(This article first appeared on Bethany Alban's personal Substack.)

Dedication

I ask grown-ups to forgive me for dedicating this story to a child. I have an excuse: without him, this tale would not have been told.

Le Petit Prince

According to Wikipedia's entry for the science fantasy novella The King of Chester, the titular king visits other planets, including Earth, and the story addresses themes of love and loss.

We will return to love, for this story must start with a loss.

***

Planet B-442, The Multiverse.

The King of Chester is on paternity leave, and while the cat's away, the mice will play.

On footballing asteroids with exotic names such as San Sebastián and Belgrade, the adults who run things are getting uppity. In the north of Spain, Real Sociedad are telling the world that they are confident of beating Chester Women and progressing into the Women's Champions League.

In Serbia, it's a similar story, but a hundred times more macho. Red Star Belgrade, who have won the top division thirteen years in a row, trail 3-0 after the first leg of their Champions League Playoff. The rewards are serious - there's a minimum of 18 million pounds for the winners, while the losers will be kicked down to the far-less-lucrative Europa League, where they could, ironically, face Chester FC. Belgrade's opponents are the Welsh champions, Saltney Town, and the Serbs have high hopes of overturning the three-goal deficit.

Points in their favour:

One, a fervent, passionate home crowd rocking a stadium once described by The Bleacher Report as amongst the most intimidating arenas on any known planetoid. Saltney's players will rarely have experienced anything like it. They are likely to crumble.

Two, Saltney's best player will not travel. Red Star's French manager, Antoine de Saint-Maximin, hypes up his team's chances by playing into the worst tendencies of Serbian macho culture. He doesn't exactly say the words, but he strongly hints that Max Best is not a real man because real men don't take paternity leave. Real men put bread on the table. Wife in the kitchen, husband in the midfield. Real men sweatily rut against other sweaty men, they grapple and hold each other tightly while an older authority figure tells them they aren't doing it to his satisfaction. It's certainly one version of masculinity.

Three, Max is not the only absence for the Bordermen. Ruud Berkenbosch, Saltney's Dutch striker, has had an injury setback. He will not travel. Nor will Bobby Ross, the centre back who is on loan from Stoke City. Berkenbosch can be replaced by one wonderkid or other, but Max has left Saltney threadbare when it comes to experienced defensive players. Bobby Ross's injury exposes the hollowness of Max's squadbuilding. It's a mile wide, an inch deep. His team is a glass cannon.

Antoine de Saint-Maximin pleads with the Red Star fans, of whom there are many, to turn the stadium into a cauldron.

Those Serbs don't need much of an excuse to oil up. Smoke bombs are brought out of storage. Teenage boys stand in the mirror and practice making 'throat-slitting' gestures. Is that a flare in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?

The King's men are going to be ambushed and left for dead. A former colleague says, 'It's going to kick off. Huge black eye for Max Best and his whole King of Football schtick. Being knocked out after winning the first leg 3-0 is going to be pure cringe. If you can get out there, get out there.'

The playoff second leg is Tuesday. Chester's women are in Spain on Wednesday. Max Best will attend neither; I can afford to go to one.

I have been following Chester Women as best I can, but I have been following Max Best for longer. It will be instructive to see him get his comeuppance for once. I request a media pass for the Red Star Stadium and book my flights.

***

Belgrade, Serbia

I have been carried by a flock of birds to a new planet, one with topless men by the thousand. This planetoid holds 50,000 neckless brutes, wiry youngsters, and dead-eyed grunts. The noise they make is terrific, smoke fills the nostrils, red flares burn my retinas.

They're going to take that 18 million quid, I think, and use it to buy more flares. I wonder what Max would have done with it...

A gruff, unsmiling woman strides around the media zone handing out the team sheets.

I stare and stare and stare.

Number 77, Max Best, is here and he's starting.

I jerk my head up and take in the light and the smoke and the palpable aggression and I think: uh-oh. It's like the time Max strutted around Budapest dressed as a rainbow, but this time, he'll be on the pitch.

"Excuse me," I say. "Where are the emergency exits?"

***

Nobody from Saltney Town shakes hands with anybody from Red Star. I groan, my worst fears realised, and to distract myself, I try to make sense of the Saltney team.

Marek Masarik is in goal. He is old but he has been retained by the greatest judge of talent in the history of the game, and he's still first-choice for Slovakia; he fills me with confidence.

For defenders, we have Adam Summerhays, a left back; Henry Dunston, a centre back; James Thomas, a right back. The first was rescued from a cull at Manchester United. The others helped Wrexham to rise though the divisions before being discarded. Max has given all three a shot at regular Champions League football, and they are good players but if he tries to jury-rig them into a back three, I am going to declare him a bald fraud.

For a striker, there is Colin Beckton, ageing gracefully.

Did you notice me skip the midfield? That's because there are so many of them. Li Anjie, from Singapore via Bayern; Toquinho, a Brazilian winger; Davey Barnes, another Welshman saved from Wrexham's giant bin; Charlie Dugdale from Stoke City; Ludo Peeters, a Belgian wonderkid; Max actual Best.

So what's the formation? 3-6-1?

I want to scream.

That's not appropriate for an away match in the Champions League, you cocky little shit!

Someone fucking tell him!

The match kicks off and the noise reaches stupendous proportions. It's a cauldron all right, and the Saltney players will be cooked in it.

I hate what's happening and I despise these flare-wielding misogynists... but it's exciting. It is epic as fuck.

And a big part of me is eager to bear witness as Max Best's accumulated mistakes and arrogances return to bite him on the arse.

***

It takes me three full minutes to realise that Max Best is playing as a centre back.

Antoine de Saint-Maximin orders his players to hit long passes in Max's direction. The Frenchman has only seen Max in highlights. He thinks Max is a mystery winger, some kind of lily-livered luxury player. He's the weak link!

I find myself on my feet, crossing my arms in front of me. No! No! Don't do that!

On the third of these futile attempts, Max rises, Ronaldo-style, to launch a header thirty yards to the right wing, leaving Red Star's striker in a heap. Max surges forward, watches as the ball goes from Toquinho to Ludo to Davey to Li.

Li passes to Colin Beckton.

With his back to goal, Colin takes a strange touch, one that leaves the ball ankle height and spinning madly.

He backheels it through a centre-back's legs.

Into the path of Max, who never stopped running forward.

All kinds of things could happen now, but Max isn't interested in the probabilities. He beats the other centre back to the ball, touches it ahead, on his left foot, and as the startled goalie approaches, Max addresses the ball so subtly, with no backlift, that we don't even realise he has taken a shot until the goalie dives like a sack of potatoes, over the ball, and by the time the dolt has finished crashing into the turf, the ball has crossed the line.

Max continues his sprint, curving his run until he's approaching the Red Star dugout. He uses his right hand to make the gesture of someone talking. Flap flap flap! It's aimed at Antoine de Saint-Maximin. You talk too much.

Max follows this by snarling at the French manager, making a shushing gesture. Shut the fuck up.

The Saltney bench empties; they embrace their talismanic player-consultant, right in Saint-Maximin's face. The Frenchman must know what's coming. It's four-nil, Saltney's cannon is nowhere near as brittle as hoped, and Max isn't simply the Welsh team's best player, he's one of the best players who has ever set foot in this stadium.

The tie is all but over, yet Red Star's flares continue to burn. Smoke continues to fill the air.

It's so cringe.

