3 - Seven Funerals and a Wedding [T1] (Patreon)

3.

My appearance on Seals Live has lit a fuse and the Chester fans are the powder keg. Their team are 18th - a mere three places above the relegation zone. They are playing diabolical, drab, defensive football. October's thrilling FA Cup qualifier against Oldham feels like a tale handed down from a bygone age. My offer of a brighter future has opened old wounds and created new ones. I am a big shiny red bus with an optimistic slogan painted on the side, driving around, splitting families.

Mike Dean is unhappy. He's still got calls pouring in about the loss to Broughton, the lack of ambition shown against Telford, and now there are more flooding in about every aspect of the club. For him, at this time, sunlight is not the best disinfectant.

Mike Dean having problems sounds like a Mike Dean problem. My exuberance has achieved its aim - I've forced the Board into getting together to vote on the issue of creating a Director of Football position. When I get the job, I'll unite the fan base. I'll hire Miss Fox as my personal PR consultant. Angry phone calls will be a thing of the past.

It's the day of the vote and I've scheduled meetings with most of the Board. It's only polite. A couple don't reply to my calls. Avoiding me? Good luck with that. I know where you live, mate.

Hanging over their heads like the Sword of Damocles is the curious scheduling anomaly that Chester will play Telford again on the 1st of January. If Chester's Board don't give me what I want, I'll be Telford's player-manager. The match will be a shootout between me and Henri. Somewhere between my third and fifth goals, the home crowd will go absolutely feral.

The thought makes me less willing to take shit. From anybody.

That said, I try to approach the day with a twinkle in my eye. I might not get every vote, might not win every heart and mind, but let's all have some fun alone the way. Yeah?

***

i. Bulldog

At 7:45 I was in my Subaru in the car park next to Bulldog's office. Bulldog, you remember, was the foul-mouthed father of Tyson, the shitty kid whose petulance was ruining Chester's under 14s. I'd done my research - he owned a cyber-security company. Not sure what job would have been more surprising. Tailor? Grief counsellor?

I was using my phone as a hotspot, burning through my precious data plan, so that I could gauge the mood of the Chester fans. The most common reaction to my interview with Boggy was ecstasy. Mostly that was rooted in the idea that Chester might sign me as a player, but there were many who'd actually listened and were hyped by my vision for the club: my commitment to the ownership concept; my worries about buying the stadium; my desire to build the academy; my annoyance at the Liverpool FC club shop that blighted the main street near the cathedral.

But while that was all amazing and motivational, I couldn't deal with the negative comments. Anonymous idiots who'd never achieved anything and had never set out to try were saying things like 'he should stick to playing'. What does this twat know about scouting? About building a club? How do we know he wasn't dropped by Darlington and that's why he was at the Telford match? Pimping himself out to teams down on their luck? Pathetic. Other comments: He's smug. He's a con man. Anyone who trusts this fraud is a lunatic. This is the guy who broke our youth system. And now we're going to hire him to fix it?

I skimmed the positive comments and dwelt on the bad ones. There's no other way to say it - they got under my skin.

One popular fans forum put up a poll asking people to rate my 'job interview' out of 5. I came away with a 4.71 rating. Ten five-star ratings barely moved the needle, but a single half-star was cataclysmic. Reducing all my skills and effort into one single number... it was hard.

Too hard. This is why I wasn't on social media. Everything about it made me hate the human race.

It was in this foul mood - no twinkle in either eye - that I saw Bulldog pull into his car park. He was wearing a crisp white shirt, freshly ironed, and a waistcoat. It struck me, then - he was a salesman! His product was cyber-security, but it could have been anything. I leapt out of the car and paced towards him. I was on course to arrive at the door at the same time as him, but he saw me storming towards him and he bent and came up holding a big rock.

"What the fuck are you doing?" I yelled, pushing myself back so fast my arms waved around to help me balance.

"You came at me!" he said, his rottweiler voice briefly going chihuahua.

I looked up - it was still dark. Winter morning in the north of England. Good time for a murder. "We aren't ever going to be BFFs but I don't think it'll come to smashing rocks over each other's heads. What do you think?"

He put the rock down. "I won't vote for you."

