[This is the Friday chapter. Releasing early as a thank-you to everyone who supported me during recent events.]

Dictator of Football 2

The Story So Far:

Gobby Manc weirdo Max Best was cursed with the powers of Soccer Supremo, the best-selling football management computer game. Max used those skills to become a top international art thief known to Interpol as 'The Gobshite'.

Nah, just kidding, he became a football manager and he's absolutely fucking top at it. His main 'piece', as his fellow multi-millionaires like to say, is running Chester Football Club. Their men's team narrowly avoided relegation from the Premier League, the women's team finished third in the Women's Super League, and the youth team won the FA Youth Cup.

He has interests in other clubs, including Championship sleeping giants Stoke City - though this is not widely known - League Two West Didsbury, and clubs in Wales and Gibraltar.

For the coming season, his main footballing challenge is to fight really, really hard to keep his amazing Chester Men's squad together so that they can try to retain their FA Cup, can finish high in the Premier League, and can conquer Europe.

He must also prepare himself for the imminent arrival of his firstborn, who, since Max intends to raise him as a Swede, shall henceforth be known as his firstbjorn.

CUT THAT.

Last we saw of Max, he was attending a meeting of Premier League executives and had a casting vote in the decision to expel the biggest cheats sport has ever known. What a thrilling cliffhanger that was!

***

"I don't believe in the no-win scenario." Max Best

***

DoF 2.1 - The Assembly

1.

Light blue text overlaid on an evening city skyline reminds you that you are watching ITV ONE HD. The programme starts.

Silvery lift doors ping and open. MAX BEST is standing still, looking upwards. After a couple of seconds, he remembers where he is, smiles, and emerges.

He's on the 20th floor of a London skyscraper. It's a wide space, plenty big enough for 30 people plus a TV production crew. It's all floor-to-ceiling glass windows, overly-designed furniture, and there are sensational views of the City and the Thames. Places like these are usually the domain of the super rich, so Max fits right in. He's in a premium hoodie, shorts, simple trainers. He folds a pair of sunglasses and tucks them away. He glances out of the window, then straight ahead. He recognises other people in the room; his smile broadens.

Jaunty music starts.

Max walks forward, and we get glimpses of half a dozen cameramen. They are roving around, aiming their lenses inwards at a collection of chairs arranged in a rough circle. The chairs are two, sometimes three deep, arranged so that the TV crew can move around and get shots from all angles. One has locked onto the guest.

"How you doing?" says Max, as he clasps the hands of a guy in a blue shirt.

"Good."

"Amazing. Keep it up."

The camera lingers on the blue-shirted man. He's thinking: I'm supposed to ask the questions. He's perplexed; the editing makes the incident seem very funny.

Max moves closer to the middle of the circle. He shakes hands with a middle-aged Pakistani man who is wearing a shit tracksuit and has a large cochlear implant. Max intones, "How goes the day, good sir?"

"Very well! I'm a big association football fan. I am very much enjoying the Women's European Championships, which this summer are being held in Germany."

"I've got a few players there. Haley Goodhew played England's second group game and she was buzzing about it! Angel's hanging around, trying to make herself useful. Elsa and the Spanish women are killing it. I'm heading over to Germany soon. Gonna do about ten transfers in one evening. Hashtag just Max Best things."

"Can I say something?" says the man. "You only escaped relegation by one point. That's not very good."

Max nods. "You're saying I don't deserve to be here. I'm not famous enough."

"Well, you won the FA Cup."

"First English manager to do that in a very long time. That gets me in the room, does it?"

The man agrees, to a point. "But the league is a football club's bread and butter, isn't it?"

"I'll try to do better this season. More emphasis on the league? Got it. Thanks for the advice!"

Max's eyes twinkle as he slides away. There's one chair in the middle. Previous occupants of this hot seat have included Michael Sheen, Stephen Fry, and Gary Lineker. Next to this chair, set slightly behind to give the cameramen better sightlines to the guests, sits a wide-eyed, fidgety, serious young man. He indicates the central chair and says, "Sit here, Max Best."

"Cool beans. You're William, right? You make the guests feel comfortable but you also mess with their heads. You love watching celebrities shed tears. You're like Iago; I'm your biggest fan." Max settles.

William doesn't know how to respond to this. "Have you ever been on TV before?"

"Couple of times," says Max, distracted because men and women of all ages and colours are lining up to shake his hand before taking their own seats. One of these is an elderly black woman who sits to Max's right, slightly behind him. Max offers her a fist bump.

As she bumps Max's hand, she says, "You're very handsome."

Max gets earnest. "This isn't me at my best, Rikki. I'm actually more handsome in real life."

Rikki frowns, the jaunty music blows out a silly bass note, and text appears on the screen.

THE ASSEMBLY

A woman of about 35 will spend most of the next half an hour leaning against a window, trying to stay out of the way, but she peels away for a moment. She gives very strong teacher-competency vibes, and she speaks loud and clear. "We're going to get started now. Lennie, would you like to introduce us?"

Max adjusts himself and sits up. It's happening.

Lennie is young and has mad, frizzy hair. She's holding a microphone. As she talks, she makes grand, dramatic gestures. "Welcome to The Assembly, our collective of autistic, neurodivergent, and learning-disabled interviewers. Our rules are - " The gestures get ten times bigger. "NO QUESTION IS OUT OF BOUNDS! NO SUBJECT IS OFF THE TABLE! AND ALL... MIGHT... HAPPEN!!!"

Max looks suitably impressed.

Lennie finishes with a much quieter statement. "Please tell us who you are."

"Okay, I'm Max, I'm 29, and I'm the player-manager of Chester FC. We're the FA Cup holders. Wait..." He holds up a finger, closes his eyes for a moment, and shivers with delight. "Yeah, that still gets me. Whoo! Come on!" His enthusiasm ripples around the circle. "I'm married and my wife Emsybabes is expecting a baby. My favourite animal is the hedgehog."

Lennie's part in the show seems to have ended - she's moving out of the central space and going to the back row on the left - so Max sits up. "Before we go further, can I just say one quick thing? Which camera should I use?"

The organiser moves away from the window and points to one. Max faces it.

"My friend Henri is our new CEO. One of his jobs is to get me to do more interviews, but I don't want to, so I'm doing this. There are about twenty of you, right? I'm gonna stay until everyone has asked me something. Henri? This is twenty interviews, mate. That's me done for the season. Bosh! Max Best wins again. Lolllllzzzz. Okay, The Assembly, do your worst." He turns to William. "I'm not gonna cry."

