12.

Untitled Documentary

Episode 2: Influence

Medium close-up: Angel

Text: Angel, Striker, Number Ten

From context, the viewer knows this was recorded long before the season started.

"I want to be an influencer."

Angel looks down the camera lens with a mix of cockiness and insecurity. The producer mumbles off-mic and the question appears on screen: Why do you want to be an influencer?

"They've got, like, loads of followers and they talk to brands and get free stuff and people treat them nice. They've got, like, an enviable lifestyle. I mean, it's not a hard answer, right, because that's the whole point. They've got good lives and you follow them and it gets even better. They get more followers and the deals get bigger and they tell you how good it feels and they even tell you how to have that life. It's, like, possible for anyone. I can have that dream holiday to Dubai and eat in posh restaurants and wear nice clothes all the time and have a stylist and a brand consultant. Who wouldn't want that?"

***

Aerial shot: BoshCard HQ.

Screen text: Monday, September 2 - Transfer Deadline Day

Wide shot: Two grass training pitches. They're a hive of activity. The women's squad is busy.

Full shot: Jackie Reaper is watching everything like a hawk.

Over various shots of the women doing drills, we hear Jackie.

"Yeah, pre-season's been good. Really good. The new ladies have really raised the standards. I'm made up about the training and I feel like I've got loads of tactical options now that I didn't have before. Last season, I was pretty stuck to 4-5-1 if I wanted to put my best team out but now we can use 3-5-2, 4-4-2, and I've got a little surprise for the first match of the season."

Cut to: Jackie on a chair.

Producer: Could you explain those formations to someone who doesn't understand football?

"Certain players are more comfortable in certain places on a pitch. Bonnie's a centre back. That means she wants to be the last person in front of the goalkeeper. She can see the whole pitch in front of her. Her skills are tackling and heading the ball away and stopping attacks. You don't put her in midfield because she can't function well there. Then there are people with the same mentality as Bonnie but they're smaller or faster so they make good full backs. Those are the defenders to the sides. Everyone likes to be in a different place, right, but you can't cover the entire pitch with eleven players. You can have three defenders, or four, or five. How you spread your players out determines how you play - defensive, passing-focused, all-out attack. My favourite is 3-5-2. That's a good formation for a technical team like us, but Max has given me four really good defenders so I'm going to use what's called a back four quite a lot this season."

Cut to: the training pitch. Jackie blows his whistle and the players come close.

"All right, that was good dat, good dat. This Sunday's the first game of the season. We're away to Merseyrail. They're a bit of a yo-yo team but they've been in tier four recently so we need to be on it from the first minute or they'll smash us. That said, if we play our game we'll be more than they can handle. Yes, Bonnie?"

"Are we getting any new signings?"

"Do you want more?"

"I'm just asking."

Jackie frowns. "Not that I've heard. Max is happy with the squad and so am I."

"What about the men's team?"

"What about them?"

"They got smashed again at the weekend. Three-nil at Dagenham. That's one win in five. If Max gets sacked, what happens to us?"

"Max isn't getting sacked. Dean's cleared him to play against Aldershot. Crisis over, know what I mean?" The women seem unhappy, but Jackie doesn't know what to say. "Right, I told you we're gunna to do summat different against Merseyrail. We'll start with 4-1-3-2 with Diane giving us protection as DM. We'll get a grip on the game and get more expansive second half." This seems to go down badly. "What? That's a winner, that. I talked to Max about it and he loves it. What? Someone tell me what's going on, please."

Ridley T, the new signing with not much in the way of a filter, speaks. "It's Chunks."

"Chunks?" says Jackie.

"ChunksTV. He's an influencer. Does Chester FC stuff. The girls are freaking out because he was slagging them off on his shitty little channel."

"Slagging them off?"

"Yeah, coz we only beat Puddington by two goals, didn't play well against Airbus, and got mashed up by The New Saints."

Jackie looks at his feet as his considers his response. "We're getting pelters for what we done in friendlies? Honestly, I'm impressed there's one of those attention-seeking gobshites following a fifth tier women's team. They normally latch onto Prem teams where there's more clicks and more chance to get picked up by the media."

