eyebrow.

'This is that Gareth Bale thing, isn't it? Welsh people love golf. How does the banner go? Golf, Wales, Madrid. Order of priorities. I always thought that if I was a Madrid fan, I'd be peeved, because they were paying his wages, half a million a week, and if I was Welsh I'd be pissed because we weren't top of the tree.' Max is many things but he's not stupid. He knows that wasn't the word order of the famous Gareth Bale banner, but the lads haven't spent enough time with him to know how his brain works.

Dean Earnshaw goes, 'No, boss, it wasn't that, it was Wales, golf, Madrid. Wales was first.'

'Oh, top,' says Max, smiling. His smile fades instantly.

'But that was the old days, was it? That was then, this is now.' Ray Jordan goes, 'You don't want us playing golf?' Max checks his wrist even though he's not wearing a watch.

'It's 11 a. m. and you're all fucking off.' Jordan.

'Session's over. Did you want us to do more?' Max leans back slightly, eyes Jordan, then scans the group. He lifts his arms.

'Let's rip off the plaster. I will never play for England and I will never manage England. I have zero experience of international football. Yeah, I've taken a tiny Welsh team into the Champions League and I've shot multiple tiny teams up division after division and I've catapulted tons of players into their national teams. Roddy Jones for Wales, Darren Smith for Australia, Zach Green for the U. S. A. But I've never done this specific thing before.

I assumed that after training you would all run up to me going, boss, boss, I want to learn from the world's most original thinker. Can we do a tactics session? Can you teach me to be a better defender?' He points to Ray Jordan.

'Boss, you nutmegged me three times in one match, can you help me with my defensive posture?' He points to Earnshaw.

'Gaffer, you had me on toast from set pieces, did you find a flaw in my trigger movements? Let's work on it!' Max takes a moment, then speaks more quietly.

'I assumed you would be so desperate to learn the sport and to do well for your country that I would need to put on extra sessions.' He gestures to the strangers beside me.

'I hired these guys with my own money. Five of the best coaches Finland has to offer. They're here, they're ready to cook, but you're off to play golf.' Roddy Jones leans out behind Clive Allen.

'I'm ready for more work, boss!' Max stands up, and I realise my first impression of him was wrong. He's not haggard and suffering. He's got a tan; he looks powerful and energised, ready for anything. He walks around in front of his troops like he's doing a uniform inspection. He challenges them with his eye contact, and that's enough to get my blood pumping.

'I can't tell you to stay,' he says to a couple of defenders.

'If you want to go at 11 on the dot, I can't stop you. Where I come from, the end of main training is the start of my personal sessions. I come early and stay late.' This is complete bullshit - he starts late and leaves early - but it's true in spirit, and it's true that it's the culture at Chester and Saltney.

'Every single one of you has ten percent more to give. I want it. I'm the manager of Wales and I'm demanding it. People call this an international break, like it's a break from the real work, from your real job. Fuck that. Your club? That's a break from playing for Wales.' Now he's only making eye contact with the three biggest personalities - Ed Heath, Clive Allen, and Ray Jordan.

'I keep hearing you call this a camp. The camp was good. We had a great camp so I don't know how we lost those games. Camp? This isn't a fucking holiday!' He gets closer to Ray Jordan, who is seething with anger, it looks like. Max is finding all his buttons and pressing them simultaneously. I should step closer in case it kicks off, but I'm frozen because I'm agreeing so hard with everything the prick is saying.

'This is where you come to learn the sport. This is where you come to test yourself. This is where you show that you're the best of the best and you deserve to carry that badge.' He gets even closer to Jordan, and if this was a TV show, Bonnie would be yelling "just kiss already!" Their faces are a few inches apart. Max goes, 'I don't want to hear the word break and I don't want to hear the word camp. This is international duty.' The word triggers me, and I'm not alone. Half the group stands taller.

Ray Jordan's eyes look like they're going to pop out of his head. Max looks left and right before returning his attention to the captain.

'I've got a hundred talented little bastards lined up behind you like a river. For the next decade, every Welsh team will be stronger than the one that came before it. Those brats have got talent, speed, and athleticism. I've given them tactics and decision-making. You,' he says, pushing his finger into Jordan's chest.

'You're gonna teach them about standards. Starting early, training like a champion, eating right, watching the clips, doing your homework, getting enough sleep. You're gonna be the example they follow when things turn to shit. When we're two-nil down going into the last ten, who will get taller, stronger, better? Who will get even more locked into the plan? The fucking captain of Wales, that's who. I'll turn those lads into ballers, but it'll take a Welshman to show them you can't be a baller without balls!'

Jordan's fists are clenching and unclenching, and it's not because he wants to punch Max Best. Max knows he's got the captain so he moves to the team's best player, Ed Heath.

'This team needs you, but starting tomorrow, if you skip the last cone, if you jog to position when you're supposed to sprint, I'll bin you off. I know your level and I know what your level should be, and every day you're not grinding to make up that gap is a day you're not doing your duty.' He stares Heath out - the lad looks astonished that he's being spoken to like that, but he's a cool customer and keeps his gob shut. Max goes to Chris Morgan.

'Before the Euros, you got six USB sticks with clips of the oppo. You told the coaches you watched the clips, but I know you didn't.' Morgan's cheeks flush, but he tries to style it out.

'You can't know that.'

'Sure I can,' says Max.

'If you'd even tried to watch them, you would have discovered that two were blank.'

'Christ,' I murmur, but it must have come out loud because everyone glances at me. Judging from their faces, I'm not the only one pissed at Chris Morgan. Max rolls his foot over the ball he had sat on, flicks it up and does a couple of kick-ups before letting it drop.

'Amnesty,' he says, spreading his arms, extending his fingers.

'What's done is done. This is a new dawn, a clean slate, but you better believe that standards just got raised. I'm not like other managers who let you get away with a bit of bullshit if you're talented enough. If you're in the squad, you're in the squad. No-one gets a different set of rules. And if I give you some clips to watch and you don't watch them, there won't be a fight or a discussion, I'll just quietly erase your name from the next squad and give your place to one of my Northern Powerhouse kids.

I'm happy to skip to the next generation already, if that's how it has to be. The FAW will back me. The Welsh public will back me. If it's an honour to wear that shirt, prove it.' He locks eyes with a few guys.