William whispers, "You will."

The organiser says, "Our first question is from Kelly."

Kelly gets up from a spot on Max's left and approaches the middle of the circle, holding a microphone. She's wearing a long-sleeved grey top and she looks cripplingly nervous. Max rises and stands next to her, putting one hand on her upper back and with the other, he points to his empty chair. Side by side, Kelly and Max look like old friends. He says, softly, "Do you want to do a practice run? Ask the chair the question, then I'll go in and second time round, it'll be easier."

Kelly thinks this is a splendid idea. She checks her notes and reads aloud. "Saving lives should pay more than kicking balls. Why do footballers earn more than nurses?"

Max rushes to his seat and says, "Great question, beautifully asked. No need for a second run - you can't improve on perfection. Kelly, the answer is simple. Have you ever met a nurse who can do a hundred kick-ups? I can do a hundred and... six? And have you ever met a nurse who can switch from 3-5-2 to 4-2-4 in the middle of a passing sequence because the oppo are slipping into a mid block? No waaaaaaaaay you have. But I can do that. Also, I am really fast. I guarantee I could beat any nurse in a race. Hundred metres? A nurse has a top speed of like 9 miles an hour. I would literally win by ten seconds, Kelly."

Kelly says, "Okay. Thanks for remembering my name." She starts to return to her seat.

Max holds his hands up. "Whoa, whoa, whoa! I'm joking Kelly. I'm joking! Of course saving lives should pay more than kicking balls. If you're in a car crash and you're bleeding and the door opens... and it's Messi..." He cracks up; everyone laughs. "You're like, kah, Messi, can I get a selfie... kah." He mimes dying, which slays. "Actually, now that I think about it, Messi probably has first aid skills. He'd be great. Just don't let him take your penalties. Little Messi joke there. No? Nothing on that?

"All I'll say really is that humans don't only need food and water and healthcare, we need entertainment. When I score a goal, there's excitement and tens of thousands of people are happy. Happiness has a health benefit, so in a way, I'm a nurse, except a fast one. By the way, last season, my taxes paid for one hundred nurses."

Beside him, Rikki can't believe her ears. "Hundred?"

"Yep. And this coming season it will be a lot more. If you want better healthcare in this country, the answer is obvious. Pay me more." He dazzles the room with a toothy grin. Rikki smiles, but Max isn't satisfied. "You like David Tennant more than me, don't you?"

Rikki's smile erupts. "Oh, David Tennant! He was lovely."

William says, "He was the tenth Doctor Who and he has great skin."

"Tsch," scoffs Max. "He's slower than a nurse."

"The next question's from Janes."

Janes goes to the centre circle. She's tiny. Her right eye points inwards and it's almost impossible to tell what she's thinking. She fixes Max with an inscrutable look, studies her question card, and says, "I'm a big fan of Chesterness, the documentary about the Chester women's team. What's your PIN number?"

Max's eyes boggle. "Soz what?"

"What's your PIN number?"

"4-2-3-1," he says.

Janes sighs. "Okay," she says. She appears to disapprove of Max's choice. Max looks from William to Rikki, checking to see if they find any of this strange. They don't. Janes peers at her card. "How do you shower?"

"How do I shower?"

"Yeah."

Max stares at her, his mouth open. His brain appears to have switched off. William says, "What's your order?"

"Oh! Okay." Max thinks. "Yeah, I just start at the crown."

"The crown," says Janes, disappointed. There's almost a hint of disbelief, of pity. How can he be doing it so wrong?

"Yeah, the crown. I always wear a crown around my house. Sometimes a tiara. Squirt loads of Ganymede shampoo all over that, give it a good wipe, the suds go down me. I let gravity do some of the cleaning, if you get what I mean."

After one last unimpressed bout of eye contact, Janes heads to the left and retakes her seat. Max looks from William to Rikki to check if he has done something wrong. There's no evidence he has.

Next is George, who has been sitting on the right, away from Max. George is in his 20s, has floppy hair, and is in a short-sleeve top. He's extraordinarily likeable. As he asks his question, he shifts his weight from leg to leg, rapidly, one shift per syllable, as though he is pumping out the words with a piston, but he settles when he's listening to Max's reply. The question is, "You have got into fights with Alan Turner, the England manager, the Football Association, and even the Prime Minister. Do you seek conflict?"

Max leans back and looks up. "I don't think so. Maybe I like it a little bit. Sometimes I feel like someone's coming at me and I'm not just going to take it, you know? But whatever I have said about those people is absolutely fair. The Prime Minister should be working for the people of this country but he appears to be working for the benefit of a different country. That's weird. He claims to be an Everton fan but I don't believe him. Every Everton fan I have ever met has been absolutely brilliant. 100% sound, good laugh, great company. No way is he an Everton fan. 

"Alan Turner shouldn't be the England manager, plain and simple, and since he got the job he has shown how petty and vindictive he is. He will regret it.

"And the Football Association?" He blows a chef's kiss. "They take the prize. Chester are playing in the Community Shield soon. It's a sort of competitive friendly between the league winners and the cup winners. Did you know it used to be called the Charity Shield, but they had to change the name because of how little money the FA actually gave to charity?

"That sums them up, you might think, but wait! The For-Profit Shield will not be held at Wembley Stadium this year, as it has for time immemorial. Why? Because the Football Association, which you might think from the name has some vague interest in football, has scheduled a Dua Lipa concert at Wembley that day. Now, I think every single person in this country would rather watch Dua Lipa than Arsenal, it's true, but somehow I don't think the FA were trying to maximise the nation's marginal utility when they made that decision. Awful. They aren't doing their job and I think it's fair for me to point it out. Don't you think, George?"

He nods rapidly and asks his second question. "Is it because you don't like the Prime Minister that you set up a political party?"

"No, it's because I don't think the members of Parliament in Chester actually represent Chester. Either they are trying to set themselves up in the griftosphere or they fuck off to London to be the Junior Minister for Roads or some bullshit. How does that help the people who voted for them? It doesn't and I wanted to fix that. I want Chester's MPs to be grinding for the community the way I grind for the community.

"So, quick summary. I wanted to put up candidates for the three constituencies around the Deva Stadium so that I would have support for my Sport City project, which is something I'll announce soon. I got a bunch of seasoned campaigners together and they all said the same thing, which was that two of the MPs are good and do their best and it would be a shame to unseat them. I'm not a monster - I said fine, we'll give them another shot to prove themselves but I'll be watching. If they get in my way I'll end their cushy little gigs.