I narrowed my eyes. I realised I was scanning his speech patterns, trying to match them with the most vociferous anti-Max voices online. Cyber-security? Bulldog was probably running a botnet, downvoting me from hundreds of computers around the world. "Good for you. One man one vote. That's democracy, right?" His face was blanker than a fresh piece of paper. Maybe he hadn't infected an army of computers to skew a local online poll? A grin came to my mouth, unbidden. I was being absolutely demented. I'm not saying I got a twinkle in my eye, but I was a little bit more centred. "Okay, look. You can't say I didn't come to see you, right? How about I say what I need to say and then I'll fuck off?"

He nodded. "All right. Make it quick."

"If I get the job, I'll try to turn your son into a player. He's got the talent but there's one big thing holding him back."

"What's that?"

"You. I'll ban you from coming to training. And to matches."

He seemed genuinely upset. "That's your pitch? That's how you get my vote? With threats?"

"No. I don't want your vote. I want you to vote against me so every win, every title, every cup, is a dagger through your heart. But I'll do my best for Tyson. That's a promise." That seemed pretty succinct. I decided to leave it at that, and began retreating to my car.

He called out after me. "For how long?"

"What?"

"How long am I banned for? When can I watch him again?"

"When he makes the first team."

"Get fucked."

For 0
Against 1

ii. Crackers

Crackers was an architect. My mind absolutely boggled trying to understand how a blind guy could do the job, but I was clueless about at least 99 percent of all human activity. Probably everyone he ever met asked him to explain how he did it.

I was at his flat at 8:30 and was told by his wife that he always went for a long walk in the morning and wouldn't be back until after 9. There wasn't much to do in the vicinity. How could I pass the time? My choices were doomscrolling through the fans forums or making small talk with the wife for half an hour. Hmm. I checked how much mana I had, then opened my spellbook. I was about to yell 'SUMMON TWINKLE', which would give me plus one d6 Charisma for 25 minutes when her mouth fell into a downward curve. "You're that boy aren't you, what wants to be in charge?"

"Yes."

The curve trended downwards. "I heard you left Crackers alone. He was looking forward to having someone to talk to."

"Yeah. I did."

Well, now. This was... this was grim. The two members of the Board I'd had prior dealings with were two firm no votes. What did that say about me? Nothing good.

The curve flattened. "Are you okay, love?"

"Yes," I lied. So Crackers had taken against me. Two-nil down, so early in the game. Bitten on the ass by my own assery. Forget doomscrolling. I'd get started on my Telford research. "Can you give this to him, please?"

I handed over a small USB stick. She gave it an uncertain look. "Oh. A thumb drive." I scanned the room to see if they even had a computer. Of course he did. He was an architect. "What's on it?"

"Noise," I said.

"What kind of noise?"

"The kind we live for."

For: 0
Against: 2

iii and iv. Sean and Ollie

This meeting was a pub lunch. Sean and Ollie were facing me from their side of a little table, with their wives or girlfriends on the next, separate table. They were all in a line - so bizarre. I was facing the guys. They were in their fifties or sixties - hard to tell because they didn't look after themselves.

I cast SUMMON MAJOR TWINKLE and was doing a BIG smile so that my teeth might twinkle at them, too. The waitress got a full dose and she smiled back, so it was definitely working. I was being charming.

I guess what I'm saying is: it's not my fault.

Things went to shit as soon as I ordered mineral water.

"Ah, never mind that!" said Sean. "It's Christmas! Bring him a beer." I clarified to the waitress that I wanted water. Sean grimaced. "Mulled wine, then! Don't be so unfriendly. Have a drink with us."

Being told I was unfriendly by two strangers who were trying to boss me around? Mate, I should get a medal for my restraint. "I'm a professional footballer so obviously I don't drink at twelve noon. I do have a big glass of wine every time I score a hat trick. My doctor says I need to cut down because I'm killing my liver."

This harmless, mildly charming banter was met with a baffled silence, but soon enough, Sean and Ollie were once again badgering me to drink something alcoholic. Being told to drink is one of the most annoying things in the world. Being forced to repeat a rejection is nails on a chalkboard to me.

Before long, I was simply glaring at them, wondering if I should leave. I became convinced this was Old Nick's doing. Truly, hell is other people.

One of the wives stepped in. "Max, I liked what you said on the radio. I'd love to see some good attacking football with young players. We need to get Ian Evans out of the club. If you get the job, will you do it? Bin him off?"