'Wales. Golf. Madrid. That's the order. Anyone got a problem with that?' A few guys shake their heads. Max nods at Roddy.

'What's your order, Mr. Jones?'

'Wales, Chester, golf, boss.' Max wags his finger.

'I love intelligent players, lads.' He flicks the ball up again, sighs, lets it drop.

'It's not all duty, honour, sacrifice. I expect you to do extra training based on my direction, but in return I'll make you a better player. Ed Heath. You're a quality Premier League midfielder. Fantasy Football players love you for your assists and goals.' Max shakes his head.

'You should be a Champions League midfielder, mate. I can fix that. Two years of grinding and you'll be a star of the World Cup.' Clive Allen goes, 'We're going to the World Cup, are we, boss?'

'Depends how many of you quit the team in disgust and how many decide to do half an hour extra training every day. Every fucking day from now till then.' Allen shakes his head, pulls his training top back on, goes, 'I'm in. Fuck golf.' He walks over to the Finnish coaches and shakes their hands, one by one.

'Thanks for coming. I'm Clive.' There's a mass movement of players towards me as they queue to introduce themselves to the coaches. The Finns don't react much, except that the older one looks at Max and raises his eyebrows. I know that face. It means, 'This isn't what I signed up for'. I snap my head to see Max shrug. He wasn't expecting it to go like this. Something doesn't add up. Why weren't we supposed to talk to the coaches?

'Argh!' I say, which makes everyone pause.

'Max, what have you done?'

'What?' he says, trying to look innocent. He claps his hands together.

'Lads, listen up. I've had a think and I've decided that I don't want you to do any extra training today. Go explore Helsinki, play golf, call your families, whatever you want. We'll start the new era tomorrow, yeah? Rest is just as important as any other part of our process. Go on,' he says, pushing air towards the dressing rooms.

'Have fun.' For some reason, no-one moves. Instead, they look at me. I turn to the oldest coach.

'Who are you?' His expression doesn't change.

'We are the groundskeepers.' There's pandemonium. I yell, 'Fucking hell, Max!' He sticks his tongue out of the side of his mouth, points to the Finn, yells, 'You told me you had a UEFA Pro!' The Finn sighs slightly, turns, walks a few yards and picks up a pitchfork while his team gather rakes and other gear. Some of the players have decided it's all hilarious, but there are some doubts, too. Jones, the third-choice goalie, says, 'Why is Max Best paying the groundsmen?'

There's another explosion of banter but this time it's way more on the 'laughing' end of the spectrum. Max is loving the chaos he has unleashed, but he decides he has to act mature, at least for a minute. He waves to get everyone's attention, and Well In gives a short blast on his whistle.

'Lads,' says Max, when everyone's quiet.

'You have just witnessed and been participants in a masterclass in motivation... for cold-hearted English people.' He rubs his jaw, ruefully.

'It didn't occur to me for a second that you'd go and make friends with the coaches. Huh. Wales, friendship, golf. Note to self, put the actors behind a glass wall next time.' He smiles.

'Okay so my scam blew up in my face. Guilty as charged. Nothing changes. I'm gonna push you and you're gonna step up and train hard and train right and we're gonna win a fuckton of football matches and apparently you're gonna make friends everywhere you go while I stand on the touchline looking grumpy yet handsome. That's the plan. That starts tomorrow, so shower, change, and play golf with my blessing. But remember, this is international duty.

You're representing your country so I expect you to hit a hole in one on every shot.' Ed Heath says, 'You don't play golf, do you boss?' Max just grins and points to the dressing room. The lads go off, talking loudly and hurriedly. What do they make of it all? I have absolutely no idea, but maybe they've learned that when Max is in charge, there's never a dull moment. Stoop Holy shit! He's back, he's mental, and he's ours! I'm doubling my bet!

Wednesday, September 20 BrokenGround Hey, lads. We just had breakfast. Guess who started the day going full pelt? When I get down to the lobby and follow the signs to the private room doubling as our canteen, Max, Emma, and Brick are at a table together. Well In joins them. Briggy, another bodyguard, turns up. That's three bodyguards in three metres! But it seems she's out here building the client base for her agency, though she refuses to give any details. She seems pleased with herself.

The lads wander in, see the boss is already half-finished, hurry to the buffet, tone down the banter. Roddy Jones asks if he can sit on my table, then more of the younger ones come with. There's a nice, friendly vibe, and I'm really starting to ease into it, if you get me, when Emma and Brick stand up. I notice that they've got their suitcases by a wall. Brick can't carry them all in one go. Max goes, 'I'll get someone to help.' Briggy goes, 'Why don't you help?'

He sweeps his fork around the room, 'I'm literally running a country!' I stand, maybe faster than I intended because the rest of the guys stop what they're doing to stare at me. (That was just me being clumsy, by the way, not an expression of how Max annoys me. For those who don't know, I sustained major injuries on a tour of duty and, yeah. Some days are worse than others.) I look at Emma.

'You're leaving already? The match is on Thursday.' She smiles, sweetly, and all the guys are entranced.

'I've got a job, too, you know. It's not like I'm in the British Army and I can just fly out to Helsinki at the drop of a hat.' Being bantered by Emma hits different. I grow a foot taller.

'Max, carry your wife's bags.' He shoots to his feet and slips into that maddening new voice he's got. I've come to think of it as his 'international manager' voice. He comes to me and grips my shoulder.

'I'm married to the job, Dylan. I'm married to Wales!' He gets closer and pleads, 'Don't you dare cheat on me.' Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

'Me?' He groans.

'Yes, you! You're the avatar for Wales. I told you!' My early morning coffee hasn't kicked in, and I'm wondering if he's trying to set up one of those throuple things.

'What about Bonnie? She doesn't want to dress as a mermaid in one of your role plays.' Max tuts.

'That's private.'

'If it's private, stop telling everyone about it!' He cackles and rushes to the suitcases. He grabs a handle, lets it go.

'New plan! Dylan will carry a couple of cases, I'll carry the Little Mermaid.' Before Emma can process what he's saying, Max has scooped her up and thrown her over his shoulder. She yelps, giggles, playfully fights him. With his free hand, he slams his chest.

'Me Max! Me play remedial 4-5-1 against Finland!' Emma stops struggling, slides down, glares at him.