"So The Chester Party is only standing in Chester South. We're going to win that seat and when that happens, our local MP won't be stopping me from doing my project. It's honestly not even a topic. Take out the trash, move on."

"I have one more. It's a personal question so it's okay if you don't want to answer. How is the relationship between you and your mum?"

Max presses his lips shut, then slowly turns to his left. "William... did you plant this question?"

William's cheeks flush a little. "No!"

Max frowns and squints and raises an eyebrow. "Hmm." He faces George. "It's very difficult, mate. She isn't well." Max swings his arm slightly. "Hmm... Honestly don't know how to expand on that. When she was healthy, we had quite a good relationship. I was a bit of a brat but I think she knew that I..." His voice trails off. "If I could get, like, one really good day so that I could..." He adjusts himself on the chair, sets his jaw, and looks at his questioner. Softly, he says, "What about you?"

"My relationship with my mum is very good. Thank you for asking, Max Best."

"Do you look after her?"

"She looks after me."

"Does she like poems? You could write her a poem."

George lets out some rapid laughs. "I can't write a poem!"

Max rubs his mouth hard. "Hmm. What about reading a book to her? There's a little girl called Helen who isn't very well so sometimes I turn up at her house and surprise her by reading her favourite stories out loud."

"That's very nice of you."

"I know! That's what I said! She keeps complaining, though."

George's smile fizzles out. "Why?"

Max waves vaguely. "She's a textual originalist; she doesn't like that I enhance the stories. She's all, there are no zombies in this one! What do you mean she has seven fingers? No, she doesn't go to Aston Villa to find a reserve goalkeeper!" He tuts. "Anyway, it's great you've got your mum. I'm happy for you."

Next comes Pavel, a large Polish man in a suit who spins as he walks. He steadies himself and reads from his card. "Hello Max Best, your wife is pregnant, have you chosen a baby name question mark?"

"No, it's really hard. Emma, my wife, wants to name my son after a man she is secretly in love with, like what happened in some book she read. That's why our baby will be called Any Hemsworth." This gets a BIG laugh. Max cackles. "No but seriously, it's hard. Emma's granddad was called Bernard and she's interested in sort of carrying on that name. I'm not sure I like Bernard Best, but I like Bernie Best. That flows well. Bernie Best. Good name for a comedian? Bernie Best. Hmm. Couldn't be a doctor, could he? Not with a name like that. Feels slow, too. Bernie Best can't clock 22 miles an hour, can he?"

Pavel stares at Max, decides he has finished speaking, and asks a follow-up. "You were raised by a single mother, Max Best, and so was I. Very often I think about my father and how my life might have been different. Do you think about your father question mark?"

"No," says Max. "He left. He can stay gone. He occupies zero space in my head. I don't think that was the answer you were looking for. Sorry."

"Thank you, Max Best."

Next is Nicole, a trans woman in a wheelchair. She has a walking stick and wears a scarf even though it's summer. "You have championed gay rights, campaigned for a deaf girl, and you are an ally to pan-disability football. You even have an autistic player in your women's team. Will you ever make a stand on trans issues?"

Max eyes Nicole. "You might find this answer cowardly but I'm not sure there's much I can do. Of course trans people are welcome at our stadium. Everyone's welcome at our stadium except for Oasis." Nicole laughs. Max gives her a warm smile. "The problem is the law. Like, the law of the country, as determined by the Supreme Court. Trans women aren't allowed to play football as women. I can't change it so I don't think about it, which I know isn't what you want to hear."

"It's okay," says Nicole, hurriedly.

"If that's something that needs to change, our good friend 'the Everton fan' needs to do something about it, do you know what I mean? But it's interesting how you portrayed me. I don't think of myself as an ally, really. My main cause is head injuries. I was hit on the head and I was in a coma and it has taken me a long time to recover and I can help families to understand that recovery isn't going to take two weeks or whatever. I'm one of the best people for raising awareness of that. I should probably do more but I'm really busy and until now I haven’t been very popular outside Chester.

"When it comes to Dani and Amy and gay players, that's me being selfish. There's nothing noble about it in the slightest. I want the best players so I can win loads of football matches and Dani Smith-Smithe is one of the best players in the country. When I saw her, I freaked out because holy shit, she's right there! She doesn't have a club. Her being deaf was great because it meant no other club would want her. I only had to persuade her to join us and bosh, we've got an elite player!"

"You did that video with the Harry Styles song. That was..." She fans herself with her hands. "That was inspirational."

"Okay, thanks! But seriously, I just want the best players and as long as they aren't monsters, I don't care what they look like or sound like. Talent is the only factor, and Amy, for example, is talented."

Nicole gives him the side-eye. "Not talented enough."

"You mean because she's moving to Wrexham? You're well informed! One of the hard things about my job is that I have to be ruthless. I want Chester Women to be the best team in the world. I ended the documentary because we are no longer the plucky underdogs with no money - we're a fucking massive juggernaut and we're going to smash everything and everyone out of our way. I am working to sign an elite defender and that's Amy's position. We got the fixtures for the coming season, I looked at the first ten matches, and realised Amy wasn't even going to get on the pitch in any of them.

"It's not nice to show her to the door but it would be a lot worse to keep her around just because she's funny and interesting. If you're a player in my teams, I treat you like a player."

"That's how it should be."

"Yeah. Amy and a couple of Welsh girls are moving from Chester to Wrexham and I think they will be happy there. They will have each other and the staff at Wrexham will take care of them. They will play matches, they will reach their potential, and they are only down the road so if they need help, we can be there in twenty minutes. When I spotted Amy, I was really excited because she has a unique skillset and my head was spinning thinking about how I could use her in matches. But our levels have moved up a lot since then. More than I expected, I think. Our women are really amazing. That's great for everyone... except Amy. But she'll be fine. Ryan Reynolds will like her Instas."

Nicole loves that. "Thank you, Max."

The next question comes from Marcus, a tall, skinny man with floppy hair standing at the back of the circle. He angles himself slightly away from Max and squints as he asks, "Would you be happy if your baby was autistic?"