***

Max Best spends the rest of the match doing a passable impression of the greatest centre back who has ever played the game. He does so unsmiling and joylessly, brutal in his ruthlessness and professionalism.

But this is Max Best we're talking about and he can't help himself. With ten minutes to go, he brings on two eighteen-year-olds. With five minutes to go, he brings on two seventeen-year-olds. With two minutes to go, he gives a Champions League debut to an 18-year-old goalkeeper.

He is taking the piss.

At full time, he strides towards Saint-Maximin, eyes like active volcanoes, but is pushed down the tunnel by Llewellyn Kenrick, Saltney's de jure manager.

Saint-Maximin stares at nothing, ashen-faced. He's going to lose his job over this.

Too bad for him.

***

I scuttle down to the media centre and listen to the post-match interviews. I bite my tongue. I zip up my lips. I behave beautifully. 

For about two minutes. 

Then I pounce on Saint-Maximin. "You shamed yourself with your comments and you disgraced your profession with your ineptitude. You will be sacked and based on what I saw tonight, you will never get another job. Tell me, was it worth it?"

He mumbles something about preparing for the next match, more questions are asked, then the prick leaves. Llewellyn Kenrick appears to have been at the back, waiting his turn, because on his way down he pauses next to me. "Let me shake that hand," he says, grinning from ear to ear. He should grin - I know for a fact he gets bonuses based on Saltney's prize money. He's probably one of the best-paid managers in world football. "Love it, Bethany. Love it."

I'm so intoxicated with everything I've seen and what I have just done that I take a risk. "Is anyone going to Spain? I want to watch Chester Women but I'm tapped out. I'd love to go, Well In."

"Spain?" he says, like I have just invented a new word.

He does the presser and politely ignores the cringegirl at the back.

***

When it's over, I stay to fill my notebook with shorthand. If I write this story, there are so many potential angles. If you come at the king, you best not miss. Is there a more promising 19-year-old than Ludo Peeters? If Max can take Wrexham's rejects into the Champions League, why can't Wrexham get into the Prem?

With a slight gasp, I remember that College 1975, part of the Max Best Federation of Planets, have been competing against the champions of Norway for a spot in the Champions League. It has been half an hour since I last checked, and I find that it's still 0-0 and nearing penalties.

I shoot to my feet, intending to head towards the nearest TV, hoping that I can persuade someone to change the channel, but I nearly bump into a man who has been watching me.

It's Max Best.

"Argh," I say, because nearly colliding with the man I'm writing about is the last thing I expect.

"You want to go to Spain?"

It takes me a minute to re-engage my mouth. "Yes."

"You'll write about Chester Women?"

"Yes," I say, because I will. Eventually.

He's sort of eyeing me, then when he sees I'm not understanding his intention even though he HASN'T OPENED HIS MOUTH TO EXPLAIN HIMSELF, he rapidly shakes his head. "So get your stuff. Come on!"

He starts to walk away. I cry out, "Wait! I don't have a ticket."

He pinches his nose. "We're going on Don Pino's private jet."

"I don't have a hotel!"

"I'll get you a pillow and a sleeping bag. What next? I don't have my Ganymede shampoo? I don't have my fluffy pink slippers? Are you coming, yes or no?"

Reader, I stand up for myself. I assert my independence. I demand to be taken to a TV, and as it happens, there's one on the plane.

***

San Sebastián, Spain

I wake up in the lap of luxury, in some kind of hotel-palace. The sheets are crisp, the room is warm, the sky is more flawless than any sapphire.

Down in the breakfast bar, I spot Don Pino, the superagent, and tell him I'm Max's friend, in case he has forgotten. He bids me to sit, and after making some small talk, I confess my worries that the hotel is quite expensive. Maybe this is veering towards unethical?

"Max is your friend. Moreover, he can afford to treat you," he says, smiling like a shark. "Didn't you see the score?"

"College won on penalties."

"Indeed," he says, with a chuckle. "Last night, the lucky bastard brought two of his consultancy projects into the Champions League. He told me that College's chances were twenty to thirty percent."

"I thought he had baby brain and he had completely tuned out from football. Instead, he's gone to Serbia, he's come to Spain."

Don Pino nods. "He does have baby brain. He does not want to be here, but in being away for one day and one night he can make money and keep his promises."

"What promises?"

"To his players. Malibu Shaw, Macca Serra, Haley Goodhew, and all the others. Come with me and I'll give you Champions League football. A win tonight and they will be more than one-half of the way there. As for you, get Max to take you to lunch, to the shops. He is richer than Croesus and completely distracted." Don flashes his teeth again, chuckles again. "The lucky bastard. I have met talented people before, but he is simply supernatural."

Max arrives, wearing shorts, a plain t-shirt, sunglasses. Last night, he earned millions, so an expensive lunch in the city sounds good. "Hi, Max. I'm just thinking about how much to eat now, because I don't want to spoil my appetite for lunch in case there's a cute little place you've heard about."

Max is busy taking stock of his surroundings, but he spares about 1% of his mental runtime to accommodate my query. "Lunch? I'd like you to hang out with our women, do some interviews. I'd like an article about them before the second leg, if you can do that. It's going to be the first ever European match played at the Deva and I want a media frenzy. I want a sell-out. I want people to know how massive it is."

"Are you telling me what to write, Max?"

Slowly, he turns his face towards mine. He pulls his sunglasses down. "Pardon me. I thought you might help to draw attention to an incredible moment in the lives of these young women. You inspired me to start down this path, and this is the final gate. If we get past Real Sociedad, we're in the Champions League. Chester FC, that tiny little club you saw who had no home, no players, no gear, will go toe-to-toe with the elites. More than that, we will redefine what the word elite means. The age of Chester FC will be the age of lamentation and despair for everyone who is not us. Soz if I thought that might be interesting to a journalist." He gives me a look of pure disdain, then says, bitterly, "Soz."

He gets up, tuts, and leaves.

(Flouncing out at this point feels like one of his weird jokes, but no. He has actually fucked off, and I don't see him again until kick-off that night, when he is sitting next to Jay Cope in the dugout.)

As the doors close behind him, I realise my predicament. "I don't have a plane ticket home."

Don Pino grips a croissant in his huge hands and tears it apart. "When you interview the women, you can tell them your situation and they will ensure you have a seat on their plane."

"Fuck," I say, as I rest my forehead against the tablecloth. "He has stitched me up."

"Poor Bethany!" says Don Pino. "Has to talk to world-class footballers all day, has to watch a high-quality, consequential football match, has to fly home on a private jet!"

I tut. "I don't like being... corralled like this."

"Ah! That part I can very much understand."

"I want to write whatever I want to write."

Don Pino eyes me with great interest, then points at me with a chunk of croissant. "You're very much like him," Don says, as he starts to munch. "But he rules his planet. You and I have a long way to travel before we can truly be masters of our own destinies."

I stare at him. There's no way he believes that about himself. But he's right about my status, so with a sigh, I get my phone out and text Dani.

Hi! Max has dragged me to San Sebastián and I don't know where I am. He wants me to interview some of you but I don't know where you are. (I'm a terrible journalist, aren't I?!) Can you help? Also, please tell me there's a spare seat on your plane because otherwise I'm going to have to steal a bike and cycle to England...

***

Dani steps up, and the rest of the women rally round. Of course I can go home with them. Kisi Yalley is the sole dissenting voice, but only because she wants me to ask her for help one day, so that she can repay me for what I did for her father. I tell her there's nothing to repay. "That's not true," she says, practically stamping her foot.