"That's one thing I absolutely won't do. That whole thing is between Ian and Mike Dean. My only interaction with Ian will be asking what players he needs this January."

"But we're shit," said Ollie.

"Ian was hired to keep Chester in the division. It's not pretty, but he's doing that, and will do that." I did believe that, but only because Henri was at the club. Without him, it was possible Chester would be in a real dogfight.

The two men looked at each other and the two women looked at each other. That wasn't what they wanted to hear. The second wife spoke. "You don't sound like the guy from the radio."

"The guy from the radio was talking about next season. This year, I'll be busy enough scouting new players and monitoring the youth teams and all that. I promised Mike Dean I wouldn't interfere in the first team. Next season if the football's still shit, this will be a very different conversation."

"Which of the players do you see staying in the team next year?"

Finally an appropriate conversation! I closed my eyes so that they'd glisten dreamily as I spoke. I tried to fire a bit more energy into my hand gestures. Tried to be more dynamic. Upbeat. "I don't know who's got how long left on their contracts and things like that, but next season I'd imagine the first team will feature Ben Cavanagh in goal, Glenn Ryder at centre-back, Carl Carlile as the other CB or right-back. Magnus Evergreen can cover a lot of positions but I'd love to find a dynamic left-back. I've got six months to find one. Midfield picks itself. Aff on the left. Raffi and Sam Topps in the centre. Me on the right - if I'm picked. Henri up front. So we need a left-back, a right-mid version of Aff for when I can't play, and a second striker. That's the basis of an amazing team. Once that's on the pitch, it's a question of upgrading when opportunities arise." Twinkle. "But that's already a title-winning team."

I thought it was a pretty decent speech, but it was met with stony silence. Sean folded his arms and shook his head. "We don't like Aff."

"You don't like Aff? He's almost the most important player in the team. He's almost unique in the league in terms of what he can do. He's an attacking powerhouse and he defends like a terrier. There's no-one in the league who comes close. What's the problem?"

"He doesn't wear a poppy."

I suddenly wished I'd ordered a beer. I was too sober for this. Around November 11th, Remembrance Day, people wear little poppies to commemorate the nation's war dead. Football players and managers do the same. It is a nice, simple gesture and a way to raise money for veteran's charities. "Okay?"

"It's disrespectful," said Sean. "My great-granddad fought for his freedom."

"He should wear one. The club should make him wear one," said Ollie.

I massaged my temples and stared at a ceiling beam. The wood had cracked in a few places. Was it still strong? Could it still bear a load? No-one else seemed worried about it. I blinked when I realised I was still in the pub with this awful pair. "Maybe he doesn't want to wear a poppy because he doesn't think the British behaved very well in his home country. Maybe it reminds him of all the famines and massacres and shit." Zero twinkles from Maxy boy right now, I can tell you.

"Let him go back if he doesn't like it here."

"It's disrespectful. The club should make him wear it."

I nodded a few times. A politician would know how to handle this. How to slip through the gaps without agreeing but also without annoying the bigots. And who knows? Maybe I'd learn it one day. "Tell you what, Sean and Ollie, let's do it like this. You vote for me and the four of us, including Aff, will have a sit down and we'll make a list. A list, yeah? We'll write down all the ways you want him to behave. All the things he has to start doing and stop doing. Yeah? We'll tell him he has to wear a poppy 365 days a year, and has to sing the English national anthem like he means it and you'll tell him what to think and what to say and then, yeah, when we've made that list and told him all the things you want him to say, do, and think, we'll explain to him that this is what freedom looks like. Okay? That good for you? Now, I'm going to pay for my mineral water. Okay? I'm going to pay, and I'm going to leave, and you and I are never going to speak again."

One of the women said, "We've already paid!"

I took my wallet out and picked out ten pounds. I dropped it onto the table. "I don't want you telling people you bought me a drink."

For: 0
Against: 4

v. Sumo

I knew I didn't have the votes but I had this stubborn need to see things through to the bitter end. Also, I'd booked two nights in the AirBnB and if I didn't spend the rest of the day in Chester, it would have been throwing money away. So I turned up for my meeting with Sumo at his house - in his bedroom - and realised I'd walked into a trap.