Charlotte tuts. "He's only talking about us women to make him seem more legit about the men. He's gambling he can ride Max's coattails all the way to fame and fortune."

Jackie looks lost. "So, what... He's slagging off the men, too?"

***

Interior: Max's Office.

Text: Wednesday, September 4. After's Max's nap.

Present: Max, Jackie, Bonnie, Angel, Charlotte, Femi, Brooke.

Everyone looks worried except for Max and Angel.

"Are we seriously filming this?" says Max, looking at the camera crew.

"It's bad news," says Jackie. "You were saying recently about stomping on problems before they get too big."

"I did say that," sighs Max. "Fine. Let's talk about some fucking nobody. Let's give him the oxygen of publicity, just like he wants. Talking of oxygen, I believe Glendale Logistics are Cheshire's most trusted deliverer of medical products. If I ran a hospital and needed some life-saving gas delivered on time and on budget, my first call would be to Glendale Logistics."

"Max," says Brooke.

"And I'd pay for it using my BoshCard. Don't just bag it, bosh it. So you want to talk about this guy Chunks. He's a Chester fan - he says - and he's started churning out daily content. It's the typical shit."

"It's not shit," says Angel. "He's good."

"Oh, he's good, is he?" says Max, giving her an intense look. "Good at what?"

"Clickbait titles. Colour branding. He picks up on trends. He was really fast to start holding his lapel mic in his hand."

"That's good, is it?"

Angel nods. "Yeah. Makes him look fake authentic."

Max shakes his head. "I hate this conversation."

"He A/B tests his thumbnails."

"Ooh, sexy," says Max. He picks up the landline phone he has installed for the purpose of doing bits. "Sally? Book me a mani-pedi. Yes, I know I just had one. But this time I want to A/B test my toenails. Yeah, really get to work around the edges. Get right in there. K bye."

Angel sits back, amused.

Max turns his monitor screen closer towards him. "What's he called again? Late Stage Capitalism TV?" He types. "It's loads of cat stuff."

"Not Chonks," says Angel. "Chunks. Like vomit."

"Ah," says Max. "Chunks with a U, the U standing for U can't get a girlfriend. Hey, he's been busy. YouTube, TikTok, Insta, X. What, does he do adult stuff, too? Let's check his YouTube. Wow. The guy has no respect for the caps lock key. New Signings NEEDED or Club is HISTORY. You sure, bro? WORST Transfer Window of ALL TIME. What would you know, you're not even thirty. How old is this guy? Never mind, I literally don't give a shit. Sad Seals MONSTERED by Daggers. Erm... yeah but I wouldn't say sad. We were more... glum. What's this? Max's MISFIRES Plum New Depths. Angel you seem to like this guy. Tell him it's plumb with a B."

"I don't like him. But he got good. I like his hustle."

Max clicks on one video.

***

Chunks bears an uncanny resemblance to James Corden, which makes it hard to believe people voluntarily watch his content. He's in his mid-twenties and is always seen in Chester FC kit.

He's standing outside a football stadium holding a tiny lapel microphone about a foot in front of his face because that guarantees three comments per video about how he's 'doing it wrong' and those comments give him a boost in the algorithm.

He has a fairly neutral accent that could be from Cheshire.

"I'm livid, bro! That performance was dreadful, yo! Shocking. Pitiful stuff. Dagenham were twelfth in this league last year and we've made 'em look like Pep's Barcelona! Three-nil to Dagenham, man. I can't believe the words coming out of my mouth right now. Four hours drive home, we've got. Four hours to think about that display. The kids? The kids aren't all right. Agent Green, another horror show. The goalie's weak. What's Ben Cavanagh got in common with a vampire? They both hate crosses. This Ziggy's a wet tissue. No goals again! He runs, but so does my nephew's nappies, mate. I don't want effort, I want goals. Where's Henri Lyons? We know he and Max Best kissed and made up. So where is he? Where's Bochum? Our only good player's been sent to Siberia. And where's Max Best? He was supposed to be back for this one. He's always said, lose five in a row I'll get sacked. Well, mate, you can't play and you can't pick a player, but surely you can count? Hartlepool, Altrincham, Dagenham. That's three. Aldershot's four. You pick the same team on Saturday that's another three-nil - if we're lucky. Then Eastleigh and Trick Williams will end your managerial career. Quite a few lads in my WhatsApp groups will love it when that happens. The system is tired, bro. Same shit every week. A lone striker who can't play alone. I feel like I'm taking crazy pills. The players don't fit the system. To be fair, some of them wouldn't fit any system. Their first touch is shit, they can't play simple passes. Dagenham sat back and waited for us to make mistakes. We made it so easy for them. Best is a National League North manager who isn't ready for the step up to this level."