The interviews are interesting, but the match is fascinating.

Chester's starting eleven is ten-elevenths familiar, and they are still playing their 3-4-2-1 formation. Max loves 4-1-4-1 for his men's team, but that's in large part because he has Youngster. The women's 3-4-3 variant has lasted a long time, and it suits everyone. Victoria Rose can move from the back three into the DM zone as the situation demands. Dani and Sarah Greene can maraud down the wings, but are defensively competent, too. And Chester have a gaggle of tricky, inventive CAMs, not least Meredith Ann, the Colombian starlet who is now 20 and who talks like she is about to move to a new planet.

Spanish football is all about control. Control of the ball, of space, of time. In this match, Sociedad control the square root of fuck all, because Chester play them off the park. It's not the brutal efficiency of what Max Best did in Serbia, but it's close. Chester's new signing, Malibu Shaw, stamps out any danger that might arise, and Haley Goodhew has no shots to save.

The other goalie is much busier, but a slightly ring-rusty Chester only manage to score one goal.

It's all to play for in the second leg, which is just how Max would want it.

All day, his players have been buzzing about some madness he has got planned for the first ever European home match at the Deva Stadium. I do my best to extract more info and fail hard.

I lean on Kisi, telling her this is the favour, this is how she can repay me. She laughs, calls me 'desperate as', then reluctantly concedes one snippet of info. Max has sent them a song and has ordered them to become obsessed with it.

She refuses to tell me what the song is.

***

The Sky, Earth

Max is the first to board the jet - he desperately wants to go home. The King, morose, longs to return to his rose. Meanwhile, the narrator, dying of thirst, is offered a glass of white wine. If she drinks it, how will she get to Manchester?

We're cruising at 30,000 feet, which is not as high as the mood. I'm so swept along by the team's happiness that I go to Max and ask if I can maybe borrow one of the club's electric cars for a couple of days because there won't be any public transport when we land back in England. He stares at me, trying to remember what it's like to be poor, what it's like to live on a world with eight billion others instead of on one's private planet. He says, "Yeah, sure, if you want. But why don't you stay at mine tonight? You can meet Archie and we can workshop ideas for articles you might write to promote the second leg."

"Stay at your place?" I have seen Max's gaff in an episode of Escape to the Country. He bought the 'mystery house', which is typical Max, and I'm insatiably curious to see it for myself. Royalty House, as it is named, is just as opulent as any five-star hotel but is infinitely more exclusive, and I will be one of the first people outside Emma Best's direct family to meet... I nearly gasp again, for the entire outline of this article appears in my mind, fully fledged, fully formed. I say, "I can meet The Little Prince!'

Max absolutely melts, and smiles for what I feel sure is the first time since he has left England. "Haha, that's great. That's what he is, the little brat! Done, that's sorted."

"Wait, what about Emma? Don't you want to check with her?"

"What's she gonna say, no, I don't want company? No I don't want help finding my car keys, my phone, my coffee cup? She'll be delighted. They're all in the fridge, by the way. And, of course, she'll be very keen to help us plan your article about the women's team."

I go back to my assigned seat and a Welsh beauty called Simone Ashton takes the vacant spot. She has a couple of questions for Max. He's deep in conversation with a fox! Just like in The Little Prince. But isn't the prince supposed to be Archie?

One thing's for sure: I won't be driving anywhere tonight. I call the flight attendant and say, "About that wine..."

***

Royalty House, Cheshire

I text Emma, just in case, and she replies positively. It's nearly 3 a.m. when we arrive at the mansion, so it's quietly straight to bed and I only really get to lay eyes on it in the morning.

In photos and on TV, the property seems like it might veer into tackiness and pretension, but in person it is charming, cool, and welcoming. Cool? Yes. England is sweltering, baking in a heat wave, but Royalty House has air con. I sleep like a princess, use the luxurious en suite, and slowly make my way along the corridors to Max's home office, which overhangs the lounge and part of the kitchen. For a football fan, this office is something like Mecca, and if I wanted I could pry and poke... but it feels wrong and I'm hungry and thirsty and I hear Max and Emma speaking quietly, so I make my way down a staircase that was hand-crafted to look like one you might get on a yacht.

All the decor is gorgeous and tasteful, but it seems raaaather unsuitable for a baby. Max has taken steps to remedy the situation. I walk towards the kitchen and see two gob-smacking things in close succession.

The first is the living room, which on Escape to the Country was a sumptuous if rather gaudy space, with furniture copy-pasted straight out of a high-end magazine. But the giant sofas have been carelessly shoved to the side, which creates a kind of den for grown-ups. There's an empty crisp packet by one arm rest, and it screams 'Emma'.

The rest of the room - the majority - has been given over to mattresses. Twenty mattresses, new, shockingly white, have been arranged haphazardly by the world's worst Minecraft player. It's like Max has tried to create an indoor bouncy castle and has given up halfway through, saying, 'ah, that'll do'. In front of the fireplace, the mattresses are two deep. In the middle of the mess, a few lie flat on the floor with sheets on, there are a couple of duvets, and six pillows of varying shapes and sizes. Does Emma sleep here?

"You're up," says the Geordie Rose, and when I turn I get my second shock.

Max Best is topless. He's wearing flannelly shorts that look soft but make me think 'buns of steel'. His torso is shredded, his bicep guns are locked and loaded, he's bursting with lats, delts, traps, and God know what else. To scramble my eggs even further, he's holding a tiny little human being. Archie Best is not shredded; he's flabby and funny-looking. He's rocking a plain white nappy, inscrutable expression, dark, wispy hair. He's resting on Max's lower arm like a sloth in a tree.

"Sorry, I'm intruding. Thought you were... you know... dressed."

Max has been in a dream world, staring at nothing, but he turns to face me. "Dressed? I am dressed."

Emma says, "I think Bethany is worried you might be cold."

Max can't really understand what either of us are talking about, and I wonder if he has slept a wink since we got here. He glances down at himself, then tuts. "I'm doing skin-to-skin contact, Beth. It's calming for the baby, helps them fight infection, and boosts milk supply."

I point at the father-son duo. "Whose milk supply is being boosted right now?" 

Emma smiles. She's as gorgeous as ever, but is very clearly not getting enough sleep. She speaks as if she has been cursed with eternal slumber and can only wake once per day after a strong coffee. "It's the tiger-in-a-tree hold. Archie loves it. Max can do baby-fu, Bethany. Martial arts for babies. He spins Archie around like those wooden sticks for fighting."

"Nunchucks," says Max.

"Whizz whizz whizz, Archie's suspended by daddy's palm. Whizz whizz whizz, his back is to Max's chest. Hai hai hai, he's just sort of dangling from Max's elbow. It's absolutely amazing."

"I'm definitely the best at baby-fu," agrees Max, and he's as surprised as anyone.

Emma gets off her stool and shuffles towards the kettle. "Want a cuppa?"

"Yes, please."

While her back is turned, I leer at her husband. I can't help it. "Have you got an eight-pack?"

Max sighs. "I think eight would be an exaggeration. This is better than the seven-pack I had. Call it a seven point seven pack."

"Are you on a stamina build, then?" Max trains himself to be whatever his team needs. If they need short bursts of skill, the abs wither. If they need 90 minutes of hard running, he gets lean. He's the Christian Bale of footballers.