Sumo was a large young man who was probably one of the hundred most famous people in Chester. He did Twitch streams. Imagine a Zoom call but only one person can speak and he's playing video games and you're allowed to send him money. That's Twitch. Sumo mostly played FIFA and his name recognition was high enough that he won election to the Board every time he ran, which was once every two years, for a term of one year. (The limitation kept things fresh and gave new faces a chance to get involved.)

He'd adjusted his setup so that he could play me at FIFA. Thanks to a clever camera and a massive greenscreen, Sumo had placed me on the bottom of the stream next to him while our little men ran around chasing the little ball.

Sumo barely looked at me - I thought he did a couple of times but I never actually caught him doing it. There were thousands of people watching - there was a chatbox that streamed past faster than I could read it, but Sumo somehow played the game while responding to the messages.

In other circumstances, I might have been interested in the technology and the business model and whatnot. But he'd basically done a Max on me - come up with a mad scheme and dropped someone into it without their permission. I put the controller down and tried to get to the bottom of why he'd done it like this.

Sumo wasn't used to being called out for his behaviour and couldn't put his ideas into words. He just kept putting the controller back into my hands because if I wasn't competing, the stream was moribund.

"But Sumo," I insisted, putting the controller out of his reach. "I came to talk about my vision for your club and how we'd do it. Why did you think this was an appropriate setting for that?"

"You did it on Seals Live," he said, flushing red.

"Seals Live is a football broadcast and the audience was 100% Chester fans. It was perfect. How many people are watching us right now?"

He squinted. "About eight thousand."

"And how many are Chester fans? How many live in Chester?"

"Probably just me."

I tilted my head and looked at him. He had built this community of people who liked what he did. He was obviously interesting in some way that I couldn't perceive.

There was an awkward silence that stretched into infinity.

One comment came up in the chat that got a lot of emoji attention from other viewers. It was aimed at me and it said: You're an actual star and you're intimidating. Sumo has brought you to the one place he really feels comfortable. He's not trying to show you up by beating you at FIFA. The green button is pass by the way. He isn't going to ask you questions because he knows you know more than him. You already got his vote just by showing up. Also I love your accent can we give you things to say?

I laughed. I gave Sumo a little dig on the arm. "Why didn't you say that?" I picked up the controller again. "Green is pass. Green is pass. Right. You can unpause."

We played for a minute. When my little player got the ball I tried to pass the ball around, but Sumo tackled, did a twinkle-toed skill, and was in a shooting position almost immediately. His shot went wide and I told my goalkeeper to smack the ball up the pitch.

Sumo paused the match. "Why did you do that?"

"What?"

"You're a good player. You're doing coaching badges. All the top coaches and managers want the goalie to play it short. Build passing moves in the defensive third, wait for the other team to press and then have more space for the attack."

"Absolutely."

"But you went long. And Chester, all the other teams, they kick it long."

"Sumo, mate," I said. "Come down to the pitch one day. I'll show you what it's like. It looks good from the stands but up close it's like a road full of potholes. There are pitches in this league that slope like a rollercoaster. No-one's playing out from the back when the ball might jump up at any second."

"Oh," he said. And he gave me half a second of eye contact before looking away.

And then he thrashed me at FIFA in front of thousands of people around the world while I read things from the chat in a Manchester accent.

For: 1
Against: 4

vi. Barnesy

Barnesy was a former player from the era of Smasho and Nice One. I went to his house, starting in his kitchen where he made a tea to my exact specifications. Then we retired to his living room where he had pages of neat notes. Questions to ask me. Some were highlighted, some were triple underlined.

He cleared his throat. "Max. Can we start with what you said about football teams being a band of brothers? I've got friends in the game and we've heard mixed reports about you when it comes to teamwork and team spirit."

Talk about things escalating quickly! I smiled and looked around his living room. It was neat. Orderly. Photos of his playing career, a couple of football tops, watercolours of racehorses. "Do you miss it?"

He followed my eye. "Yeah. Course I do. Where else do you get the buzz?"

I picked up his notepad and skimmed through the questions. "Were you in the army?"

"Yeah. When I was young. Played footy with the other squaddies but I got scouted and ended up playing for Aldershot." Aldershot is home to a big military base and there probably isn't a family there that isn't connected to the army in some way.

I gripped his notepad in my right and slapped it against my left. "Barnesy. I like you. You're the only one taking this as seriously as me. Do the youth team kids know who you are?"