"You mean little baby Chris Hemsworth? I mean, right now he's non-verbal, he doesn't make eye contact, and Emma says he's very fidgety." Max shrugs and pulls a face. He gets a big laugh from the group. "Okay, I'm glad you laughed at that because I wasn't sure I'm allowed to tease. Erm, would I be...? I'm just gonna say yes. As long as he's healthy and happy. When I look around this room I see people who are healthy and right now at least, you're happy... because you get to meet the amazing Max Best. And my son will get to meet me every day, so he'll be happy every day." Max tries to make himself go cross-eyed. "That's how it works, right?"

"Do you think you might be neurodivergent?"

"No, I'm normal and everyone else is weird." Max is having fun.

"How do you feel about becoming a father?"

"I'm petrified, mate. I am bricking it. Autistic people like to rehearse things, right? There's no rehearsal for this, unless you have, like, six kids and you're only planning to be a good parent to the last one. I'm a creative person and my brain has pivoted from writing cute poems and concocting bold tactical plans to creating extremely vivid and detailed horror stories about all the terrible things that could happen to Emma and Bernardinho." He shakes his head. "Not a fan."

Marcus looks down for a moment, then says, "Like a lot of people on the spectrum, I struggle with my anxiety. How do you deal with yours?"

Max scoffs. "I'm not sure I'm the best person to ask, Marcus. I've got two sides to my life. One's football. In that world, I'm the dictator, I'm all-powerful, and I'm really, really good. I go to a football club and say change this, change that, get these players, get some faster nurses in here for God's sake, and six months later the team are flying up the league. These days, I don't need to persuade anyone. It's just hey, you, yeah you, score a goal, and then they do it." Max laughs at himself. "That's an exaggeration but not much!

"Okay so I can say I don't have anxiety in that world. I have stress, because hundreds of people are relying on me to make sure there's money at the end of the month, but if everyone does what I say, there will be money at the end of the month, and rainbows and unicorns, too. I've been doing pay rises for our players recently and ka-ching! A lot of nurses will be fed this year, I can tell you. That's the world I control and it's blissful.

"But in the other world, I'm just a little garden lizard looking for cracks in bricks to escape from predators. I'm a cat that runs to hide under the bed because the world is so scary. I keep thinking, what if Emma goes for a day out in York with the baby and the city centre floods? What if they're caught in a forest fire? Car crash? I can't keep them safe from all the dangers of the world and I keep thinking, what have I done? What am I doing?

"When I feel like that, I go and do some football. Scouting, playing, managing, training. Doing a transfer. Can you imagine that? Get on the phone to Fulham to ask if I can have Ed Heath, even though I know they won't sell, just to take my mind off the existential dread and the anguish and the quiet desperation. Yeah, I'm not the person to ask, sorry Marcus. I wish I was."

"The world changes so fast. I can't keep up with all the changes. It makes me feel like I don't have a place."

Max nods, then as he's considering his reply, his eyes widen. "Oh, shit..." He zips across the floor, glides between two chairs, and holds his arms wide. Marcus accepts the hug. Max goes into a soothing voice. "You're all right, mate, you're all right. Come on. We gotcha. We gotcha. Hey, think about it like this - you know my PIN number. You're halfway to committing the crime of the century!"

Marcus smiles and wipes his eyes. "You need that money to pay for nurses."

Max cackles and slides so that he's by Marcus's side, like old friends. Max sweeps his hand around the room. "You've got your team, bro. When I'm struggling, I've got my teams. My Chesters and my Saltneys and my baby squads. You've got your Assembly, haven't you? You don't need to fight alone."

The word 'alone' sends Marcus into floods of tears, so Max hugs him. The producers let the moment breathe, then as Max is holding his new friend, he looks towards Janes. "What's your PIN number?"

The camera zooms in on her. She gives Max an indignant look. "Not telling you!"

***

Commercial Break

[A slightly frazzled but devilishly handsome Max Best strides past a football pitch at Bumpers Bank. Text on screen tells noobs who he is.]

MAX BEST

[Sadly, to a distant figure.] Isabellaaaaa! Spacing! Come oooooonnnn!

ISABELLA

[From off screen] Sorry, Max!

[Max smiles and hurries to the car park, checking his watch.]

MAX

Blast!

[He arrives at a car. He tries to unlock it but it doesn't open.]

MAX 

[Scooby-Doo-style.] Hurrrrr?

ANGEL

Boss, what are you doing? That's not your car!

MAX

[Stepping back, looking again.] Er... whut?

ANGEL

You upgraded to the new CFC Pinniped, remember? [She points to a different car. It's sportier and looks like a ton of fun.]

MAX

When? [He peers at Angel.] Hey, didn't I move you out in the transfer window?

ANGEL

[Innocently.] No...?

[Cut to: a gaggle of Chester players trying to find which of twenty identical cars is theirs.]

MAX

Hang on. I transferred HIM!

ANGEL

Did you?

MAX

Didn't I?

[Dan Badford looks left and right.]

DAN

Me? It wasn't me, it was HIM.

[Cut to: six Chester players, each pointing to himself.]

ALL

Who, me?

ANGEL

Max! What have you done?

MAX

[Dragging his palms down his face.] I don't know... [Someone taps him on the shoulder. It's a Cristiano Ronaldo lookalike. Max jumps and screams.]

Cut to: Max's new car from all angles.

VOICE OVER

The all-new CFC Pinniped. Superior range, superior comfort, maximum simplicity. If only everything in life was as easy as a CFC.

JINGLE

Easy, peasie, CFCsy!

***

Text on screen: The Assembly. After a few seconds, it fades away, showing that the scene has reset. Max is back in the hot seat, with William to his left, Rikki to his right, and two rows of chairs and wheelchairs spreading out, forming most of a circle.

From the edge of the scene comes a voice. "Next we'll have David."

David is the large man in the blue shirt. He makes his way into the middle, stares at his paper for ages, then says, "What is a secret?"

Max has one leg dangling over the other, very relaxed. "A secret? You want to know one of my secrets?"

"Yes."

"But then it won't be secret."

"Yes."

Max laughs, thinks, and says, "I've never told anyone this because I work in a macho industry and I'll lose cred with the other managers and Alan Turner will make fun of me in his little chat groups... but I hate big cutlery. The spoons and forks that everyone uses are too big. I go somewhere for dinner and they go 'did you like it?' and I smile and say that I did but all the time I was asking myself if they had given me a ladle by mistake. Do you know what I mean?" David doesn't know what he means; Max continues anyway. "At home I've got, like, a range of sizes." He forms his fingers into shapes of different sizes. "This big for ice cream. This big for mashed potato."