Emma is throwing tea bags into mugs. "He doesn't do builds any more. He's all-in-one."

"I call it dad bod," says Max. "But you're not here to write about me. Let's talk about the women's team."

"No," I say. "I have questions."

The first hint of petulance. "Oh my God."

"First, I want to hear everything about Archie and Emma and you. You're a father! Ems, you're a mum. What's it like, how are you feeling? And at some point, I want to know what that is."

Everyone follows my finger. Max shrugs slightly. "It's the soft cell."

Emma softly sings, "Tainted lo-ove."

"What is a soft cell?"

"It's a padded room, what do you think? You can go and crash. Have a nap. Have a lie-down. Baby can clamber around and whatnot. Surely it's obvious?"

“He clambers?”

“Not yet, no. I like to get ahead of things.”

"Are those mattresses the same ones from the bedroom? They're, like, five thousand pounds each. Is that a hundred thousand pounds of mattresses you've put there because the fireplace is so magnificent that it's actually dangerous?"

Max sighs. "Of course I didn't spend a hundred thousand pounds on mattresses. What's wrong with you? They were about two hundred quid each from Aldi. It's cheaper than bubble wrapping everything. Can we just move past the mattresses? It's perfectly normal."

Both of the Little Princes are getting fractious, so I move on. "How was the day of?”

“The day of what?”

“The birth."

"The birth of the women's team? Wonderful. Magical. And now here we are, one-nil up after the away match, excited about the second leg, but somehow not quite excited enough. There's just one thing lacking. An article, perhaps."

I shake my head. "I'm not moving on. Tell me something about - oh! You did that show, The Assembly. You said you would be happy to have an autistic child. Is Archie...?" Halfway through asking, I realise it's a stupid question, if not actually rude then borderline.

But Max says, "We can't say for sure, but he might be. The time intervals on his vomits exactly follow the Fibonacci sequence, don't they, Ems? But I think autistic kids don't communicate loads and Archie is very chatty. He's already said his first words, which were to pledge allegiance to the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, so his Geordie DNA is currently dominant. I'm indoctrinating him with Manchester bangers to right that wrong, but he hasn't vibed with The Smiths yet. Who wants a fried egg?"

"I'll have one if you ask me more than three seconds after talking about vomit. Is that a dad thing?"

Max steps towards me, eyes afire. "You can't believe how instantaneously the dad bug hit me, Beth. It was like, Max, here's your son. What? I said. This little bag of bones? This weakling, this nobody? This is what I worked so hard to achieve?" Emma coughs, but Max can't be distracted. "I reached out, gingerly, afraid to hurt him, and this tiny little creature wrapped his little fingers around the tip of mine. The director of the movie of my life deployed all his tricks. Push pulls, special effects, massive French horns. Thunderbolts, flames, the passage of time almost paused. A voyage through the entire cosmos, backwards, the stunning revelation that this universe is contained within a child's eye. My child's eye.

"Without saying anything to anybody, I ran. I sprinted, I turned, I slammed into corridor walls. To the car. High-speed, recklessly, into Chester city centre. The shop was about to close - I slid through the doorway with seven seconds to spare. There! To my right. I knew where it was. All dads know, somehow. In our hearts, we know.

"I took it to the counter. Paid for it. Held it close to me, rested it on my lap on my way back to the hospital."

I have to admit that I'm enjoying the performance. "Bunch of flowers?"

He leans closer. "The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich by William L. Shirer. Thirteen hundred pages."

Emma's smiling. I'm laughing. "That's what dads do, is it? They buy books?"

"Specifically books about World War Two. Henri was the same. He told me the exact same story, thinking himself original, but of course he had to get all Henri about it. He bought The Coming of the Third Reich by Richard J. Evans. Fucking typical. He's such a snob!"

"Babes, can I have an egg?"

"Totes." Max gets into host mode, which might actually be the strongest sign of character growth since I met him. "Beth, do you want a fried egg or do you want something else? Help yourself to anything in the fridge."

While Max gets the kitchen ready, I open the massive containment unit. It's bigger than the ones in American TV shows, and inside is a wonderland. It's like the food section at Marks and Spencer, but there are more electronics than at M+S. I take out a chilled iPhone and hand it to Emma, then decide a fried egg sounds great.

I watch, entranced, as Max Best makes breakfast for two, one-handed. The other arm holds Archie Best, who does not seem to have inherited Max's restlessness; he lies there, utterly content. Life goals.

Max oils a pan, cracks two eggs, gets the salt and pepper ready. The only part he needs help with is the bread. Emma cuts off two big slices. Max toasts it, his beloved applies the butter. Other than that, his process is buttery smooth, unhurried, and precise. I say, "What do you do if your left arm gets tired?"

"It doesn't," he says, but he baby-fus Archie onto his right arm and continues left-handed like it was the easiest thing in the world. That might be the most impressive thing I've ever seen him do.

"Aren't you worried about dropping him?"

"Dropping him?" says Max. "He's not an underperforming left back, Beth. I'm not gonna drop him."

He whirls his arm around - spatula, plate, bread - and a very Instagrammable fried egg is placed beneath me. It's mouth-watering, but Max pulls the plate away just a fraction. "In eating this, you agree you call your article 'Tant Pis Pour Elle'."

"What?" I have no idea what he has just said, and anyway, I'm going to call it The Little Prince, but there is literally no harm in lying. Not if it gets that egg into my mouth quicker. "I agree," I say. I grab the plate and tuck in.

***

When I'm done and I'm washing it all down with my second cup of tea, with a topless hunk serving me and clearing away my plates and cutlery - I love this house so much - Emma lets out a tiny groan. It's almost inaudible, but Max and Archie are there in a flash, fussing. They bound away to a cupboard, return instantly, and they ply Emma with vitamin supplements. Max says, "Did you zinc? Have you zincked?" When the patient has taken her meds, she gets a special booster - skin-to-skin contact with two little princes.

Emma says, "How was the match last night?"

"Good," I say. "It was a high-quality affair. Great technique, good tactical awareness on both sides. So it's really, you know, impressive to see that Chester were a cut above."

"And Belgrade? You were there, right? Max didn't talk much about it."

Max is behind her, suddenly, in her blind spot, making throat-cutting gestures. I blink and re-assess. It's not throat-cutting, it's 'don't talk about this'. But how can I not? "I mean, it was a great atmosphere. Intense."

"Really? Max said everyone was friendly."

I'm confused. "Didn't you watch it?"

Max does a weird fake laugh and puts one hand on Emma's shoulder. "Emma is very sensitive right now. It has all been a bit much and it's still quite a lot and what we want is some peace and quiet with maybe just one cheekily provocative article about our women's team, just to spice things up and to shift another couple of thousand tickets. But the outside world is mad and crazy and we don't need to think about it, do we babes? So we just watch Bake Off. It's lovely people being lovely to each other. That's all we need right now."

I'm getting the feeling that Max doesn't want me to tell his wife that he squared up to 50,000 Serbians on their home patch. Or that he shaped to crunch into a tackle, causing a Red Star player to throw himself to the floor and roll around, not realising that Max had stopped a full metre short of making contact. Or that Max had spent the next five minutes screaming, 'You fucking cheat! You fucking loser!' into the guy's face while forty people pushed and shoved each other surrounded by hellish light and the smell of brimstone. "Bake Off is lovely," I say.

Max rewards me with a pleased look, and the ultimate sign of his approval: "Do you want a chilled plum?"