"Oh! What a question. I suppose they do."

"Amazing. Let's do a field trip."

"What? Where?"

"I'm not getting the votes. But that little fucker Tyson doesn't know that. You know where they train, right? Let's drop by, unannounced, and I'll see if I scare some fucking football intelligence into him."

"Max, that's... that's..." He was shaking his head looking for the right word. Unprofessional? Unethical?

"I slapped his arm with his notebook. You drive. I'll answer your questions. We'll try to rescue a career. Come on! It'll be fun."

For: 1
Against: 4
Undecided: 1

vii. Ruth

I pulled into the driveway and was confused about where to park. I got out and walked around, and it was only when a huge floodlight attached to a motion sensor turned on that I realised there was a whole entirely separate driveway. I was on some kind of overspill. A place for the riff-raff to park without being seen from the house.

Imagine Downton Abbey. Now delete that from your thoughts, and imagine a large house. Thanks to my clever psychological anchoring you will now be picturing the exact right size. But wait there's more! Add a big barn and an even bigger covered riding arena.

This was the home of Ruth, who I'm guessing wasn't on call centre money. I knocked on the front door - no reply. I started wandering around the grounds. There weren't any humans, but there were a lot of horses.

While I pottered around, sneaking ninja-style between horse boxes so the gigantic creatures didn't kick my brains out, I thought about the Chester under 14s training session I'd just gatecrashed.

The coach, Spectrum, was as appalled to see me as Tyson, but neither considered for a second the possibility that I had spent the day annoying people into not voting for me. I told Spectrum I was there to observe and maybe to help out with some ideas. He took my friendly tone for the threat that it was.

Has a man ever had more fun than me during that session? I doubt it.

I watched as they played some small-sided games. Every time Tyson shot I covered my mouth with the notebook and pretended to complain to Barnesy. The third time, I went over to Spectrum and asked if he had a spare whistle. He said no. I said I'd take his, then.

The moment he handed it over was thrilling. I felt like an Emperor or something.

(Back in the giant stable, I heard a noise. A kind of rustling. I went towards it.)

I brought the under 14s towards me. "Lads, listen up. We're doing a new drill. It's almost exactly the same as that drill you were just doing. But it's got a new name. Can everyone hear me? Good. The new name of the drill is 'Every Time Tyson Shoots He Gets Subbed Off'."

"Max," complained Barnesy.

"Kin hell," complained Spectrum.

I put my whistle between my lips, smiled at them, and peeped.

"Hello?" I said. The rustling noise stopped.

"This is private property," came a woman's voice.

"I'm from the council," I called out. "There's been complaints about the horses. Animal welfare stuff."

I heard a rapidly-escalating string of invective. Ruth came into view. She was wearing horse stuff. Jodhpurs, boots, navy blue riding top. She pushed some blonde hair behind her ears and gave me a magnificently indignant scowl. This meeting was bound to go wrong in some way, but my eyes, at least, were having a good time.

"Complaints?"

"This one's got leggings. But his mate doesn't. And it's random who's got hay."

She relaxed. "Ah. You're the boy."

"The boy?"

"The troublemaker."

"Sounds about right."

"You don't know anything about horses, do you?"

"Ha!" I said, pointing my finger in triumph. "That's a trick question. Some of these aren't horses. They're ponies."

She didn't smile. "They're all horses. Why are you here?"

I shrugged. "To discuss my candidacy. See if you have any questions to ask me."

"Questions like what?"

"Is 4-4-2 making a comeback amongst elite teams? When is it appropriate to use a double pivot? Do Mexican Waves go round the stadium the opposite way in the Southern Hemisphere?"

This brought a smile, and the smile brought a little thrill of victory. This... could end badly. Meaning: it could end well.

"I have no such questions; I don't like football."

"Oh. Probably a good idea. You stood for election to the Board, though?"

"Yes."

She showed no signs of explaining. I was pretty exhausted. It hadn't been a good day or a physically demanding day, but it had been a long day. I looked around at the horses. They were all different colours and the smallest was quite a lot shorter than the biggest. Presumably they were all different somehow. The big ones were for... knights and carts. And the little ones were for... making little girls fall in love with horses so that when you were old there'd be someone to sell your horses to.