Max pauses the video and pinches his nose. The others steel themselves for a tantrum. They don't get one. "This is boring. The guy's a crashing bore. If you met him in a pub you'd avoid that pub. There's no-one at this club who would give a shit what this guy thinks if he was saying it in Waitrose. Why would you care just because it's online?"

Angel smiles. "Because you know other people are watching and talking about it. Chunks controls the narrative, now."

Max's eyes narrow. "Does he?" He relaxes. "Brooke, what do you think?"

She shrugs. "These parasite accounts can damage the brand. I've been reading about Arsenal Fans TV. That club became synonymous with toxic, entitled fans and the club asked the channel to remove the word Arsenal from the name. But this kind of thing is also a way for fans to engage with the organisation."

Jackie says, "I'm not worried about the business implications or the damage to the brand. I'm worried that my players are miserable and demotivated going into the first match of the season. We need to get off to a good start."

Max jabs his desk. "I want this documentary to be about football. Nutmegs, passes, goals, last-ditch blocks. I'm not interested in some talentless nobody trying to get a name for himself by ranting about how having a deaf player will turn all the frogs gay."

"Oh," says Angel, "he's far too smart for that. He wouldn't go after Dani. You've made her untouchable; he'd lose half his viewers instantly. He's trying to thread the needle between the vegan hotdog eaters and the gammons."

Bonnie says, "You won't be so smug when he comes after you."

Angel smirks. "I don't play teams onside twice in the first half and nearly get a red card after the final whistle has blown. I'll be fine."

Max looks at something on his wall. "Did this guy single out Pippa?"

Angel's mouth drops open. "So you have been watching!"

Max raises his hand. "Nope. She looked out of sorts at Monday's training."

"You weren't here."

"Wasn't I? I saw she was upset and a couple of others were off the pace. Didn't know why. Charlotte," says Max. "You're the voice of reason. What do you think?"

She looks uncomfortable. "I know it shouldn't bother us but it does."

"Right, well, when you're in the WSL you'll have the Daily Mail camped outside your house. My mate Beth will be going through your bins. I mean, this shit is going to happen and maybe it's better to get used to it while it's some absolute tosspot. In the meantime, this is an opportunity, isn't it?"

"What do you mean?" says Femi.

"We've got three team leaders, here."

"Hey," says Angel.

"Your mates are upset. We've got a common enemy. Put two and two together."

Bonnie nods. "Right. Siege mentality."

"Ew," says Angel.

"Or," Max suggests, "that general us-against-the-world vibe but positive. When you get together you could film fake rants about the bananas in the canteen being too bendy. Do it in the style of Chumps but don't ever mention his name. Turn him into a joke."

Brooke says, "There's a risk of boosting him by doing that."

"I don't know," says Max. "Just anything. Maybe Angel can stop fawning over this twat around the other ladies."

"I don't!"

"Oh, Maddy, wasn't it funny when he focused in on your face just as you were being nutmegged haha such engagement."

Angel rolls her eyes. "I'm here because I don't like him and want to do something if something's going to happen."

Max leans back, appraising her. "Why?"

Angel frowns and looks down. "Don't pick on my mates. My sister, yeah, but not my mates."

"So noble," says Bonnie, but anyone can see she's proud.