"Hang on," I say, because I'm remembering a scene from The Little Prince. "Emma's the roooooose." I get my phone out and find the synopsis. "The rose pretends to be sick because she likes it when the prince cares for her. The prince builds her a glass palace - " I glance towards the floor-to-double-height-ceiling windows, "to stop the caterpillars from eating her."

"What's she saying?" says Max.

"I'm going to be eaten by a caterpillar."

Max is genuinely perplexed. "What the fuck kind of imagery is that? I've already handed the perfect theme to her on a plate. Oh, hang on." Max shrugs and bends his wrists and just like that, he's holding Archie up in two hands, head height. Baby-fu in action! Max scans his son's face. "He's hungry."

Emma nods and stands up. She looks more tired than ever, but then she laughs. "Archie's the caterpillar!" She slaps Max. "Why don't you stop him from eating me, you prick?"

"Soz." Max hands over the child, then fusses with his wife's hair. "We'll go to my office."

"Kay."

They lean into each other for a three-count, then Emma heads towards Mattress Land, and when I look at Max next, he's pulling a t-shirt over the last nought point seven of his abs. Awwww. He says, "Here's why I invited you. I need you to get absolutely obsessed with a French Canadian pop song, ideally in the next ten minutes. You ready?"

What?

***

We go up the yacht stairs. "How much money did you make on Tuesday night?"

"I don't know," he says.

"You can't be serious."

"I'm busy, mate! Just win the thing and stack up the coins later. Who cares? No amount of money will fill the Deva if people don't feel energised by the coming event. European football in the heart of Chester. Come on, lads! Let's fucking go!" He stumbles slightly, as if trying to stand on a stair that hasn't yet been built. "My brain is 90% Archie, 9% Emma, 1.9% counting my abs, 0.9% miscellaneous. Okay? I would like your help with this. Sit there."

I don't sit where he indicates. It's the only chair, so I will eventually, but to assert my independence, I take a detour past several massive wall charts. They are teeming with colourful printouts, and are labeled with the names of nineteen clubs, ranging from Arsenal to Wolves. "The fuck's this?"

"It's the With Ball slash Without Ball preferences of every team in the Prem, what does it look like?"

"Max, it's too advanced for me. What is it?"

Admitting that I'm a noob almost always works, because despite the low-key aggro he sends my way, he likes me really. "Here, look. Tottenham With Ball is 4-2-3-1, but in reality their players drift, so to clarify the point we've got the average touch maps. See? Carvalho stays high, but the guy on the other side is like a right midfielder. There's the theory and the reality. Both are instructive if you want to beat them.

"Then Without Ball, they sink into these shapes, which we've highlighted with this block of colour. This is where they're strongest, right? We can play around these blocks or go over them. Also, we can get to the edge of the stronghold and move the ball left and right until it disrupts, then go through the empty space.

"This... this is visualisations of different stages of matches. If I've got ten minutes, I'll bring Archie up here and we'll discuss it. What if Spurs go from 4-2-3-1 to 4-3-3? He's giving me tests, see? I tell him that I might switch our passing lane to the left, or hit big diags to the right, or whatever."

"You're visualising everything that could happen, before it happens."

"Not everything, no."

"Just everything Archie can think of."

Max grins, then guides me towards the office chair. It's in front of a veritable temple to nerdery. 

There's a desk with a computer keyboard, a mouse, a control panel of some sort, and about a dozen large computer screens. This could be Batman's control room, or an elite hacker's den. The only hint that it belongs to a gobby Manc twat are two coffee mugs. One is Chester-branded and is filled with pens, pencils, and highlighters. The other says 'World's Best Dad', with the word Best printed in Chester FC colours. "That's so fucking adorbs, Max, oh my God. You and your little baby, holy shit, I don't think I can take it in its raw form."

"Yeah, yeah, we're not in dad mode up here. This is where we come to slay our enemies, okay? This is where we come to butcher those who oppose us. This is a place of cold rage and blind fury."

"And cute mugs."

He sighs and while I park in his very expensive office chair, he leans against a wall and gathers his thoughts. He pushes his palms together to declare that there has been a reset in the conversation, to show that we are now in a new topic. He deepens his voice, slows down. "In the olden days, the LA Lakers used to enter the arena to a certain song. Um..."

The name of the song has fallen out of his mind, probably because his head storage is 101.8% full.

He runs down the corridor to his bedroom and returns with his Macbook. He opens it, types, checks the volume isn't loud enough to disturb Emma, then plays a video. "Sirius by The Alan Parsons Project. Chicago Bulls, not Lakers." We listen for twenty seconds. I can just about imagine this playing before a major sporting event. Max continues, "It's pretty good, builds, feels epic. It's not my favourite but I get why this resonated. It helps that you've got the best player of all time walking out while this is blasting through the stadium. It doesn't take long before you associate this with winning and greatness."

He goes back to his preferred leaning spot.

"In the Sunderland documentary, there's a scene where the new owners want to update the walkout music. The old one was... not Ride of the Valkyries. Shit. What's wrong with my head? Dance of the Knights? Yeah, I think it's Dance of the Knights. The new owners decide that it's boring. Classical music? Are you joking? Yawwwwwwnzzz. I actually like it, but I can see it both ways. The new owners remixed it into some godawful techno shit. It leads to one of the most cringe scenes in the whole show, and that's saying something."

"Wait," I say. "You want to change the walkout music at the Deva? That's what this is about?"

He seems irritated that I am not sharing the exact same thoughts as him in the exact same order. "YES! But only for the women's Champions League games, Beth, as I have told you eight or nine times. For the men I want silence from us. The McNally decides what the match will sound like. I told Joe Anka, if the fans are on, you're off. He gets it. For the WSL and women's cups, it's Bangers and Match. Hits, tunes, stuff that gets people bouncing, singing. I've come around to the idea that during a match we can play little bits of songs like they do in the cricket. There's an injury break? Sweeeeet Caroline... Fans go, oh oh oh! That's it. Quick little dose of dopamine.

"We get dads taking their little girls to the games and at first they're horrified. What's this crap? Did we die and go to America? But they start to love it because their girls love it. These dads are so weak-minded, they'll do anything for their kids. Mwahahahaha!"

I look to my left, where part of Mattress Mayhem is visible. "Tell me about it."

Max is warming to his theme, big time. "But upbeat fun is not the vibe I want from the Champions League. We're not your cosy, family-friendly sports venue. We're the biggest, baddest, meanest sons of bitches going."

"Daughters of bitches."

"Don't be crude, Beth! The vibe is, we are the monsters. We are cold-hearted killers. We will leave a trail of destruction all over Europe and we not only won't give a shit, we'll enjoy everyone's misery. That's the vibe I'm going for."

"You're going to play me a song now. The one you want to use for the walkout music to set the tone."

"Right. It's by Charlotte Cardin. If you've heard of her, it's because she was tipped to be Canada's singer in the Eurovision Song Contest." Max rubs his face, hard. "Christ. We have got to be living in a simulation." He hands me a pair of AirPods Max. I put them on. They're so heavy! Is that why he's go so many muscles these days? His body has adapted to the need to hold this particular crown.

Max points to a browser tab. When I click it, I see there's a music video. Max points to the 'full screen' button, as though he's talking to a time-traveler who has never interacted with YouTube before. At least he has the wherewithal to wander off, leaving me to watch the video in private.