Rikki says, "What 'bout knives?"

"They're fine. They're the right size."

She harrumphs. It's not clear if this shows approval or disapproval. Max is entranced by the puzzle, but the next question arrives.

It is asked by Clark, who is in soft leggings and a hoodie. He has a good-natured face that can't help but ascend into a smile. "Do you like trains or buses?"

Max has been expecting this one. "Trains are quite simply the best thing in the entire world ever."

Clark's face lights up like Blackpool Pleasure Beach before Christmas. "I like trains, too!" (He describes a recent train journey he took, where he sat, and on which platform he changed. Max informs the world that this journey sounds absolutely mint and he encourages everyone watching at home to try it. Clark CANNOT BELIEVE his luck.)

Up next is Kirsty, who is in her thirties. She has a wide, soft face, and has a vibe of being absolutely lovely, although perhaps there is a hint that in a work context she would be rather a stickler for processes. Max braces for a tough one. Kirsty says, "You have been described as a dictator and the King of Chester. But who is the boss in your house?"

"Obviously me," says Max, sniffing as he rubs his nose. "I can do the most kick-ups and I run the fastest. Emma couldn't outrun a nurse. Tsch." Kirsty is not buying it. "Seriously though. I'm the big dog. I'm the alpha. I am to my house what William is to The Assembly." He nods at William, who freezes like a deer in headlights. Max sweeps his gaze around the room. He has convinced no-one. "Yeah, okay, it's Emma. You got me. But only because she's the boss for baby stuff. We've agreed that I will be her minion until the baby is four years old, at which point it will be ready to receive my poetry and thus I will need to have the final say on all matters."

Kirsty's expression flickers but she carries on. "What sort of parents will you be?"

"Prepared," says Max, seriously. "We have prepared and planned all aspects of the next four years, down to the very last detail. Everything will progress according to our design and there will be no alarms or surprises. Thus let it be written; thus let it be done." Max eyes Kirsty, who seems to be coming to the conclusion that he's a bit dim. Max cracks. "Yeah, I know: it's going to be mayhem, it's going to be chaos.

"I think being the kind of football manager I am might help a little bit. I don't coach very strict moves. My players have a lot of freedom. That creates a lot of emergent patterns, and as a player and a manager you have to accept that at any given moment your entire structure might dissolve and reform in a way you've never seen before. I'm quite flexible, very willing to go with the flow, able to adapt quickly to new circumstances.

"If I build a shed and fill it with model trains and then our little brat kid announces that trains are shit and he's into buses now... Haha, well, some lucky little boy in Chester is gonna get a brand-new, ultra-premium train set, never used." In the seats to his right, there is movement. "Ooh, what have I done? Clark's eyes are lighting up. All right, scratch giving it to a local kid. You're top of the waiting list, Clark! First on the list, first in our hearts." He makes a heart symbol; Clark copies him.

Kirsty no longer thinks Max is an idiot. "You mentioned a baby squad. What's that?"

"Mmm," says Max, nodding. "So as part of my innovative management style, one of the things I do is that I create all-new techniques, never before seen. This summer I invented something I call 'outsourcing'. This is the process where I get someone else to do my work for me, in this case, raising my child.

"Parenting is quite a demanding job, parents like to say, and I'm busy negotiating contracts and selling half my squad, so who can help with baby stuff? Who do I trust to watch over my child while I'm swanning around Anfield and Old Trafford with my new best friends - everyone in the Premier League? I wasn't getting any ideas, I was stuck, so I went to a chatbot and asked it one simple question: who is the best parent in Great Britain and Northern Ireland? The plan was, you see, to hire that person. They would live in our house two or three days a week and they would help Emma.

"The chatbot got to work. What a great question, Max, it said. That's one of the best questions I've ever heard. You're literally incredible at asking questions. Then it went quiet for about five minutes and it came back and said, I've outsourced this question to a quantum chatbot. I went bananas. What do you mean outsourced? Stop stealing my ideas, you little robot fuck! But it had been absorbed by the quantum bot, an entity so untethered to the laws of this universe that some say it doesn't even exist.

"Max, it croaked, because for some reason it talked like it was 70 and had been smoking two packs a day its entire life. Max... To answer the question we must invert it. Who is the best child? That child has the best parent. Ipso facto, QED, bosh. It did another query and came up with the answer. The single best human being on these islands is Emma Weaver. The best parent is Rachel Weaver. But that's my mother-in-law! I cried, delighted. How convenient!"

Kirsty pushes her hair behind her ear. "Your baby squad is your wife's mum?"

"She's the main one. She's the William of the squad. There's also Sebastian Weaver, Emma's dad, but we're going to play Newcastle shortly after the birth and he's going to be mad at me."

"Why?"

"Because I'm going to take his favourite team and crush it in my hand until it's dust. Bwahahahahaa!" Max glances at Rikki. Her eyebrows are up, and there's no question: she disapproves. Max cackles. "Yeah, Baby Squad Alpha is a good one but they're all Newcastle fans. The Weavers, Gemma, some of Emma's mates. High ceiling, low morale, if you get me.

"I've got a Chester-based squad, too. Sandra and Aiden, Henri, Jojo, all sorts. Got a little Manchester squad, too. Yalleys, mostly. And Beths." Max nods to himself. "I'm very lucky. There are lots of people I trust. If I die, they're going to gather in a haunted house and there will be a wheel of fortune with everyone's names on and Harry Styles will spin it and whoever the wheel lands on will be the new dad."

Kirsty looks startled by Max's idea, but recovers and moves onto her next question. "Are you worried that Sandra Lane might react badly to what you're doing?"

Max blinks. "What I'm...?"

"With what you're doing to Manchester City."

Rikki gives him a stern look. "Whachu doing, Max?"

"Me?" he says, as innocent as a kitten. "I barely did anything. Some people have got it into their heads that I had the casting vote, and that I tried to get a load of elderly billionaires to form a conga line and that I offered cash money to the first club to use a laughing face emoji in their social media announcements."

"Casting vote?" says Rikki.

"You don't know the story? Okay, here's the quick version. A team called Manchester City did some cheating, by which I mean ALL THE CHEATING. Everyone was really shocked about that. Such a surprise! When people asked them to stop cheating they said fuck you we will do what we want. People said yeah but you helped write the rules and you signed up to those rules. City's owners, an oil state, said 'we own this povvy little country, you fucking maggots, get wrecked'."