"All right," says Max. "In summary, this is a complete non-issue and you need to get on with it. Because I tell you what, this muppet chose the wrong season to launch his cancerous fucking product. You guys are going to tear up the league and the men are going to get better and better. No-one's going to click on his stupid pristine thumbnails when we're on a ten-game winning streak."

"Max is right," says Brooke. "We win and we shut down his business model."

"Boom!" says Max, as some form of agreement.

"Everyone happy?" says Jackie.

Bonnie and Angel look at each other. "Yeah," says Bonnie.

Brooke says, "Angel, you know your stuff. Want to help us with our socials?"

Angel looks at her older sister. Can I? Can I? She can. "Yes! I'd love to."

"I've got a couple of ideas," says the American. "Content that might find an audience during those ten-match winning streaks Max just promised us."

"He did promise that, didn't he?" says Charlotte.

Max shrugs. "Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Pick whatever number you want. Once we get going we'll be unstoppable. All right, you guys can go, now. I'm going to explore the internet looking for someone even more boring than Chumps. If I'm not out by Friday, send up some food." The others start to get up and head for the door. Max spins around on his chair. He stops abruptly. "Hang on," he says, going back to the list of videos on ChunksTV. "Angel, you said something about this guy getting good recently. When was that?"

She's intensely happy to be seen as the expert on this topic. She comes to look at the screen. "Keep going. You'll see a difference in the thumbnails."

"They're all vapid," says Max. "Hence I won't."

"There," says Angel, in triumph. "He was slowly getting better until this point, then there was a lot of improvement in a short time."

"Huh," says Max, scrolling up and down. "I sort of see what you mean. There's a before and an after. I'm thinking he started to get some advertising revenue around this point and decided to double down on the whole internet personality thing. Got more serious."

"Could be," says Angel.

"There's nothing good about this but if we say he gets good near the start of July... Shit."

"What?" says Jackie.

"That would tie in with... nothing," says Max. He gets up and looks out of his window. He A/B tests one of his thumbnails. "Right. New plan. It's still a good time to do some bonding. What do you call male bonding when it's women? Go and do some male bonding for women. It's not nice being mocked and all that but when you know your team's got your back whatever happens, that's magical. The criticism bounces off you or makes you stronger. Gives you energy. Get on that. Angel, you can help with that. Point out this guy's tricks. He's A/B testing who to slag off and doubling down. He doesn't actually believe a word of it. Is that a helpful thing to say to someone?"

"I can A/B test my helpfulness," says Angel.

"Yeah. Anyway, you guys go hard on getting spirits up. If you need to stay in a haunted house to work it out, let me know. But don't do anything against this guy. Leave him to me."

"What are you gonna do?" says Brooke.

"Leave him to me," repeats Max, turning away.

***

Phone footage - we later discover that while most of the women hold their phones in their hand, Angel has a grip attachment for better stability and visual interest.

We're in the dressing room at BoshCard HQ.

"What did you make of that?" says Angel.

Charlotte says, "He's right. We have to deal with it. And that thing he said, what was it, if you met this guy in the pub. Like, yeah. Good point. He's nothing. Get on with your day."

"What happened at the start of July?" says Angel.

"What?" says Bonnie.

"He got all intense when we talked about the start of July."

"The kitchen," says Charlotte.

"The new board," says Bonnie.

Angel muses, then says, "Femi, you don't look happy."

The centre back shakes her head. "It was unimpressive." She picks out two pairs of shinpads and chooses the smaller. "He wasn't really listening to us."

"He was," says Angel.

Femi looks around. "I find myself worried. Things started well but the atmosphere has gone bad. The results of the men's team affect us, too. They shouldn't, but they do. It's not just defeat after defeat, it's the performances. Chunks calls into question the scouting, the training, everything. And no signings at the end of the window - it is hard to rationalise." She looks up. "I do not know. I am worried. What if Chunks is right and Max Best is wrong?"

"He's not," says Bonnie, in a tone that invites no further discussion. She slides her kit bag away from Femi.

Angel takes a few steps away, emphasising the growing distance between teammates. She's far too good at this.