Whatever the differences were, if I was hiring someone to brush my pony - not a euphemism - I wouldn't even know where to begin. And the same was true in reverse. What could Ruth possibly ask someone like me about being a Director of Football? It was pretty crazy that someone with no interest in the sport would be in a position to decide my future.

"There's a lot of poop in these boxes."

"One horse poops once per hour."

"Jesus fuck." I waved my hands around at all the buildings. In my head, this gesture meant 'but you are rich'. "Why don't you hire some people instead of doing it yourself?"

"No matter how many people you employ, there's always more work. And you always end up doing it yourself. I am doing this now because I had to rearrange my entire stable's shifts so that I could attend an emergency meeting later tonight."

She was trying to shame me. I returned her eye contact and gave her a cocky smirk. Thanks for trying! "Yeah?" I said. "Well, the good news is that after tonight, you'll never have to worry about the club ever again."

She raised an eyebrow. "From what I hear, you shouldn't be so confident."

I felt my eyelids squeeze together as the truth burst out of my face. "Okay, you got me. I have no chance." I laughed. "I don't have the votes."

"Have you tried begging?"

"I'm not familiar with that word. Do you mean bragging? Yes, I've tried bragging. Sometimes it works." I was leaning against a horse box and one of the residents poked its head out and gave me the side-eye.

"Rusty likes you," said Ruth.

"One stallion to another."

"Rusty is female."

"All ginger horses are boys. Did I hear that?"

"That's cats. So you don't have the votes. You're not as charming as you thought?"

I rubbed my chin. I was starting to get some stubble. I hoped it wouldn't get so itchy I couldn't sleep. "One guy I had pre-existing beef with. That's unlucky that he's on the Board. One I accidentally annoyed. Two are fucking mad racists. They probably build prototype wave machines in their sheds to protect us against refugee boats. Fucking ghouls. If they vote for me I'll die of shame. The streamer's living in a digital fantasy world but he's a nice guy. He'd vote for anyone who gave him some time. Barnesy is a prince among men. He's dubious about me. Thinks I'm too young. His is the only vote I give a shit about. I'll win him over, though. Retrospectively. We'll meet again in five years and he'll say, Max, I was wrong. I like him though. He's wrong in the right way."

Ruth looked me up and down. The hairs on my neck stood erect. "His is the only vote you give a shit about?"

Being able to talk felt like passing a mental resistance check. "You don't like football. I want to be Director of Football."

"My vote's worth as much as his."

"Not to me."

"I see," she said, the light in her eyes fading. "Will you be there later?"

"Mike wants me to be around so I can sign things." I stuck my tongue in my cheek trying to minimise my grin. "He thinks I'm a shoe-in."

I shook my head and started back to my car.

Ruth called after me. "Are you as good as they say?"

"As a player?"

She nodded.

"No. I'm much, much better."

"They're on a diet."

That blew my mind. What the fuck was she talking about? "What?"

"The horses with no hay. They had some, and they've eaten it. They have to wait, now. They're on a diet."

I looked around at all the horses I could see. They all looked the same, virtually identical, but apparently some were overweight. The more you learn, the more you realise you know nothing. Next time I met a horse woman, I'd have a conversation starter. The twinkle came to my eye of its own accord. I gave Ruth a Maxy two-thumbs and swaggered away.

***

I had nowhere better to be, so I waited in the main reception at the Deva stadium. The Board filed past. The only one who looked at me was Crackers - maybe I made some tiny noise that let him know there was a person where he wasn't expecting one.

After five minutes I got bored and went to find the groundsman and ask him to turn the floodlights on so I could thrash balls into the goals. But there was no groundsman - the place was deserted. In the entire stadium there was just me, the seven members of the Board, Mike Dean, and Joe, the club secretary.

I turned my phone back on so that I could play Merge Mountain or do a sudoku. But I quickly remembered why I'd turned it off.

Emma: So? So? So? What's happening? You are the WORST at keeping in touch.

Raffi: You my boss yet lol

Ziggy: Can you get me a boot deal? The other lads are always going on about getting boot deals. Also I'm not having luck with ladies. I need you to wingman me.

Kisi: omgomgomg I caught James reading a Bible commentary but inside was Zonal Marking by Michael Cox!!! Busted! Should I tell him I know? No best not. lol though

Henri: My tenant. My playing partner. My agent. My former manager. My future director? If you are the director, I will be the leading man. Chester: The Great Escape. I will look for a suitable screenwriter.