I watch it once, all the way through. It's just over 5 minutes long, and when I'm done, Max appears again with two cups of tea. "It's in French!" I complain.

"The Champions League final is in Paris. I said that!"

He didn't, but it does very slightly justify why Chester's walkout music would be in a language literally nobody in Chester knows. I watch the video once more, or as Sash! would put it: encore une fois.

***

The song is called Tant Pis Pour Elle, and it teaches me that French Canadians are just as insane as the actual French.

It starts as a standard pop song, but as Max later points out, a new element is added every couple of verses so that it builds on top of itself, until the whole thing is what he calls 'a soundscape'. Max claims it is a progression fantasy that culminates in the final chorus, in which Charlotte Cardin really lets loose with her full vocal range.

I try to imagine being a player who walks onto the pitch to this, and I can sort of get why Max thinks it's a winner, but the video is too distracting to really focus. There's a story to it. Charlotte Cardin, black-haired, dressed in black, appears to compete with a blonde woman, who wears white, for the affection of a sexy Frenchman. So far so great, but Charlotte's solution is that they should form a throuple. Cool. Except that's not what's happening.

Charlotte has conscripted the blonde's white clothes and she dances an incantation that makes herself and her lover burst into flames. The blonde can't take the heat and has to watch, struck dumb, as the others ascend into the sky. Charlotte looks down on her vanquished foe, fiery and demonic. He's mine, you can't have him, nice try.

The blonde realises she has been outplayed and lets out a scream.

White text on a black background says 'TANT PIS POUR ELLE', which helpfully comes with an English translation:

TOO BAD FOR HER.

That's where the single ends, Max tells me later, but the music video continues with a funky 16-bit remix, while the video moves from being a Black Swan pastiche to an anime.

Yes, an anime.

The music fades out; I take the headphones off. "You're a madman."

Max punches the air. "Yiss! I knew you'd love it."

"I don't love it! It's in French. It's weird. I don't get the story."

"What do you mean, you don't get the story? It's the Champions League final. You're Lyon or Wolfsburg or some shit. You arrive in Paris full of hope, we toy with you for a while, then we show the world our final form. The oppo players are crying, the fans are crying. The camera lingers on one woman. This was her last chance to win it. She's retiring. She wanted to go out on a high. Dani walks past and goes, 'too bad for her'. It's fucking poetry, Beth. It's art. When Dutch Susan sees this, she's gonna ask me to be her mentor."

"Max, I say this with utmost kindness, but you haven't slept and you're maybe not quite thinking rationally."

"Paris final! Paris, France! We're in competition with some other women. They think they have a chance but at the last second we cruelly show them that they were never in this contest at all! Tant pis pour elle, mate. If anything, it's too rational. Henri will shrug and go, yeah, I like it, but maybe there could have been more layers."

"This wasn't his idea?"

Max is stupefied by my suggestion that his French friend might have recommended a French song. "No. It's not my idea, either. It's the universe's idea. It has been swirling around waiting for a host brain to gestate it."

Three thoughts occur to me at that moment. One is that Max is on the verge of madness. The second is that I am NOT going to use 'too bad for her' as the theme of this article. The third is that I am perfectly willing to take advantage of his tiredness. Max is playing two roles: the King of Chester and one of two Little Princes. If he can take two parts, then I can be the narrator and the snake. He's the prince, but I can be Machiavelli. "I think I've understood your intention with this, Max. I think I get it. It's Wednesday today, so if I get a draft started, I could have something by Sunday. Oh, crap. Sunday is Tottenham versus Chester. Are you going to that one?"

"Spurs? Yeah, I might pop down."

"Can you help me get a media pass? Then I can ask follow-up questions so that I can get the article written faster."

"Media pass for Spurs? Why do you need my help?"

"Because I don't have an employer, Max, because you nagged me into quitting my cushy, well-paid job. So I can only get credentials if a hundred actual outlets don't get there first."

He tuts. "Yeah, fine, fine. Christ." He drinks some tea. "So that's done. Cool."

I gesture to his nerd cave. "What's all this for? Have you got into day trading now that you're home all the time?"

"Day trading," he scoffs. "I buy ETFs on an app once a month and don't look at the current values. No, this is for - " He hesitates. He goes all the way into secretive mode, but trampolines back out. "Hang on, this might be good for your article. It won't be about me, obvs - "

"Obvs," I agree.

"But maybe people are interested in how it affects the women. Can I sit there?" I get up. He takes my spot. "It's boiling hot, Beth! The fuck!" He tuts and clicks and presses a few buttons. Then he pauses and gets vaguely suspicious. "Er... people are gonna think I've got DOVE here. DOVE isn't here. Can you make a note of that?"

I tap my head. "It's all in here."

"Fuck me, I'm gonna get burgled and the robbers will panic and murder everyone and it's all because you can't take notes!"

"I'll remember! Christ you're annoying."

He points to a tiny box. "See that? That's the only computer around here. Check it out. It's a glorified Raspberry Pi attached to some monitors. Yeah it's nice but it doesn't have a lot of value, okay? There are no valuables in this house. No watches, no gold coins, no jewellery, and certainly no supercomputers. Make sure you're clear about that. All the processing is done in China."

"China?"

"Yeah in a data centre. You're probably worried about TTFT."

"I am, yes."

"But it doesn't matter, does it? We batch process when tokens are cheap, because we generally don't need real-time data."

"Maybe I should get my notebook."

"Why? It's remedial stuff, Beth! Anyway, I was lying about it being China. It's actually a mix of Indian, Chinese, and Malaysian data centres. Plus video streams from Bumpers and wherever, but there's no monetary value to that." He resumes clicking, and all the monitors turn on. There's so much data all at once that it's like stepping into The Matrix. Or out of it - I was high when I watched that movie.

"What is all this?"

Max points to one of the screens closest to his eyeline. On it is what appears to be a simplified map. "It's Bumpers," says Max. "Here's the UFO. The men train here, the women train here."

"Right! I see it now."

Max clicks on the men's pitch and the screen to his right shows what's happening, live. Sweaty men are running around in sports bras and bibs while a gaggle of coaches stand at the side underneath a giant umbrella that protects them from the sun. There are, conservatively, eight hundred water bottles dotted around. When it comes to elite football I am actually a noob, but it looks like a set pieces drill and it is being run by Vikki. In the bottom left of that screen is a kind of mini-map of the pitch, with dots all around it. Max clicks a dot and the view changes to show what's happening from that camera. If Vikki moves the drills to the other side of the pitch for some reason, or if Max wants the goalkeeper's view, it's one click away.

"Holy shit!" I say. "That's fucking cool. That's amazing!"

Max is pleased. He shows me the inside of the UFO, the rental pitches, then goes to the women's pitch. It's empty. "Played last night so they're off today. Some will do recovery work in the medical centre, some will do some light gym stuff. Some of the squad players will join the under 18s tonight, just to get a feel of the ball. Shame I can't show you... Ah, but hold up."

He clicks back to the men's pitch, then taps another button, which does something to the screen above the screen that shows the live feed. There's another mini-map, with circles moving around. The circles appear to have squad numbers inside. Max clicks on one and some DOVE data appears. Max clicks again and tabs open across the five topmost monitors. There are graphs, charts, spiderwebs, radars, raw numbers, numbers abstracted into simple colours: red or blue. I don't know what any of it means, but suddenly Don Pino's assessment that Max Best is a lucky manager seems laughable. I knew Max worked hard, but this is faintly ludicrous. I say, "You do this every morning?"