***

After drills, the women play a practice match where Diane is the DM in a 4-1-3-2. There are almost enough players for a full reserve team - Gracie, Susan, Maddy, and Kisi make life tough for the first eleven. Jackie is delighted. Pippa isn't. She is beaten to the ball by Kisi, chases her, and launches a kick at the sixteen-year-old.

There's pandemonium that ends with Lucy leading a tearful Pippa away from the pitch while Kisi yells at her.

"Fuck!" yells Bonnie.

Femi rolls her eyes and walks away.

Jackie eyes his fellow coaches and rubs his head.

The camera lingers on Angel.

***

Cut to: Angel talking to herself in phone selfie mode.

"Chunks has got us by the short and curlies. He's got the club and the city dancing to his tune. It's like I said to Max, Chunks calls the shots, now. Him and his copycats because when one guy's getting noticed others will follow. I like Max but I think he doesn't understand this stuff. He thinks all you need is football." She looks away from the camera for a second. "It's like being a bully. It's better to be the bully than be bullied, right? If those are the only choices, then... Soon as I'm eighteen I'm gonna hit all the socials. Quick blitz, use my football and this doc to get going, bit of grinding until I’ve got enough momentum to get on Love Island and then I'm away. You get to the point all publicity is good publicity. Someone slags you off you're laughing because they're doing your job for you." She shakes her head. "You've got to be bigger so they can't get you. It's called critical mass. Too big to fail. That's the only way to survive the modern world. I'd try to tell Max but he's... hang on... what was that word? It's not renegade. He's kind of that, too." She spaces out for half a second. "He's retrograde. ChunksTV is the future of football."

***

Interior: Chester's digs, the living room. There are two cameras set up, and that footage is supplemented by Charlotte's phone.

Present: Charlotte, Femi, Youngster, WibRob, Omari Naysmith.

Charlotte's on a bean bag, Femi's lying on the sofa. Both are reading. The young men are on the floor, playing a board game.

The women reach for their phones at the same time. Charlotte reads and starts the camera. She aims it at Femi.

"Did you get that?"

"Yes."

"Are you going?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Yes."

"It says it's mandatory," says Femi.

"What are you discussing?" says Youngster.

"Max just told the women's squad to go and watch the men on Saturday. Not sure why he thinks watching you lot get dicked again is going to help boost our morale but there you go. And Femi, you're allowed to skip it. This is his way of saying something cool will happen."

"Something cool?" says Youngster. "It will be a normal encounter. A struggle against superior opposition. I cannot think what might be cool."

WibRob looks up from the board. "I'm playing, if that counts as cool."

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Femi smiles. "It does to me."

That makes WibRob happy. "The last fifteen or twenty minutes, he says. He wants to force them back into a low block then unleash me."

"Unleash you?" laughs Omari.

"When was this discussed?" frets Youngster. "Did I miss a team meeting?"

"Nah," says WibRob. "It was private. I'm just saying to Femi, like, yeah. Something's up."

Omari scratches his head. "I'm starting. He told me. I don't think anything's up if I'm starting."

Femi puts the book down and goes to give Omari the best hug she can manage. "Don't you talk like that! We can all see how fast you're improving."

Omari enjoys the hug but seems unaffected by her words. He looks down at the board. "I know I'm getting better."

Femi is disconcerted by his confidence. "It doesn't bother you what is said on the internet?"

"No," says Omari, hesitating over some aspect of the board game. He makes his move and nods to himself. "I heard you lot are freaking out. We're all fine, aren't we?"

"Yeah," says WibRob.

Charlotte tilts her head, which we only see because the editors change to camera 2. "That's because you're the youngest goalscorer ever. Chunks wants you in the team. You're his favourite."

"I'm not his anything," says WibRob. "The twat's using me for his agenda. He's trying to shape the narrative."

"Shape the narrative?" laughs Charlotte.

"Max explained it to me," says WibRob. "It's why this stuff affects you more than us."

"Can you explain that statement?" says Femi.