"Goodness!" says Rikki.

"I know. Rather strange. They could have apologised and got away with it. They could have settled it at any point in the last six, seven years, but they wanted to wait until I was in the Premier League. Why? Because they're fucking stupid. After twenty years of putting up with their miserable football and their joyless, mocking fans, we kicked them out." Max mimes kicking a football club out of a league. "For the first time in my life, I'm popular. United fans, Liverpool fans, Arsenal fans, all is forgiven. Everything before was just lolz and me being passionate and now we're all in this party together.

"I didn't realise how much Manchester Cheaty had eroded my love of the game, how much they had corroded my soul, but it's back! It's pristine! And it isn't only me, Rikki. Every man, woman, and child in this country has been rejoicing - all except the Prime Minister because he loves oil money more than he loves this country. Oh-oh! Bit of politics!" Max mimes slapping himself on the wrist.

Rikki says, "I can help with that."

Max holds his hand out. Rikki thinks about giving him a little slap, but she's far too sweet. Max gives her a look of pure affection, then resumes his tale. "So then there's a new question. In which league are the cheats going to play? This is where the story gets really fun. After the Prem, the next level down is called the Football League and it spans tiers two to four." Max demonstrates the concept of tiers with his hands. "72 clubs, Rikki. And they were going to have a vote about whether they wanted Shamchester to despoil and defoul their lovely competition.

"But what happened was that ten seconds after the excommunication was announced, dozens of clubs in those leagues posted things on their social media pages. The first was from Stoke City and it was written in a convincing Texan accent. No room at the inn for cheats. Ten seconds later came West Didsbury. What did they write? Maybe if I stand up I'll remember." Max flies to his feet and does a little dance while chanting to the tune of No Limits by 2 Unlimited. "They wrote: No no, no no no no, no no no no, no no there's no City! Everybody!" 

Most of The Assembly stand and join in. Rikki bops from her seat. Nicole waves a stick in time to the rhythm. She says, "There's no City!" and coquettishly covers her mouth. "Tee-hee!"

Max sits, euphoric, and stretches massively. He comes back down to earth, reluctantly, and puts a finger to his jaw. "Who was next to post? Some dude called Ryan Reynolds. Does films, I'm told. He said, what was it?" Max looks puzzled, then suddenly he stands, dances, and does the chant again. "There's no City!" He bends over from laughing. "Next was Diggy Doggy! Hey, Rikki, you didn't expect that, did you? He's a close personal friend of mine. If I ever form an American Baby Squad, he'll be in it.

"So his message went a little bit like this..." Max does what he believes to be a hip-hop dance and drawls, "Ain't no time for shams, dawg, ain't no time for cheats. Tranmere boys be voting no, laying down mad beats. Something like that, anyway. It was ha-mazing." Max settles into a boxer's stance and punches the air in a quick one-two-three-four. "Cardiff, Swansea, Luton, Brum! Huddersfield, Newport, Crewe, done!" He ends in a flurry of jabs and a climactic dragon punch. "Hai!" He watches his imaginary opponent as it tumbles to the floor. Max looms over its body, fist ready, like in the famous photo of Muhammad Ali standing over Sonny Liston. "Get back in your crevice, you cheats, you worms! Twenty years in the hole. Hurrrrr!"

Max tours the room doing high fives and making more triumphant grunting noises.

When he returns to his seat, he immediately stands, runs to the 'body', and stamps on it. "No, City, NO! Stay!" He cackles, tries to get serious, and fails miserably. Only Emma has ever seen him quite this happy.

Rikki says, "What about Sandra?"

"Oh, right, yeah. Sorry, Kirsty, I had so much joy inside me all of a sudden, it pushed your amazing question out of my head. Sandra Lane is my co-manager, Rikki, but she's a Manchester City fan. Kirsty is worried that what I'm doing will annoy Sandra and she will leave. I would say that since I've made Sandra the joint highest-paid female manager in world football, she might think twice. Ha! But not really. Sandra's a woman of principle and she wouldn't stay just for the money.

"She's a fan of Manchester City, the football club in Manchester that she grew up watching. That thing is long dead, and what we see now is a husk. Parasites and worms have infected the host, eaten it up from the inside, and now it's just a shell, but we cracked open the shell and saw the horrors within.

"Sandra Lane loves football and she has eyes. She knows she's looking at a monster. She might like to believe there's still some humanity in the writhing mass of hate and bile, but there isn't. She's in a horror story and that's not very nice for her but I won't stop what I'm doing, which is making sure the monster can never hurt anyone again.

"The Football Association is busy planning Dua Lipa concerts. The Independent Football Regulator has some powers but it's very cautious about intervening, especially because our Prime Minister doesn't want English rules to apply to foreign oil states. So who is going to step up? It needs to be someone strong, someone with great organisational skills, someone people look up to." Max leaves a beat, then turns to his left. "William, save us!"

William blushes massively, but speaks loud and clear. "I don't really know a lot about football. I like Doctor Who."

Max nods. "Okay, let's make a deal. You watch Doctor Who and I'll keep the cheats down in the National League. Good?" Max offers a handshake; William accepts it with relief.

Marcus says, "How are you going to do that?"

Max leans back, lazily. "I've been in the National League. I won it. I'm an expert in that level of football, as with all levels of football." He realises he's being overly smug, but he knows that Henri will enjoy that line so he doesn't backtrack. "Man City's so-called star players are all fleeing like rats on a sinking ship. It's the Club World Cup now, in Brazil, and there are going to be about 20 European clubs coming back with piles of cash. I'm expecting them to come sniffing around my players and I'm going to lose a lot. But I can buy replacements and Man City can't - they're not allowed to sign new players for three years. They will have to do with whatever they've got in their under 21s and their youth system. 

"Those lads are talented but if they think the National League will be an easy ride, they're in for a shock. I've chosen a National League club to support and I'm sending them proper players, experienced players, guys who will fuck things up. Ladies and gentlemen, please put your hands together for your next National League champions: Altrincham FC!"

Max applauds; many join in.

He leans forward, gets quiet. "Alty is in Manchester. It seems right to me that if you want to fight Evil Manchester you need to send Good Manchester. But Alty are not some mild-mannered weaklings hiding behind a Bible and some rosemary beads. They're fucking paladins, lads, armed to the teeth.