"No, normally I'm there, but if anything weird happens I can come back and look for it. Watch the footage, see what DOVE made of it. That's rare, but sometimes I'll dip into a random five minutes just to check everyone's doing what they should be doing."

"So you see everything?"

Max leans back. "The important things can only be seen with the heart, not the eyes."

"The feeds, the data. Is it just from Bumpers?"

"Er, yes."

"It's not. You've got these cameras everywhere. Have you got access?"

"I can't show you more locations."

"Why not?"

He smiles. "Because I don't want to. Anyway, the women brackets the subject of your next article close brackets play here and now you have seen one of the tools at our disposal. These tools plus our natural talent will ensure that we will win the hunky Frenchman."

"You mean the Champions League."

"Sure."

"Just show me the feed from Stoke City real quick."

I know he's involved in that club, but so far haven't been able to prove it. "Stoke City? What's that?" He clicks a couple of times and his tech starts to shut down. He's suddenly very tired, the kind of tired you can't fake. It hits me right in the gob; I yawn. He goes, "Is it all right if I get Brick to give you a lift? He can take you to Manchester if you want."

"Yeah, great, perfect."

Max holds up a finger, then pinches his nose. "One more thing. It's important, but I can't remember what it was."

"Sounds really important, yeah."

He tuts, then places his fingers and thumbs together and hums. It takes ages, but the memory drops into place. "I know there are all these rumours that Sandra Lane has a secret clause in her contract that would let her take the England Women's job part-time, which let's face it is all the Lionesses need. And it seems the word is out that the clause says that Chester would continue to pay her full wages so the FA wouldn't even have to chip in."

"What?" I say. I've never heard of a clause like that, anywhere in the world. Max wouldn't agree to such a clause unless it was with someone he absolutely couldn't replace. Someone like Sandra Lane... My spine gets cold; my neck gets goosebumps.

Max is yapping away. "Yeah, they basically get the outstanding candidate for the role for free and when Sandra's not on international duty, she'll be crossing swords with elite managers in the Premier League, getting even more experience, getting better. I just want to say on the record that if Sandra Lane becomes the next England manager, I'll be happy for her, no matter how inconvenient it is to me personally, no matter how much it would threaten to derail the entire Chester project. We all want what's best for England, don't we? If it causes financial and organisational problems... tant pis pour moi."

There's something deeply off about what he's saying, but he seems sincere enough. "Okay. I'll be sure not to..."

"Not to gossip about the secret clause with all your mates at the Daily Mail."

"Riiiiight," I say.

Max yawns. I wonder if he will go to his five-thousand pound bed or if he'll crash on a 200-quid thing from Aldi, next to his wife and son. I shake my head; it's not really a question.

As I walk away from the desk, I pause to lean over the glass balustrade and look down at Emma. She is cocooned in softness and only her blonde locks tumble out. Max sees something in my expression and says, "What?"

I smile to put his mind at ease. "Emma has been eaten by caterpillars... and has become a butterfly."

***

Manchester, England

On Thursday afternoon, I read The Little Prince to confirm that yes, there's a rose and a fox and a snake. There's also a conceited man and a business bro, but comparing Max to those characters would be like shooting fish in a barrel.

In the evening, I track the Max Best Universe.

Bruno's Magpies have made it all the way to the Conference League playoff, where they are playing IFK Goteborg, the fourth-best team in Sweden.

It's a brave effort from the Gibraltarians. They push the Swedes close, but lose the tie by a single goal.

Max won't have any teams in the Conference League this season. Too bad for him, but he ought to be able to sleep at night - Saltney Town and College 1975 are in the Champions League.

That simple fact is causing widespread consternation. Clubs around Europe are asking: how can this be? But while Max's ability to upend the UEFA rankings seems crazy to us adults, little baby Archie will never know anything different. He has been born into a world in which Saltney Town are Champions League regulars and in which College take famous clubs to school.

I pour myself another giant glass of white wine and listen to the Pyramid Schemers podcast. They're making their predictions for where EFL clubs will finish. They detect something strange is happening at Stoke City, but suggest a bottom-half finish. They know of Max Best's involvement in West Didsbury but on paper, West have the weakest squad in League Two by miles. The hosts laugh at themselves because they know they will be proven wrong, but they can only call the league as they see it. They predict that West will finish 20th out of 24.

They say one very interesting thing. With all the work Max has put into strengthening Altrincham in the National League, they wonder if Alty are actually better than every team in League Two? How high would they finish in League One?

"Bad news for Man City fans," says one host.

"Tough shit," says the other.

Which is his way of saying: too bad for them.

***

Tottenham, London

On Sunday, I ride a herd of pigs down to the capital planet, and in the spectacular stadium's media reception I'm handed a lanyard that proclaims that I am Beth Alban from Tant Pis Pour Elle Articles Limited. Fucking Max!

With European qualification for Saltney and College secured, the six players who were out on loan have returned, and suddenly Chester have depth. I look down their squad list and see competition for places all over the pitch. Ruud Berkenbosch's injury seems minor - I'm told such setbacks are the norm after long layoffs - but even if Sandra Lane wants to pick two strikers - and it does seem that way, because Chester are doing their new 4-2-2-2 thing - she can do so without worrying about backups. She's got Foquita, Gabby, Wibbers, Jari Köngäs, even Max.

And Sandra certainly seems to be in charge. Max lines up as a player, barely opens his mouth, does what he's told. He's not the king, nor the prince, but a humble farm hand. He's a stable boy.

When the match kicks off, however, his role is so specific and so unexpected that I'm sure he picked it for himself. He's also the only player who isn't doing 'hybridism', Max's wild new invention.

He's playing right back and he isn't bombing forward when he makes a pass. His only job is to make sure the former Chester player Carvalho doesn't score. Or assist. Or touch the ball.

Carvalho helped keep Chester in the Premier League. He helped the club win the FA Cup. He gets a rapturous reception from the Chester fans, hugs from everyone - especially Max - but when the first whistle blows, Max obliterates the young Portuguese winger.

Tant pis pour lui...

***

Chester's 4-2-2-2 system is fluid and exciting. It's heart attack football with a brain, and what a brain.

Owen Elmham is in goal.

The left back is Lewis Lamarre. Chester's next game is against West Ham, who play direct football, so it seems likely that Helge Hagen will return for that one.

Then comes Peter Bauer and Edgar Wilde, now seen as one of the better partnerships in the Prem.

Max is to the right, doing whatever the fuck he wants while pretending to be subservient to Sandra Lane.

Youngster and Dan Badford are the DMs, or perhaps it's more accurate to say that they are in the DM slots. Youngster certainly acts as a true defensive midfielder, but Dan is more engaged in the 'with ball' portion of the game.

The CAMs are Wesley Lippincott and Wibbers, and the instruction to the American seems to be: give the ball to the other guy. Lippincott is more than happy to oblige, but he makes some entries into the Spurs penalty area, too, and those runs actually cause the most mayhem.

The twin strikers are Foquita and Gabriel, and the combination is too hot for the Spurs defence to handle. They have signed Ustinov from Man City, much to Max Best's disapproval, but while he is fast and has been well-coached, he can't cope with Gabby's physicality or Foquita's deadly movement, and certainly not both at the same time.