"Max does our narratives," says WibRob. It seems to be his turn and he's only half present in the conversation. "He's mad about training. Everything that happens, he talks about training. We lose three-nil and he's talking about Monday's drills. Zach comes in the dressing room all American being like 'Shoot, fellas that was no good' and Max cuts it out right away because he's got, like, eight things for Zach to work on and which three does he want to do on Monday and does he want extra sessions this week? And Zach's like trying to rant but Max is doing a different rant and Max's rant is weird but it's the dominant rant."

"Mr. Best is unusually relentless at the moment," says Youngster. "The results do not bother him. His injury does not bother him. How do we train? Do we give it our all? That is everything. No, William, you do not have enough wheat."

"Oh, right."

Charlotte says, "Why didn't Henri play last Saturday? I thought they were all friends again."

"I do not know," said Youngster.

"It's coz he only had one training session where he wasn't dogging it," explains WibRob. "But he's been better this week, hasn't he?"

Omari frowns. "You see it like Max? I don't see it."

"You're focused on your own stuff," says WibRob. "That's good. You should be like that, where you are. I'm not starting matches, though. And Max keeps asking me questions. About Eddie Moore. How would I play against him? About Zach. How would I press him? About you guys. He wants me to watch everything."

Omari asks a question that's been bugging him. "Why don't you do the facing-up drills?"

Charlotte's astonished. "You don't do all the drills, William?"

"Nah. Max dun't want me getting stuck in. Some of the drills he lets me do a few minutes then pulls me out. Doesn't want me getting too good at defending. He says it's like putting a McDonald's in an opera house."

Femi laughs. "What does that mean?"

WibRob frowns. "I don't really know!"

"But you are happy to follow his advice?"

A shrug. "I want to do all the drills and play every game but... Do I want to play against Dagenham or Brazil? It's frustrating sometimes but it's exciting, too. I wanna be involved in the playoffs. Playoff final's at Wembley! My dad's never been to Wembley."

Femi sits on the edge of the sofa. "You're confident you'll get there?"

"Yeah," says WibRob.

"You're nineteenth in the league," says Femi. "Seven points from seven games."

"Yeah," says WibRob, but he has lost interest in the conversation. "We're the best team, though. And we've got the best manager."

"The Best manager," smiles Omari, but he loses confidence in the joke right away.

Charlotte angles her phone at Femi. The centre-back looks thoughtful. "I will attend," she says, and lies back on the sofa with her second-hand copy of Shōgun.

***

Medium close-up: Lucy

Text: Lucy, Left back, Number 23

Lucy is trying to sit still but she can't stop fidgeting with her hands.

"We've just done the Friday training session. Our first match of the season's this Sunday against Merseyrail. They're good. Been in higher leagues and the like. I'll be a sub, Jackie says, which is, you know, it's always disappointing but I know I've slipped a place in the pecking order and I have to learn to deal with that. He says I've still got a big role to play on and off the pitch but what's going on now, we didn't have that when I used to play. I don't know what help I can be. I don't know what to say to the girls." The fidgeting briefly pauses. "That just now was the worst session since I came back to the club. Pip and Kisi are feuding. We've been talking to them but it's not just them and it's not just Chunks - shit. I told myself I wouldn't say his name. He's got a lot to answer for, that man. We had a good atmosphere in the dressing room but there's more senior players now, more girls getting paid, more pressure, more eyeballs on us, and as a group we're not ready for this sort of... this sort of... I keep coming back to the word cancer. It's in us, now. Every time someone makes a mistake you can imagine the Chunks video. He's gone after Pip the hardest and she's struggling." She pinches the top of her finger in her other hand and gets still. "Football's supposed to be fun. No-one's had any fun this week. I know it'll be all right on Sunday when we get on the pitch and we get back to being a real team and we get a win under our belt but... I don't have a TikTok following. I don't know what to do or what to say. I feel so hopeless about it." She squeezes her fingers together and pushes them down into her lap.

***

Aerial shot: The Deva Stadium. Fans are streaming in on all sides.

Text: Saturday, September 7

Text: Match 8 of 46: Chester Men vs Aldershot Town

Wide shot: The Harry McNally Stand. At the top on the right are the Chester Women's squad with some of their partners.