"I've loaned Alty my DOVE software and we're packing them with good players who are going to train at a League Two club nearby because that club has the better facilities. Alty will get amazing loan players, and I've sent them the League Two legends. Sans Henri, of course, though I might let him out of retirement for the two games against City. Fucking twat one of the pricks right in the face. Speak for football! Haha. Nah, he went out on a high. Can't ruin it." Max taps his cheek. "What else? Alty have a new stadium sponsor. Good injection of cash there, even if the name of the company is quite unconventional and that company appears to be owned by me.

"And on a completely unrelated note, I have decided that as well as paying for hundreds of nurses, I want to promote grassroots football, so I have created a special prize fund. My staff and I will choose a club at random and any team that scores against that club will get eleven grand, one thousand pounds per player per goal. That's money going from the Premier League to the fifth tier, which is a gesture so benevolent I'll probably win awards. And any club that gets a league win against this random club, they'll get 30 grand, cash, from me. Sending money down the pyramid, you see. Redistribution. It brings literal tears to the eyes." It brings a twinkle to the eyes, that's for sure.

William says, "How will you choose the random club?"

Max grins, then tries to hide it. "What, you're thinking it's obviously going to be Manchester Cheaty? I mean, it might, but I'm sure there will be some process or other. That's for Future Max to decide. Present Max is chilling with his homies in The Assembly." He gets cheeky and looks for approval from Rikki. He gets it.

"Just a couple more questions. The next is from Judson."

Judson has a physique akin to Brick, Emma's bodyguard. Huge arms, not much neck. His head is shaped rather like a butternut squash, making him seem very approachable. "Hi," he says, nervously. He needs a moment to gather himself, then says, "I am worried about AI and what it will do for jobs. It is already very hard for neurodivergent people to find work and I am anxious that AI will make it impossible. What do you think about it?"

Max clicks his teeth while he thinks. "I think I might be a good person to ask about this, actually. On the one hand, I'm a tech bro. My data analytics company uses AI and it's top. It does WILD things, mate. The boys have got it acting as a head coach, running one team in a training session so that the human coaches can have an elite opponent to play against. I'm calling it the Kobayashi Maru test, which is an homage to my favourite movie. Only I can beat the test, because I am fucking spectacular."

Rikki tuts; she doesn't like swearing.

For once, Max misses a social cue. "We can't run DOVE without humans, though. IBM used to have a saying. What was it? Something like, a computer can't be held accountable so a computer can't make decisions. That's a good rule. If my software recommends a player to a club, a human being needs to follow up on that.

"Then AI is promising in terms of medical stuff. My mum's condition, there's a lot of hope that AI can be the key to, like, achieving something. I am pretty sure there will be a breakthrough in the next ten, twenty years. The question is whether it's too late for my mum." Max looks to the left, closes his eyes, sticks out his jaw.

He clears his throat.

"Okay, so those are some good uses, but I have strictly banned anyone at Chester Football Club from using AI. What's special about a football club is that it's real and authentic and that it's a place for human connection. I know lots of you don't like football but forget the sport, just think about a place where you can go every week and meet twenty thousand friends. You can go up to anyone and ask what they think the score will be, or which goalie should start. Hell, in most cases you can talk to the away fans, too! Meet people from all over England and, fresh this season, from all over Europe. 

"When there's a goal, twenty thousand people cheer. They all jump up together and dance and hug each other. I know some of you wouldn't like that but imagine what it is like for those people. Some of them need that hug, let me promise you. Some of them need that release from the shitty week they just had.

"And how do we, the players, prepare for those matches? With brutally hard work. Drills, sessions, gyms, weights, running, bleeding, suffering. There are players who are working hard but not hard enough and I will go and politely ask them to do more - two inches from their face. Being a Max Best footballer is fun but it is hard. It's a high-effort environment. We train on Christmas Day. We train hard on Christmas Day.

"So then I can't have the guy who makes the match programme type a few words into a chatbot and copy paste the 4,000-word result. I can't accept generated images for our socials and posters. No. No way. We pay writers. We hire graphic designers. Everything we put out, as far as I know, is high-effort. Some people might say it's stupid, that I'm wasting the club's money, but I think the fans can tell. They can tell it's authentic, they can tell it's real, and that's why they support the club with even more passion, because we're mirroring how they feel, giving it back to them, telling them that their feelings are valid, showing them that they are seen.

"We might lose games, we might get relegated, but we will give every minute of every day our best. We will fight for the badge whether we're writing a tweet, cooking the meals, or cleaning the windows. That's why we don't use AI at Chester, Judson, and if I ever find anyone taking short cuts, there's gonna be a job opening for you, mate."

"Can I send you my CV?"

Max roars with laughter and grips his hair. "That whole thing was a setup! You played me! I got Judsonned! Wow!" Max laughs, amazed but disbelieving. "Have you ever changed a nappy?"

"No."

"There goes The Assembly Baby Squad... No worries. Football needs good people, Judson. Let's get you a trial somewhere. We'll talk afterwards, okay?" Judson beams, almost as happy as Max.

"The last question is from Joachim."

Joachim is in his twenties and looks sporty. He is actually ridiculously good-looking and has resting smoulder face, which Max finds fascinating, as you would. "Hi, Max. You are really a phenomenal player and I was very sad to see you lose the gig as the Soccer Supremo."

"Oh, yeah, well, they wanted to move in a different direction. Get somebody less outspoken, you know? But it was fine. They handled the situation with sublime tact and diplomacy and we parted on good terms."

Joachim smoulders, then says, "I play football. I wanted to know what tips you would have for a player like me?"

Max shrugs out his bottom lip. "What kind of player are you?"

"Winger." He smiles, dashingly, heart-breakingly. "Like you."

Max clicks his tongue while he scans the room. His eyes rest on an unoccupied corner. What's he looking for? "I don't suppose you've got some clips of yourself playing, have you?"

Joachim's eyes widen. "I do!"

"I don't normally work from videos but let's see if I can gleeeeeean something." Joachim hands over his phone. Max taps it and watches some match action. His face melts, goes utterly blank, utterly focused. For a moment, there is only Max Best and the tiniest snippet of football, and it sucks all the oxygen out of the room. Max notices the effect he is having. "This is like Gogglebox, isn't it? You're watching me watch the telly." He swipes and devours another clip. He scrubs back and forth over one particular scene. "Got it. We need a ball," he says. "Let's all take our shoes off and tie them together and wrap them up into a sort of megasphere."