Emma: Reply with a thumbs up or thumbs down. That's all. Come on.

Unknown number: Hi this is [person] from [a certain media outlet]. Can we talk about the job you're applying for? Seems odd?

Unknown number: Hi this is [another person] from [a less local media outlet]. Is it true you're going for Chester DoF? Please let me know when we can talk about it on the record.

AFC Telford Bigwig: Any news?

Emma: If you aren't replying because you died in a car crash, I will literally murder you.

And so on. How could I explain to my friends that I didn't have the votes? And that in the morning I'd be driving to Telford to start my new life?

***

"Max?" It was Mike Dean. "Can you come in?"

I stood, stretched, and yawned. Had I actually fallen asleep on the shitty plastic chair?

I followed him into the boardroom. The seven members were scattered around. I didn't look at them. I had the strangest feeling that I was going to get the job. Why else would they invite me in here? Would they seriously invite me in to tell me they had decided against me? Maybe to tell me why, face to face.

"I'll keep this quick," said MD, who wasn't giving anything away. Or maybe I was just so tired that I could no longer read his microexpressions. "We've decided to create the position of Director of Football and offer it to you, if you accept the terms we discussed. We've got the contract here on the laptop if you want to check through it. Joe will print it and we can get it done and dusted."

I scratched my head. "What was the vote?"

MD smiled. "Massively in your favour, of course. But I don't think it's productive to know the exact count."

I narrowed my eyes at him. Something was going on, here. I had one vote. Maximum two. Very mysterious. Was this the curse? Old Nick said I only needed to apply for a football job to get it. I thought he'd meant as a manager. I thought about it - I didn't give a shit. I wanted to run a football club. This was it. I sat and skimmed the document. "What's this? Three-year contract? I said month to month."

MD licked his lips. "Well, yes, but Max. We want you to build for the long-term. This is a show of faith."

"Switch it back. I don't do fixed contracts. I'll be here as long as you guys support my vision."

"Ah... okay." MD looked at the Board. Whose opinion was most important to him? Bulldog? Ruth? Why did those two names jump to the top of the list? "Yes. Okay."

I kept reading. The rest was fine, except for one small detail. "Please change the start date to January 3rd."

"Oh? I thought you wanted to get started right away."

"I do. And I will. But Darlington are playing the reverse fixture against Scarborough on the second. I want to give Cutter the chance to play me in one final game. Say goodbye to the Darlo fans. Properly. Try to do one classy thing in my fucking life."

"Fine, fine." MD pointed to Joe, the club secretary, who took the laptop and ran out of the room with it.

I checked the time. It was just after 8. It felt like 11. The night was still young. I pointed to a side table. "What's all that?"

"Champagne. To celebrate!"

I shook my head. "I'm going."

MD's face fell. "Where? If you say Telford I'll crack your skull open with that bottle. Do you know how many bags of ice I lugged up here?"

I allowed myself a little smile. "There's a five-a-side league in Blacon. They're playing tonight. If I leave now, I can start scouting."

"You're joking."

"Mike! I told you. I'm going to scout every football player in Cheshire, or come as near as makes no odds."

"But we should celebrate."

I inhaled. Maybe there wasn't a mystery here after all. The Board had come in here to complain about me and MD, a better politician than me, had gone all Twelve Angry Men on them, turned them one by one through skill and persistence. This victory wasn't a triumph of Max Best and his storytelling. This was old-school diplomacy, with maybe a little horse trading. A masterful display from a mature, emotionally-stable grown-up.

"All right. I'll go there next week. But can I speak to you in private just for a second?" I wanted to tell him I wouldn't celebrate with the xenophobes. Wouldn't drink with them.

"Max," he laughed. "You're always asking to speak to me in private. It's such a weird habit. No, let me crack open the champers."

"I'll do it," said Barnesy. "Why don't you do... the other thing?"

"That can wait til the paperwork is done."

Pop! The first bottle was opened and the mood lightened about 4000%. Everyone in the room looked towards the fizzing liquid as it filled the wine flutes. People had started to get up from their seats and oh-so-innocently move towards the booze. Barnesy gave me my glass last. "To a great coach!" he said.

"Whoa whoa whoa," I said, before anyone to clink their glasses. "That's one thing I'm not good at. Let's drink to my new parking spot, which used to be Mike's."