'4-5-1? What the fuck? You promised me fearless football.' He steps to the side so he can sweep his hand around the room.

'With this lot? Babes!' He walks to my table, the one with the younger players. He points to a defender's plate. (I won't name him, for obvious reasons.) 'Look at that! It's like he's never heard of a nutritionist! The guy's 20% ketchup, babes. If I ask him to run too much he'll revert to a sugary, tomatoey goo!' Emma's gaze has been following Max, but now it lands the kid's plate. Her eyes widen and she says in a soft voice, 'You're not going to eat all that, are you?'

'No, miss,' says the lad, as red as the ketchup. Emma turns to Max.

'Leave him alone! He obviously squirted too much onto his plate; it was an accident.' She checks her watch.

'I'm off. Hey,' she says, sternly, facing her husband again.

'Order of priorities.' She lifts her hand, palm down, wedding ring up.

'Emma.' She lowers her hand.

'Wales.' She lowers it some more.

'Being a fucking weirdo.' Guys, you can't believe how much the players are lapping this up. She looks at one of them.

'Did he do the fake coaches thing?'

'Yeah!' There's laughter and guys punching their mates on the arm. She lets out a small sigh, smiles, and gives Max an affectionate peck on the cheek.

'You're lucky you're cute.'

'What's lucky about it? Have you heard of Facemaxxing? Loads of men around the world trying to look like this.' He points to his face.

'That's why it's called Maxxing.' There's much derision at this statement, but Brick is already by the door, trying to encourage Emma to hurry. I grab a couple of cases and take them to the front of the hotel, where a taxi is waiting.

'Emma, pet,' I say, quickly.

'Is he all right?' Her smile puts the Northern Lights to shame.

'He's all right, Dylan. I promise. In fact, he's better than all right. Enjoy the ride.' I point to the taxi.

'I think I'm supposed to say that to you.' She seems amused.

'Enjoy the ride, Dyl.' I go back to the canteen, take my seat, and notice that the young defender has mopped up all the ketchup from his plate. He looks devastated.

'What's up, lad?' He shrinks.

'That's me done, isn't it? He thinks I'm not professional.' Roddy sounds amazed.

'What? No. He wants you to do better, that's all. If he didn't think you were professional, you wouldn't be here. Nah,' says Roddy, topping up his glass with water from a jug.

'All you do is you wait until we've played Albania, then one time when you're on a break in a drill and you're near him, you go, boss, I was thinking about what you said about how we've all got 15% more to give and I was wondering if you already had an idea of my areas for improvement.' Roddy takes a swig.

'He'll go, huh, I'll have a think about it. But that's just a thing he does to make himself seem more normal. He already knows. He could write out your whole Soccer Supremo profile as it stands and as it should be in two years.' The kid's gobsmacked, but that part is quite believable to me. I'm more interested in some other things Roddy said.

'Why should he wait until after Albania?'

'Because then we'll be top of our group with two wins from two and the gaffer'll be in a good mood.'

'He seems pretty motivated by this whole Nations League thing.'

'Course,' says Roddy, munching on a corner of toast.

'If we win the group, we're guaranteed a World Cup qualifying playoff place.' This is news to me.

'We are?'

'Yeah. It's an incentive for countries to take the Nations League seriously. We're gonna go into the World Cup qualifiers with a playoff spot guaranteed, and then we're gonna go mental in every match trying to win the qualifying group, knowing we've got a backup plan if the wheels come off.'

'Max told you that?'

'Nah,' says Roddy.

'It's obvious, innit? I talked it through with Pascal and Wibbers and the lads. We know how he thinks. He's devious. Plans within plans.' He loads his fork.

'I learned a phrase from Pascal. A crafty rabbit digs three holes. If one entrance is blocked and one has a fox at the end, he's still got a way out. If there are two ways to qualify for the World Cup and one can be almost guaranteed two weeks from now, why wouldn't he take it seriously?' My head's spinning.

'Guaranteed World Cup qualification... two weeks from now? That's impossible...' Roddy tilts his head, conceding that he has overketchupped the chips.

'Guaranteed playoff, anyway, but that's almost the same thing. That playoff will be in two years' time and by then the team will be purring. Max Best at the wheel, with two years of the lads doing things his way. The only countries that could beat us will have won their qualifying groups and won't be in the playoffs.' The Ketchup Kid is agog, apparently forgetting that Max Best's team have made a historically bad start to the Premier League.

'So we're going to the World Cup? For real?' Roddy stabs a bit of beetroot and lifts it.

'If we do things right.' He brings the vegetable to his lips, but pauses long enough to wiggle the fork, saying, 'Antioxidants.' The defender looks from Roddy's plate - fit for a rabbit - to his own. He goes to the buffet and, bravely, uncertainly, collects some vegetables. My spine is tingling. Things are happening. Things are moving. When the lad sits back down, I try to stab a piece of his beetroot with my fork.

'Give me some of that,' I demand. The kid's faster than me; he whips the plate away.

'Get your own,' he says. He bites into a forkful of veg and while he doesn't like it, he doesn't hate it, either. He munches faster, nods, and there's a tiny upturn on the corner of his lips. In one morning Max and his allies have transformed him from the Ketchup Kid into the Beetroot Boy. TopPoppy Pure cinema, Dylan. I'm loving this!

BrokenGround Holy shit, guys! Max Best is training. He's training with our Welsh boys! He's wearing a white top with blue detail - it looks like the England kit but it's not the England kit so we can't ask him to change without looking petty. He's running around the pitch being gobby as fuck, strutting, preening, winding everyone up. When he does something cool he's yelling 'That's how it's done!' When he does an interception or wins a duel he goes, 'Unlucky!' It's so maddening!

BrokenGround They've switched to playing a match and he's man-marking Ed Heath in midfield. Heath isn't getting much change out of him.

'Unlucky! Unlucky!' Well In's just as annoyed as the rest of us, but he, at least, knows what the point of the exercise is. I sidle up to him and go, 'Max is pissing everyone off and getting under the skin of our best player. Is this a good idea?' Well In shakes his head.

'Max doesn't have good ideas; they're either shit or genius.'

'Which one's this?'