Joachim frowns and jerks his thumb behind him. "We've got a real ball."

Just for a split-second, Max is annoyed. "Right. Okay, fine. Can we get the ball, please?" The ball is carried, not thrown, and placed down between the players. Max faces Joachim and bends his knees. "Reach out your hands for a second. Straight in front of you." Joachim obeys. Max does the same. "Okay, attacker, defender, ball. What sport are we playing?"

Joachim frowns again. What sort of question is that? "Football."

"Right," says Max. He rolls the ball behind him, under his chair. He grabs Joachim's wrists. "What sport is it now?"

"What?"

Max waits - he can be very patient sometimes. But Joachim isn't getting it. "Anyone?" says Max. No-one speaks, so he stomps his left foot, then his right. There are cries of 'sumo!' Max releases Joachim and says, "Sumo. Do you know the point I'm making?"

Shake of the head. "No."

Max gets the ball and 'dribbles', super slowly, towards his opponent. "If I come at you straight like this, we're going to smash into each other like the sumo guys. This is what you do on those clips. You're very square, as we call it. It's like you're a box and you're going to bang into my box. Save that for the fan fiction, right? Imagine you're a river. Do you want to smash into a big rock, or do you want to flow around it?

"On the pitch, being square doesn't work, because as you're coming towards me you'll have to slow, sort your feet out, then adjust your angle and while you're doing all that, a good defender is just going to get the ball, easy as pie. Good players, they don't give the ball up cheaply. Yeah, Chester will lose a lot of good players this summer but we will still have Dan Badford. You watch him this season, watch how he protects the ball, keeps the ball." Max isn't sure his imagery is working, so he simplifies. "Try to get more twisty."

"More twisty."

"Yeah, like this." Max bends and twists and pushes the ball with the outside of his right foot, then the inside, then he switches the ball to the left foot so gracefully that it feels like the ball has always been on his left foot. He twists and drops his shoulders one way then the other and moves the ball around like he's pushing coins across a table. "And I'm always on a diagonal to you, right? That means I can explode this way, or that way, and if I don't like my options it's easy to turn back."

Max does so while the ball sticks to the same exact part of his foot. He throws in another full rotation, just for the lolz.

He faces Joachim, turns to a 45 degree angle, and speeds his legs up. He's throwing stepovers, flip-flaps, weaving, threatening to sprint past, and all the while he's saying, "Footwork, footwork, footwork. Forget your kick-ups, kids. Learn this. Hai! Hai! Hai!" Max flops back to his chair and wipes his brow. "I need a nap."

Joachim smiles wide and says, "Aren't you in full training? You played for Saltney Town against the champions of Lithuania. You scored two goals."

"I'm pretending to be tired so I can get out of doing kick-ups later. Asking me to do kick-ups is like asking an autistic person to count toothpicks on the floor."

William points. "None!"

"Um, yeah. I would also have said none." Max offers a fist bump, which William takes.

Joachim's eyebrows dance and literal flames come out of his pupils before he says, "Thank you, Max. I will try to do as you have suggested."

Max clicks his fingers. "Ball. We've got a ball, we've got a corner. Can you do a couple of kick-ups over there? It might give me another idea."

Joachim is happy to oblige. He does a few bits of tekkers. Just for a half a second there is a very faint distortion in the lighting. Max looks rueful, but feels a camera on him. "Good stuff, bro. Okay, my top tip is this: train your left foot, too. Max Best has spoken."

"Time for some music!"

Two of the interviewers move away from the circle of chairs. One picks up a guitar, one sits at a keyboard. In front of them, five of the others stand with microphones.

The musicians start an upbeat song. Max tilts his head. It's familiar.

A cute young woman sings. She has a pure voice, very easy to listen to, warm and textured without being flashy. She gives space to her fellow Assemblers even though they are far less talented. She is Chesterness all the way through.

In this world... she sings.

It's just us.

The Assembly are performing As It Was by Harry Styles, a song that means so much to Max and his collection of weirdos and misfits, but now that Chester FC are everyone's second-favourite club, it hits different.

It's not the same as it was.

Max's little face crumples. His lips wobble. His eyes redden.

"Fuck," he says. "William, bro. You got me."

William puts his hand on Max's back, which is a hugely brave moment for him. "Everyone cries."

Max nods a few times and goes again, but then the rest of the gang get to their feet and dance. Janes holds her hands out and helps Max up, but only after giving him a peck on the cheek. He stands with his hands on his head, listens, then smiles and joins in with the dancing. When he plays football, when he has a ball at his feet, he is balletic, lithe, and organised. Without a ball, he is a shockingly shit dancer.

Nobody judges him.

The song ends and Max wraps his arms around the singer and her backups. He kisses the keyboard player on the cheek and holds onto the guitarist. There's a stray tear that has appeared from somewhere. Max laughs at himself as he wipes it away, shakes his head, and takes a moment to look out through the window, onto London, onto the Thames.

One of the few interviewers who didn't ask a question approaches Max, shyly. She says, "I drew you."

She hands him a leaf torn from a sketch pad. It's Max Best all right, the awesome haircut tells you that, but there's a blank space where there 'should' be a face. "Whoa," says Max. "That's top. Is this for me? Can I put it in the club museum?"

He can.

The Pakistani man, whose name is Gene, taps him on the shoulder. "Max Best, what are your plans for the 2029 slash 2030 football season?"

Max eyes the sketch some more, then considers the question as though he is hearing it for the first time. "Win every fucking thing with Chester, get Alan Turner sacked so hard he never works again, mock Man City every weekend, make sure my son doesn't develop a Geordie accent. Normal stuff for a football manager, I reckon."

Gene stares, unblinking, and Max isn't sure if his words have landed. Gene says, "Did you notice that when you stopped rotating your goalkeepers, you achieved Premier League survival and won the FA Cup?"

Max eyes him, grins happily, lifts him up and spins him round.

The credits roll.

...

Thanks for your support!

The Assembly is real - here's the David Tennant one (hope it works in your region). There's a pretty good Irish version. There are some clips online of the French version, where they grilled Macron about marrying his teacher. The Aussie one is more serious and there are no jaw-dropping moments.

I am working on putting Soccer Supremo up for free. I'm investigating text-to-voice options for people who used to do that on the former website. And I am going to create epubs and mobi files of the series so you can read on whatever devices. Basically, as many ways to read or listen as poss.

But mostly I'm going to keep writing. Next chapter is due on Monday.

Onwards!