Barnesy looked serious. "I've seen a lot of coaches, Max. Some good, some bad. That ten minutes you did today was as good as any of it. Deadly serious, demanding, pushing the kids. And more laughs than an episode of Mrs. Brown's Boys."

"Well," I said, because that particular TV show was about as funny as a flat tyre.

"Tyson loved it," said Bulldog. "Spectrum's good but he's not a star." He looked away. "T will listen to you."

"Argh!" said MD. "I'm thirsty. Here's to Chester! Down the hatch."

I clinked glasses with the Board members nearest to me and downed my glass so I wouldn't have to do the same with Sean and Ollie, the twats. But Barnesy was already opening another bottle.

Joe came rushing back in. No laptop, this time, but my contract printed out. In triplicate. MD signed three times. Joe signed three times. I signed three times.

I dropped the pen as if to say, ta-da! But in fact, I was reacting to the massive pang of headache I'd just experienced. Once I'd signed on that last dotted line, the curse interface had gone wild. Mega static, crushed screens, stretched fonts. It lasted just a second, and no-one seemed to notice. I had a quick poke around and there was a lot that had changed, and the curse shop was bulging. I closed the screens - I'd take a proper look later, when I was alone.

But no sooner had I thought that than my brain processed something it had seen. I brought the screen back up. The first item on the news feed said:

Chester FC have appointed Max Best as their new Director of Football.

"I listened to it," said Crackers.

"What?" My heart was racing. I felt a full-body warmth that might have been from the alcohol or it might have been the incredible desire that was coursing through my veins.

"The mp3 you made me. All your goals. That Darlington commentator, he likes to scream, doesn't he? Nearly bust my speakers, heh heh."

Right. I'd inexpertly cut together some clips from Darlo matches so that Crackers would get to experience Max Best football. Fussing with the editing software seemed like ages ago. "It's only nine goals and a few assists but it took ages."

"Thank you, Max."

"Yeah, no stress."

"No, I mean thank you." His eyelids bulged a lot as his eyeballs rolled around. "For listening."

The scene was a bit awkward because it sort of felt like I was supposed to hug him. Not for the first time, Mike Dean saved the day. He banged on his flute. "Attention. May I have your attention." He put his glass down, and went and fumbled in a bag hidden on the floor behind a plant. He came up holding something. Something soft and fabricy. He handed it to me. It fell open into the shape of a football shirt. Blue with two vertical white stripes on the front. A sponsor's logo and the club crest, featuring a wolf. I turned it round. Saw that it said BEST 77.

The two bigots were grabbing their phones. Sumo was eyeing me like I was his 50,000th subscriber. Barnesy was grinning from ear to ear. Ruth was sensually holding her cold flute against her warm lips.

So wait. Wait wait wait. Bulldog had voted for me after all? Because I'd spent ten minutes turning his son's teamwork from one to two? Crackers had voted for me because I'd sent him a recording of me scoring goals. The bigots had voted for me because they wanted me in the first team. Sumo because I showed up, and Barnesy because he wanted to believe in me. Ruth? She was pretty hard to read, but holy fuck. Had the decision been unanimous?

Had I achieved a unanimous decision while being Max Best?

I looked at the crest again. Chester Football Club. A lion emerging from a crown like a genie coming out of the bottle. These people had granted my wish. And now I'd grant theirs. With a little bit of a twinkle thrown in for good measure.

I took my hoodie off. I pulled my t-shirt over my head, pretending to slow down so I wouldn't mess up my hair, but actually just giving Ruth an eyeful.

Then, slowly, I pulled the Chester kit on.

I closed my eyes, looked up, extended my arms in a goalscorer's salute. I let them take their photos - which I'd make them swear not to post anywhere until the 3rd.

"Whoo!" I said, hurrrrring my arms together like a wrestler. "That felt good. Now. Mike. Obviously I'm going to need the biggest office, which is yours. So while the Board, Joe, and I polish off this booze, why don't you start packing your stuff?"

"Get fucked!" he said. "We'll find you a broom cupboard somewhere."

I laughed, and we fell into a big hug.

While I waited for my flute to be refilled, I took a second to open the curse again. Just to re-read it. Just to check.

Chester FC have appointed Max Best as their new Director of Football.