'Shitgenius.' Max gets the ball, turns slowly, making an irritated Heath think he can get it, but in the blink of an eye the ball has gone between his legs and Max is running away. His strides lengthen, his pace increases, and he leathers one from distance that Earnshaw has to tip over the bar. Fucking shot! The muscle memory of the move had sent Max into action hero mode, loose limbs, fixed jaw, shark-like eyes, but as his team shout their praise, he gathers himself, changes mood in an instant.

Gone is the mighty lion, replaced by a mischievous imp. He calls out, 'Hang on! Hang on! I've just had a coaching idea.' He runs to the side and gets a large Wales towel. It's red, of course.

'Reset! Forget the corner. Come back to the nutmeg.' The guys, confused, move back to where they were half a minute ago. Max has the ball a couple of yards away from his midfield rival.

'Play!' Heath, wary, makes a half-hearted attempt to get the ball and Max waves the towel left, like he's a matador, and sweeps away to the right. Heath goes 'What the fuck'. Max is waving the towel around while he does skills, laughing, taunting. Stoop OMG I can't even see it but I want to slap him. BrokenGround Remember I was saying there's a good vibe around the camp? That's gone. That's over. Now there's an undercurrent.

It's the first eleven against the best of the rest plus Max and guys are snapping into challenges, snapping at each other. There's a dark energy around and at the centre there's Ed Heath trying to get out of Max's pocket. Heath's the team's playmaker so the ball keeps going to him but he has to play quick first-time passes to someone less good on the ball. Is Max trying to prove something to Well In about the lack of technical quality in the squad? Is he plotting to skip to the next generation?

Heath tries to take the ball on the half-turn but Max nips it from his toes, powers through Heath's shirt-tug, and slips the ball right for Roddy Jones. Jones crosses, but Earnshaw punches away. There's some pinball and Max is surging through like a knight on a white horse and the ball's going to get to him. Is it? No - Earnshaw has reacted just fast enough. He'll get there just ahead of Max, and he'll be able to kick it out of touch and let the defence reset. He tries to be clever.

Tries to send Max running, revenge for the matador stunt. The goalie flicks the ball behind him and turns to take it facing the opposite direction, but somehow Max knew Earnshaw would try that. He veers left and stabs the ball into the net while Earnshaw is still turning. I expect Max to run around cackling like a delighted little kid, but he goes feral.

'What the fuck was that? What the fuck are you playing at?' Jordan and a couple of others get between Max and the goalie, try to separate them, but Max is proper livid.

'Save that shit for Wrexham, you knob! This is Wales. This is fucking Wales!' I get what he's doing and why he's doing it. I even agree with him that the goalie should stick to the basics 99% of the time, but he's dragged the mood even lower. The game resumes and there's an eerie quiet apart from Max barking instructions at his team. He's back to man-marking Ed Heath, who seems to be shrinking, getting less impressive every time Max wins a duel against him, which is often.

Well In's checking his watch, about to call an end to the sesh, when Max makes eye contact with him and shakes his head. Well In's whistle goes to his side. Earnshaw clips a pass to Heath, who has Max up his arse. Heath lays it off to Jordan, who moves it on to Joe Ford, and he plays it into the path of Heath. Max storms towards him. Heath dabs the ball through his legs and fires a pass for Chris Morgan to chase. Morgan speeds along, cuts the ball back, and Neco Price smashes it into the net. Whoops. Cheers.

But then everyone looks to Max, who hasn't moved since being megged. He points to the touchline.

'Bring the towel,' he demands. One of the coaches rushes onto the pitch carrying this stupid bloody towel. Max takes it, holds it aloft, and offers it to Ed Heath. Heath's grinning and doesn't know what to do so while Max and everyone else applauds, he wraps the thing around his waist and tucks it into itself so it stays put. Well In blows the whistle.

'That's the end, lads,' yells Max.

'Everyone can go now.' No-one's falling it for it. Ray Jordan steps slightly ahead of Max. He looks at the other players, who are jogging closer.

'If you're in the red zone or back from injury, join the tactics masterclass with Well In.' He points at the other coaches.

'Or we've got skills training with Dafydd, finishing with Rhys.' The Beetroot Boy spots his chance, and steps towards Max.

'Mr. Boss, what would you recommend for me to focus on?' Max is impassive.

'How should I know? I've barely seen you play.'

'I'll join the finishing group, then?' Max struggles with some internal battle, then exhales.

'Of course not. Christ, fine. Positioning, decisions, technique, passing, dribbling. In that order,' he adds. He rubs his eyebrows.

'I'll whip up a PDP you can get stuck into with your personal trainer.'

'PDP?'

'Personal development plan!' barks Max. He grabs a couple of balls and walks off.

'Are you doing some extra?' says Clive Allen.

'Gonna smash some free kicks and pens,' says Max.

'Free kicks?' says Allen, with a hungry look in his eye.

'Can you teach me?' Max pauses, surprised.

'Oh.' He thinks about it, and looks around. My take is that he's thinking some of the groups are going to be too big so if he takes a couple of bodies away with him, that's more development for everyone else.

'Sorry, Clive, but you're not a free kick guy. I like you on penalties, though. We can hit a few later.' Clive, on balance, is pleased with that. Max juts his chin towards Ed.

'Heathy. Fordy. You're my free kick guys. If you wanna - ' He stops, because they're already jogging towards him before he changes his mind. Max seems pleased, which is strange. Like he doesn't realise everyone's in awe of his free kick technique. He eyes me.

'Dylan, we're gonna need someone with balls to help us. Are you up for it?' I feel ten feet tall.

'Course, Max!' Well In taps me on the shoulder and puts something into my hand. It's a bag of footballs. The Welsh national team is laughing at me. I shake my head.

'Fuck a duck.' Well In bumps me from the side.

'You walked right into that one, Dylan.' I'm biting my lip, sort of grinning, sort of annoyed, carrying the bag of balls towards the goals to my left. Ed Heath, who is surely the highest-paid player in the whole of Finland right now, jogs over and takes the bag. Max chucks one of the ones he's holding to Joe Ford, and as the four of us approach the D and the penalty area, Max puts his arm around my shoulder.

'Something I forgot to mention, mate. The reason you're here, right, is because I'm English and I'm gobby and sometimes my mouth flaps on its own accord, so if I ever do anything annoying, I need you to step in and put an end to it.' I cry, ' Now you tell me!'