Spurs have drawn one, lost one, in their first two matches, despite spending 400 million pounds in the summer. The stadium starts out raucous and optimistic, but Chester pass the ball around so easily, move into the Spurs half so effortlessly, that the match soon resembles an attack versus defence drill. A stunned silence descends on most of the stunning stadium. Wibbers gets the ball thirty yards from goal. The Chester fans yell, "Shooooooot!"

Instead, Wibbers looks for Lewis, who combines with Dan to bypass a Spurs player. It's the third game of the season but the Spurs guy turns like he has been crossing the desert for six days straight.

Lewis gives it to Foquita, who has left the penalty area because Dan Badford, by law of Hybridism, has entered it. Foquita rolls the ball to Gabby, and for a brief moment both the strikers are outside the box and both the CAMs are in it. Ustinov is not the only Spurs player who doesn't know what he's supposed to do.

Peter Bauer sprints alongside Gabby, takes the ball from him, and zips it to Wibbers, and now Peter, Gabby, and Foquita are running into the box while Lippincott and Dan Badford are leaving it. It's chaos and it's exciting. There's a pulse-quickening certainty to what's about to happen.

Wibbers and Peter Bauer play a one-two. Wibbers nudges the ball left.

Foquita hits a shot, it's well-saved, but Gabby slides in and forces the ball across the line.

The Spurs players complain that Gabby's slide was reckless; the referee says 'tough shit'. The Chester lads run to the corner flag and dance around. Max Best stands in his slot on the right of the halfway line, deep in thought. He makes a decision, and when his mates start to retake their places, Max begins to point and dish out orders. He remembers that he's pretending that Sandra is in charge, and he stops gesticulating.

He's so fucking weird.

***

Before half-time, Lippincott wins a free kick in a dangerous position.

Sandra wants Max to take it. Max refuses, saying that he needs to cover Carvalho. Sandra orders him to take it.

He swishes the ball onto Edgar Wilde's head, and it's 2-0 at the break.

As they head down the tunnel, Sandra pretends to tell Max off.

She's really fucking weird, too.

***

Spurs have a go in the second half, but while they play some good football at times and have a very clear and repeatable plan, it's obvious to me even at this early stage of the season that they have a major problem in both boxes. They aren't decisive when defending or when attacking, and it will cost them.

In the final thirty minutes, Max slash Sandra start to play the hits. Players who need minutes get minutes. Thomazella, Matt Rush, Vini Addo, Emi Ferrari, Jari Köngäs.

The match ends 2-0. So far this season, Chester have won the Community Shield and in the Prem they have 9 points from 9. In four games, including ones against Arsenal, Man United, and Spurs, Chester have scored 11, conceded two. Sorry, but I thought Max Best had botched the transfer window?

Chester's next games are against West Ham, Brentford (in the AOK Cup Third Round), Fulham (in the Prem), their first ever match in the Europa League, and Newcastle.

Could they...?

Nah.

But maybe...?

I shake my head. The FA will appoint Sandra Lane as the part-time manager of the Lionesses. Losing his key ally will put tremendous strain on Max, and he will have two, maybe three major wobbles this season. Chester are very clearly not going to be relegated, but they aren't going to get to the international break having won nine straight.

Or are they?

I think back to one of the slogans I saw on Chester's billboards: YOU SHOULD HAVE RELEGATED US.

True dat.

***

The Deva Stadium, Chester

It's Wednesday, the 5th of September. This evening, Chester's women are hosting Real Sociedad in the last European qualifier of the season. The winners of the tie will progress into the Champions League. The stakes are massive.

I have not written an article hyping up the match, because nobody tells me what to write. I am doggedly sticking to my Little Prince concept even if it proves to be doggerel.

I get a press pass without trouble, and I note that even on such a sultry evening, there's a chill in the air. It's raw excitement. The Deva is full, or close enough to satisfy even Max. He does a lap of the pitch in the time before kickoff, posing for selfies, being charming. So much work. Just take your top off, mate.

The team he has named is dumb and stupid and wrong and I hate him.

There's no Dani, there's no Sarah Greene, there's no Macca, no Elsa. There isn't even a Meredith Ann.

Why is he doing his silly nonsense on the most important night of the season? Yes, the most important night. Those are his words!

The atmosphere builds, and I become aware that things are different tonight. It's not just the giant screens opposite the PetPride or the ludicrous inflatable FA Cup, and it's not just the Sociedad fans who have traveled and are making a hell of a din considering how few there are.

It's that there is no music. 

This isn't Bangers and Match. This is the Champions League, mate. This is different gravy.

With a few minutes to go, it happens.

The madman has only gone and done it. 

Ignoring all common sense, Max has insisted on his vision. Tant Pis Pour Elle starts.

Nobody knows the song. It's in French. No-one explains anything about it. There's confusion. Did someone press the wrong button?

The two sets of players emerge from the tunnel. The Chester ladies move towards the PetPride, towards me. Just as the song starts to pick up momentum, thirty girls I assumed were just there to hold flags take off their jackets.

And they dance.

The combination of the song and their brash, cocky moves sends shivers down my spine. I realise the dancers are in two groups. There's a Chester group and a Real Sociedad group, and they're competing for a replica Champions League trophy, which is tall, elegant, and whose handles twist around rather like a dancer.

The Chester dancers 'win' and walk off with the cup, leaving their opponents in the dirt.

It's fucking mental and I love it. This is the very distillation of what Max was trying to tell me. This is why he didn't want a new season of Chesterness - the cute, cuddly, cosy Chester are gone. This group are weird and sinister and deadly.

When the song ends, the stadium erupts with unexpected ferocity.

***

Sociedad play well in the first half. It's nil-nil at the break.

Max and Jay Cope turn the screw.

Sarah, Macca, and Elsa come on at the start of the second half.

At one-nil, Dani enters the fray.

At two-nil, Meredith Anne takes to the pitch, and that's when all hell breaks loose.

The last twenty minutes show Chester Women as we've never seen them before. They're fast, precise, creative, and clinical. They burst into flame and ascend, shooting around like comets. They're playing skyball, demonball, fireball.

Three-nil. Four. Five. Meredith Ann makes it six. She has scored a 12-minute hat trick.

Chester are into the Champions League, and I ask myself why I ever had even the slightest scintilla of doubt.

***

I attend the post-match pressers. Jay Cope goes first and he's very sweet. He shows us his dimples and says all the right things. Sociedad are a good team, their coach is excellent, we rode our luck at times. He's right to approach it that way - there's no need to rub it in.

There's a long delay before Sociedad's coach arrives. It's so long that I ask one of the few Spanish journalists if she knows what's happening.

"She is probably very upset. Too upset, yes? This was a big moment for her career."

"In what way?"

"Eyyy, how you say? She wants to be the coach of the Spanish Women's team. She is close to the line, yes, when it comes to this. Win Chester, get into the CL, it's the last line on the... what's the thing you give for a job?"

"CV. Résumé."

She nods. "Yes, the last line on the résumé. But now." She shrugs. "I do not think."

So there was more than money riding on this match. For the opposition coach, the stakes were higher than we knew. Four words pop into my head, unbidden, unwanted, uncharitable. Four little French words that I didn't even know until a few days ago. Now I think them all the time. "Fuck," I say.

"Yes?"

I bite my lip, ruefully. "He's gonna be really smug when I finish my article with a confession that he had the right theme all along."

"Smug? Who?"

I sigh. "The Little Prick."

...

Thanks for your support!

The song (the video is TFFW - Too French For Work): https://youtu.be/Eg4hjfjS0YQ