'What? I haven't done anything remotely annoying yet. Here,' he says, pushing a ball into my stomach. I look down as I grab it, then look back at Max. He goes, 'I need you to stand in the middle of the goal with this balanced on your head. First one to knock it off three times wins the towel.' RetiredRed Haha Dylan, you didn't do that, did you? BrokenGround No! Well In sent a physio over with a kind of target thing you can attach to the crossbar. Once it was up, the three men slapped shots into the hole.

They discussed who would take free kicks from which sides and what distances. Max says he likes Heath for ones close to goal, Ford when it's further out. Against Finland they can decide what to do for themselves but against Albania he wants them floating in crosses. RetiredRed Why? BrokenGround Because we've got a height advantage over them and they've got a flappy keeper. Greece too. Max waited till I was gone ball hunting, then I'm pretty sure he told the lads his plans for the upcoming fixtures.

There are six games in this Nations League group: Finland, Albania, Greece, home and away. Four of the six games are in this current international break, the last two are in the next one, which is in November. November! He has already picked the teams for November, right down to the subs. When I return with the bag of balls, newly-filled, I hear him say, 'Injuries permitting, of course.' Heath and Ford think he's joking until Max says, 'If I'm wrong I'll give you a billion pounds.'

Ford smiles and goes, 'No need for that. You're the boss, boss.' Stoop Huh. How are the players responding to the whole thing? It's like you said, one thing that was true for the Welsh national teams was that there was always a good vibe and while we didn't always play well, we were competitive.

You wouldn't think there was all that much wrong from the outside and now Best is there complaining about ketchup and screaming at goalies and all sorts, and this is the guy who walked off the pitch at Anfield when his team was winning. BrokenGround It's hard to say. Some are excited just because there's a new boss. Most think Max is good because of what he's achieved, and almost all of them have lost a match or two to a Chester team with a fraction of their budget.

But when you look at the league table right now, Chester are in a spectacularly bad position. BUT he won all his games at Bayern Munich, took Saltney into the Champions League, and so on and so on. I think on the football side, they're going to give him every chance. It's just about how well they adapt to his sense of humour and the way he works. And the thing with Chester walking off the pitch against Liverpool?

That's a black mark against his name in a way, but you can be sure of one thing - when he says he'll do something, he'll do it. No-one here doubts that. Actually, on reflection, I think it ISN'T hard to say. Almost everyone has already fallen or will fall in line. A couple might not, maybe, but the only one that matters is Ed Heath. He's the only one who can really say he's ahead of Max. He might wake up tomorrow and ask himself why he has to take shit from the worst manager in the Premier League.

Stoop Worst ex-manager. He quit, remember? BrokenGround Right. I suppose we'll see tomorrow night. Name a strong team, get off to a good start, that's the ticket.

Thursday, September 21 ButteryCrumpets All right, here we go! This is the place to discuss Finland vs Wales. The first match in the Nations League Group B. The first match of the Max Best era. Team news should be with us in about ten minutes. ManMeat Two things I didn't understand from reading BrokenGround's story. One, if Best is in charge, why is Llewellyn Kenrick doing all the media stuff like he's the manager? ButteryCrumpets That's Best's thing. Same as at Chester.

Make Sandra Lane the co-manager and let her do all the boring stuff. He doesn't deign to talk to the likes of us. ManMeat That seems like it's gonna be confusing to the squad, but okay. The second thing is that nowhere did Dylan write about Best announcing the tactical plan, the formation, the lineup. Did I miss that? ButteryCrumpets No, I didn't read anything like that. I assumed Dylan had heard things but wasn't putting it here because he wants Wales to win.

BrokenGround They don't really need me in the tactics meetings. I'm mostly around when Max is in public, when there could be someone trying to get to him. If they're inside watching videos and that kind of thing I can go back to my room or dip into the pool or whatever. I tend to stick close because Max is a bad judge of his own safety. In his mind, he thinks six people tried to get him so that's got to be all of them.

I did ask Clive Allen what the plan for this match was, just for something to say while we were waiting for the team bus. He gave me a suspicious look, said that Max told the group not to discuss tactics with me because he had someone checking whether I was really Welsh. Maybe I'm an English spy! My blood started to boil and Clive hugged me and said it was just a joke but Max really did ask them not to tell anyone the plans.

Not their wives, not their agents, not Welsh army heroes who got blowed up serving the country. So, yeah, that explains why the guys are being kind to me. But long story short, I don't know the team or the plan. Honestly, I would guess 4-5-1 because that's what Max said to Emma and if he lies to her, it's normally true from a twisted perspective. Like if he goes 'I won't tell anyone you're here' he'll start yelling, 'Emma's not here! Emma's not in the canteen! Emma's not running onto the training pitch!'

He's completely potty about her. I think the team sheets are dropping. ButteryCrumpets Oh what the fuck is this shit! Stoop That's the starting eleven? Really? I thought Best was taking this seriously! JasonRhewl There's no Heath, no Ford, no Allen. Stoop No Chris Morgan! No Neco Price! ManMeat I'm not even going to watch this. Where are the goals coming from? I was excited, I have to admit, but this is our manager throwing the towel in, just like he did at Liverpool. Stoop It fits 4-5-1! He's gonna turtle up.

We're gonna defend, try to scrape a 0-0. Everything he told Dylan was an elaborate deception. To deceive Finland! They're 70th in the world rankings! I'm sure they're decent, but... Nah, I'm done with the new era. Best has completely lost the plot. I'm gonna go to the woods and try to find some dirty magazines. Stoop out.

ButteryCrumpets Half time, Finland 1 Wales 0. Somewhere in Chester there's a Discord channel called Let's All Laugh At Wales. They must be pissing themselves. Max Best is going to pay for this. Stoop Standing there in his hoodie with his hood covering his head, hands in his pockets, not a care in the world. Agent Best. An English spy, sent to make us look shit. JasonRhewl I thought you were going for a walk. Stoop Yeah, well, I couldn't find my hiking boots and my nordic skis, okay?

JasonRhewl The second half has to be better.

Stoop Fuck me, this is worse! JasonRhewl I can't believe what I'm seeing. This is like watching paint dry, but it's Finnish paint, so it's even more boring. And Best is still there, looking like he doesn't give a shit. Kenrick, fair play, keeps going to him, going mate, let's change this. It's the only time Best looks animated. Leave me alone! Someone needs to check how much he's being paid for this. LongThrowAGoGo Best's on minimum wage. JasonRhewl Yeah? Well, it's still too much.

ButteryCrumpets This is a tough watch... Stoop How did this become the number one sport in the world? It's awful. Have you seen rugby? Kabaddi? Curling? The Australian one where you score more points if you've got a mullet moustache combo? Christ, even cricket's better than this. RetiredRed Hey, now! Cricket is quality! ButteryCrumpets 65 minutes gone, Finland making a couple of subs. I mean, why not? You're ahead and the oppo aren't even trying. Our key players aren't even warming up!

From Finland's point of view, you're looking at Max Best thinking once a quitter, always a quitter. Stoop What's frustrating me is that Finland's guy isn't even that good. His CV is paper-thin. He got sacked from a club I've never heard of. Overall win percentage is 40%, so it's not terrible, but he's not scary, is he? We should be going for the jugular. Let's see what they're made of! ButteryCrumpets Ah, hang on. We're making a couple of changes of our own. JasonRhewl Five. Stoop What! JasonRhewl Five! Five subs!

In one go. I've never seen this for Wales. Have you? Stoop Argh! He's pranked us! It was all a prank! He's going for it! My money's safe! ManMeat What do you mean? We're playing shit, we haven't strung five passes together, and now he has sent for the big guns like he should have done from the start! Stoop Dude! This is what he does! No-one knows why but it works. It works! ManMeat Whatever. I'll believe it when I see it.

JasonRhewl Get in! Come on! ButteryCrumpets Clive Allen you beauty! What a header! LongThrowAGoGo Wales! Wales! Wales! Stoop Do you believe now, ManMeat? ManMeat What the shit is going on? Why are we suddenly playing like Brazil 1970? Stoop I don't know! Best was waiting for the Finnish guy to make the change, then pow! Or something! It's Max Best magic. No-one has ever been able to explain it!

JasonRhewl Christ, but Ed Heath looks sensational. This is the best I've ever seen him play! He's crushing midfield, and he clipped the outside of the post with that free kick. They haven't shown the replay but I know it was close. Stoop Maybe this was Best's plan. Lock him up in training so that when it came to the real match and inferior players - RetiredRed Whoa! Stoop 2-1 Wales! ManMeat Fuck me! ButteryCrumpets That was class! That was pure class! Wait...

Was that the goal they scored in training, when Ed Heath got the red towel? Through ball, wing play, cross, other winger slots home? ManMeat Haha yes! Yes! Stoop But without the nutmeg to start it. Heath just slipped away from his marker like he wasn't there, had all the time in the world in midfield. Made it look easy!

RetiredRed 88 minutes gone. We've retreated, haven't we? We're inviting pressure. I don't like that. I'm biting my nails. Stoop Max Best isn't! Look at him. He's as relaxed as in the first half. Wait... Go on, Morgan lad! Run, boyo! Yes! Now pass! JasonRhewl Goal! 3-1! I can't believe this! ButteryCrumpets That was the mother of all sucker punches! Drop back, let them send bodies forward, hit them with the fast wingers who are fresh as daisies.

I've seen enough Max Best football to know that this is one of his moves. Difference is, he's doing it for Wales now. Sorry to the haters but I'm all aboard the Best train. I don't care if it's hard to watch sometimes - if he gets us to the World Cup, I'm getting a Max Best tattoo. Stoop Haha! Crumpets has been hitting the cider pretty hard. ButteryCrumpets Yeah, reckon so! Where's the edit button? Shit, can't find it. Fuck it, here goes: If he gets us to the World Cup, I'm getting a Dylan tattoo!

BrokenGround Guys, guess what? I slipped into the dressing room after the win and I've been here ever since! The lads went to the Wales fans, danced around, soaked up the applause, took their flowers. Max watched for a minute, smiling, saw a camera, decided to fuck off. I got close to him, making out like I was fending off the media. So we're here in the dressing room, more or less on our own while Well In talks to the media and the coaches and physios gather their gear and all that.

I go, 'That last half hour is not what I expected.' Max doesn't say anything, just sits back with a slight smile. I get annoyed.

'You've just won your first international match! Can't you say you're pleased or something!' He thinks this is funny, and he goes, 'I'm pleased, Dylan. Overcoming Finland is the pinnacle of my career so far.' I'm so pissed I stand up and say, 'I swear to God, you cocky little - ' but then the lads start coming in, two by two like they're boarding Noah's Ark. They are cock-a-hoop. I shut my gob, but when they start singing I join in. We're living it up, laughing it up, when two by two the lads stop yelling.

They've all realised that Max is standing in the middle with his hands up, begging us to be quiet.

'Lads,' he says, quietly, so that if anyone so much as shifts their weight, we won't be able to hear him. Won't be able to hear the new boss.

'Just one last thing from me tonight.' He looks round at his new troops. Clive Allen, Ed Heath, Neco Price, Ray Jordan. They've all played out of their skin. Why? After two training sessions. How? Max is shaking his head, and I fully expect him to say something like I can't believe how well you all did. He shakes his head some more.

'Lads, we've finished a match, half the team barely broke a sweat, half the squad didn't get on the pitch, and you're in here celebrating, dancing around like a bunch of muppets. Not one of you came up to me and said boss, I've got energy for days and we're stacked with coaches, let me do some extra training right now.' He breathes out, noisily.

'Not one of you asked.' There's dead silence. One second. Two. Two and a half. Then the senior players - and Roddy Jones - burst out laughing. Ed Heath jumps up onto his cubicle seat, topless because he's chucked his shirt into the stands, waves his 'best trainer' towel around, and chants, 'Wales, golf, Madrid! Wales, golf, Madrid!'

Friday, September 22 Stoop It has been almost 24 hours and I'm still high from the match last night. What's happening now, Dylan? ButteryCrumpets You have to tag his username if you want a quick reply. BrokenGround, I'm guessing you flew back to Wales today? BrokenGround The team did, yeah. Straight to The Vale (in Glamorgan, if you don't know it - it's the home of Welsh footy, rugby, and there's a nice golf course. All very lush and fancy and I'm gonna be in a room I could never afford!).

They did some very light training, got some physio work done. No major injuries from Finland, as far as I could tell. But I went with Max to Heathrow and we spent the day in London pretending to be tourists. Stoop Er, why? BrokenGround Because Max Best is a fucking clown! His American accent is so bad, Jesus Christ. First we went to C+A to buy enormous shorts and shirts and we've been going round talking American (him) and dying inside a hundred times (me). He has been flirting with everyone! Absolutely shameless.

Stoop That sounds fun, but you didn't say why. BrokenGround Oh. Chester Women were playing their third game of the season. Arsenal away. Did you follow it? It finished 2-2, and the crazy thing was that Max was disappointed. 2 wins to start the season followed by a draw against one of the best teams in Europe and he's still unhappy. The man is too strange, sometimes. When it comes to women, I don't get why he would ever look at anyone but Emma, and when it comes to football, I follow his reasoning even less.

I go, 'The fuck is wrong with you? That's an amazing result.' He pulls at his bottom lip for a while, then goes, 'We're gonna need to beat Man City at home. That's November 17th. November 16th Wales are home to Finland, which is fine, but then we need to fly out to Albania. I could stay in the UK for the City game and go late to Albania...' I shrug.

'So do that. Who would mind?' In a mumble, I say, 'The lads would be relieved...' He's not happy.

'It's too tight. I made a promise to Gwen that I'd do my best.' Gwen's one of the FAW admins and she got us into this whole mess.

'Maybe if we win the first five matches and we're guaranteed to be top of the group... Yeah, maybe. I'll have to check the flights.' I squint at him for a while before it clicks that he's thinking Chester Women could win the league!

'Guess you've got to decide what your priorities are. Chester Women, Wales, golf. Is that it?' He leans back as far as he can go, stretches as far as he can stretch, then lifts his hand up.

'Me,' he says. He lowers it.

'Me.' He lowers it some more.

'Me.' I snort.

'So that makes it simple then.' He doesn't see it that way.

'Nah, Dylan. That makes it hard.' He stares ahead and pulls at his lip again before saying, 'We just need to win the first five games and make Albania away irrelevant.'

'Right,' I say, like I'm talking to a child.

'Just win five games. How hard can it be?'

Sunday, September 24 ButteryCrumpets Guys, it's your 90-minute warning that this channel is about to get hot. If you don't want to read about the Welsh national team, mute it for a day. If you don't want to read me swoon over the golden god that is Max Best, look away now. JustOneCornetto Fuck sake, not this again. He messed up in Finland and our lads dug him out of the hole he made! ButteryCrumpets I obviously don't agree with that but I am looking forward to seeing our strongest eleven start the match.

Does Max Best think our best team includes Neco Price? That's the thing I'm most looking forward to. Stoop Lineups will be out any second now... ButteryCrumpets OH WHAT THE FUCK. Stoop Unchanged eleven! Haha we're gonna play a defensive 4-5-1 against Albania at home. I knew I should stop licking the mushrooms in the woods! ButteryCrumpets It can't be the same eleven. That makes no sense. Someone copy pasted the graphic from Thursday and posted it again.

Let's just wait for the social media managers to realise their mistake. Stoop No, it's not the same, look. Llewellyn Kenrick is listed as assistant manager. ButteryCrumpets So? Stoop So last time he was down as the co-manager. ButteryCrumpets What, so he got demoted and no-one said anything? Argh, this is so frustrating. Fuck the tattoo! No-one's getting a tattoo out of this.

TopPoppy Another shocking first half! At least we aren't a goal down this time. But we shouldn't be treating Albania so dismissively. They're a handy team! Technical, aggressive. Some of their players would walk into our team. Stoop Hard agree. Honestly, if I'm Albanian I'm pretty happy right now. They played all the football in that half. Urgh. I'm going for a walk. TopPoppy To the woods? Stoop Where else?

LongThrowAGoGo Second half, let's hope for better. Come on, Wales! ButteryCrumpets What's this now? Ball goes out of play, Best signals for subs to come on. JasonRhewl Five! What the hell is this dozy Englishman playing at?! ButteryCrumpets He's untethered. Unhinged from reality. All the stress of recent months has cracked his head open like a boiled egg. That's why he likes having Dylan around. Boiled egg and soldiers! JasonRhewl I wonder what the players make of all this.

Chris Morgan and Neco Price, sure, they're used to being subs. Clive Allen and Joe Ford? They're good lads, they'll do what they're told. But Ed Heath is not a sub. He's a star. Max Best needs to learn you have to treat stars different. Stoop Not gonna happen. Max Best is the star, see? ButteryCrumpets No, the team's the star. That's Best's whole schtick, isn't it? I don't know why people think of Heath as a Prima Donna. He's never been that. So he's had a couple of good seasons in the Prem, scored a few golazos.

That doesn't mean he's swanning around wearing sarongs and getting married on a golden throne. JasonRhewl Oh, there's a break on! Stoop Go on! JasonRhewl Yesssssss!!!!! ButteryCrumpets Joe Ford, you beauty! What a strike!

JasonRhewl Free kick in a dangerous position. Heath isn't gonna shoot, is he? But Best wants this floated in - Dylan wrote about it. Stoop And that's why! Ray Jordan with a massive header! 2-0! Crumpets, where are you gonna get your Max Best tattoo? ButteryCrumpets I'll let him choose, haha!

JasonRhewl Corner. Heath, Jordan, gooooaaaallll!!!! Two from a centre back! When's the last time we had that? RetiredRed 3-0 up with ten minutes to play and we look like scoring every time we get the ball. We've got wingers marauding, midfielders supporting the striker, the striker winning every duel. Defenders a threat from set pieces, goalie sweeping up decisively behind them. Is this what it feels like being a Bayern Munich fan? Stoop Oh, oh, oh! RetiredRed Bloody Nora. What the hell just happened?

Stoop Er, I think that's gonna be a penalty. Um, and maybe a red card, too. ButteryCrumpets Shit! Red card. We're down to ten men. Stoop Nine. ButteryCrumpets What? Stoop Williams is injured. ButteryCrumpets Which one? Stoop The one being checked by the physios. We're gonna play with nine men... ButteryCrumpets No way. He's faking it to delay the penalty being taken. When the delay's long enough, the taker loses concentration, makes a mess of it. That's all this is - mind games. Max Best mind games. Stoop Er, no.

Best is freaking out. Look. He's thrown his hoodie off and he's waving his hands around, shouting, organising. ButteryCrumpets Oh, shit. Williams is going off. Okay, here's what happens. Albania miss the penalty, we turtle up, ride it out, 3-0, job's a good 'un. RetiredRed 3-1. Good pen, that. ButteryCrumpets Fuck! What the fuck is Best thinking, using all our subs in the 46th minute? Who does that? No-one. You know why? Because it's FUCKING STUPID. Stoop Does anyone else feel ALIVE?

It's like when you're in the woods and it's pitch dark and you're lost and you hear a twig snap behind you. ButteryCrumpets NOT NOW, PERVERT.

ButteryCrumpets This is torture! Who slowed the clock down? I can feel life drain out of me with every breath. Curse Max Best and his cocky cockiness. Stoop I'm quietly confident. ButteryCrumpets Stop being positive or I'll mute you! JasonRhewl Oh shit, what a save by Earnshaw! That was incredible. How did he reach that? RetiredRed Corner coming in. Over the bar! My heart was in my mouth. Stoop Was it my imagination or did we have two players on the halfway line when that corner came in?

JasonRhewl Here's the replay... Haha holy shit Max Best is a maniac. We're down to 9 players because of him and he's going 'yeah let's score from an opposition corner'. I don't know if I love the audacity or want to beat some sense into him. ButteryCrumpets Tell you what, at least he's animated for the first time since being in charge of Wales. He's in his element, isn't he? Shifting guys round, making tweaks. How long's left? Stoop Five minutes. ButteryCrumpets Whywhywhy. ManMeat I'm in the pub watching.

We're all on edge and can't think. We're just yelling nonsense at the screens. We all want to give Best a slap. Does anyone know why he's waving a red towel around his hips? Stoop Oooooohhhhhh it's the thing! The thing with Ed Heath! ManMeat What? Stoop When Max Best throws in the towel, it has a different meaning. Watch Ed Heath. All eyes on Heath! ButteryCrumpets There he goes! Beats the first tackle, gets brought down. Free kick to Wales. Three minutes left. That's the plan, is it?

Pass to Heath, let him draw the fouls? ManMeat Not much of a plan... ButteryCrumpets Tell you what, we're doing a half-decent job of passing the ball given we're two men short. And Heath is fouled! I'm telling you, boys, that's the plan! We'll see this out. We can do this! ManMeat I mean, it depends what REF THAT'S A FOUL! Fuck me, that's three in the last five minutes. Taking chunks out of the clock. We're gonna do it. We're gonna do it! Stoop Said we. Are. Top of the league. Said we are top of the league!

ButteryCrumpets Don't count your chickens before they're HAAAAAAATCHED! 3-1 final score! Christ that was gruelling. What in the name of all that is holy is this Mancunian twat doing to us? He hasn't even been the manager for a week and I've been put through the wringer, like, ten times. Stoop Wales golf Madrid! Wales golf Madrid!

BrokenGround Lads, I snuck into the dressing room again! Things got insane again! Let me think where to start. You can probably imagine most of it. Lads come in, shouting, cheering, high-fiving, hugging. Max is in high spirits, doesn't care about the red card, is more worried about the injured Williams but the physios are saying it's not that bad. You can imagine a dressing room after a big win, yeah? And it's all the sweeter because it was a tough game.

The red card, being another man short because of the injury, the way Albania were biting into tackles and all the rest of it. Winning is sweet. After a while, Max gets everyone's attention. He goes, 'Lads, amazing, I'm happy. That went exactly according to plan, including the red card and playing with nine.' The lads laugh, of course. He continues.

'No but really, games like this bind us with the fans. We give it everything and they see it. They see it, lads, and they store that feeling like a battery and one day we'll be in the shit and they'll send that energy back to us and we'll ride it. We'll surf that wave all the way to the World Cup.' Big cheers. Max gestures for calm.

'Okay, look, this is going great. This 'me managing your country' thing, I mean. I don't want to be a dick but after managing Bayern and getting a team with no money into the Champions League, this is easy. I don't see why we shouldn't win every game for the next two years. Okay, we might get a couple of draws here and there but basically, this is a piece of piss and the only challenge is me stopping you from playing golf. Focus on the football, focus on your development, do you get what I'm saying?'

Clive Allen stands and starts a chant.

'No more golf! No more golf!' It spreads like wildfire. Max laughs and holds up a hand again.

'Yeah. Ah, awkward.' He grins.

'Thing is, I need some help. I've been invited to play golf with some business boys. Some b-boys. But I've never even held a stick, so I was gonna ask one of you dudes to do me a favour and be my golf avatar, kind of thing. It'll be at The Vale, so we can go after training, no problem, and I'll make it up to you by bringing half a dozen elite coaches to put you through your paces.' Max is so fucking out of touch with reality he thinks extra sessions are going to be motivational.

I'm amazed to look around the room and see hunger in everyone's eyes. Teach me, sensei! Ed Heath puts his hand up.

'I'll do it, boss. I've got the lowest handicap by far.' That causes a bigger change in vibes than any of Max's stunts, as the rest of the guys complain and bicker about who's the best at golf. Max loves it, but says, 'Dudes, soz, I'd love to stay and hear about how great you are at finding the eagles and whatever, but Emma's in town so I'm dipping out. I don't think I need my golf avatar to be amazing, just good enough not to ruin the game for the other players.'

'Who's coming?' says Clive Allen.

'Er, a guy from the Premier League. He wants to talk business but it's nothing to do with the Prem, he says. All very mysterious. And the other guy... I think he wants to offer me a job.' I kind of took it for granted that Max was going back to Chester at some point, so I can't help but blurt out, 'What job?'

'Manager of Wolverhampton Wanderers,' says Max, with no hint of a joke. The effect of this proclamation is stunning. I'm thinking, shit, Wolves are in the Prem and have just spent 150 million on new players. With Max in charge, they're gonna go on a tear. Could they get into Europe this season? The lads are thinking, shit, but you just started with us and we're getting to like it! What about the World Cup? I swallow and say, 'Why do you think that's what he wants to talk about?' Max frowns in an amused way.

'Because he's the owner of Wolverhampton Wanderers.' He mimes swinging a golf club.

'And I'm Max Best.'