Medium shot: Angel, Bonnie, Charlotte, Ridley T, and Kisi. They're discussing the team news that has just come in.

"Ben's in goal," says Angel. "Sticky's on the bench. I like him but his name puts me off."

"Queenie's buzzing about him," says Charlotte. "Says he's absolutely mint and she's learning tons. She loves the sessions."

"Scottie says the same," says Ridley T. "She says he's the best coach she's ever had, bar none."

"He needs a brand consultant," says Angel. "Back four's Eddie Moore, Glenn, Zach, Carl. Steve Alton on the bench."

"I don't mind that," says Bonnie. "Especially if Zach takes his shirt off."

They make girl noises.

"Youngster's DM," says Angel.

"Whoo," says Kisi.

"How's he, you know, doing?" says Ridley T.

Kisi shakes her head. "He's fine. All the men are fine. Well, Zach has his doubts. James Wise is wondering what the hell's going on. And the new boys are, what would you say? Playing too much football to give a shit about anything else."

"Language, Kisi!" says Bonnie, nudging her. "Your mum will watch this documentary."

Kisi blows through her lips. "As if they'll use this bit. This is a nothing match. They're not following the men's team. I don't even know why they're filming today. Max won't let them use the footage."

Angel glares at Kisi. "They can't use it if you get so meta. Pretend the camera isn't there. God sake. Right, well, that's a pretty good back five but then we get to the midfield. Aff, Wise, Omari Naysmith, Wes Hayward."

Kisi fans herself with her hands. "Wes is playing? Hummana hummana!"

Angel laughs. "Maybe Max should sign good players instead of fit ones."

Kisi points. "He signed you."

"I can actually score a goal, though. Oh, no offence to Tom."

Charlotte blinks. "Wait, Tom's starting? Who's on the bench?"

"Magnus Evergreen, Max, WibRob, and Henri."

"That's a fucking amazing bench," says Ridley T. "Why isn't Henri starting?"

Kisi shrugs. "Not training well enough."

"Did you hear that or - ?"

"Just a guess. Or Max wants Tom's energy first half. That's one of his moves. He starts with runners and workhorses and brings on the quality. Jackie's the same. That's why I'll come on for Pippa tomorrow."

Bonnie snaps. "Cut that out. I don't want to hear that shit. We're a team. If you don't want to be on the team I can let people know."

Kisi looks down and grips the railing in front of her. "I know. She hasn't apologised to me, yet. That's messed up."

Angel puts a hand on Kisi's. "She's been messed up by the influencer. You know Pip, she's good people. She's having a bad week."

Kisi takes in a deep breath. "I know. Why did she take it out on me, though?"

Angel laughs. "Because the prick said Pippa wasn't fast, dynamic, or creative enough to hold down a place in midfield. He basically said Pippa isn't Kisi enough."

"He didn't."

"He did!"

Kisi looks unhappy. "But Pip does things I can't do. She holds her position and she tracks runners and she gets stuck in. I love playing with her. I don't want it to be like this but I don't want to have to go to her. She should come to me, first."

Bonnie moves in for a hug. "She will."

"What I don't get," says Angel, looking around, "is that Max said leave the influencer to him. I thought they would put something out on the socials but they didn't. So... what's he planning?"

"Maybe he forgot," says Kisi. "He's got loads going on."

"Yeah," says Charlotte "Like writing a play and getting Pete's mates to perform it in prison."

"This place is a nuthouse," says Ridley T. "Hey, what's all that about?"

"What?" says Charlotte, looking around.

"There's, like, everyone reading the match programme."

"Shit!" says Angel. "That's what he's done. I'm going to get one."

"Do you need cash?" asks Bonnie.

"Er... no. I'll just get that one from that guy."

"He's reading it."

"He won't mind." Angel slinks away in the direction of the man. The others remain where they are, variously amused, annoyed, or jealous. Angel comes back. "See? And he had it open to the right page, too. Everyone's reading it." Angel flips to the next few pages. "This can't be it, can it? This is his whole response? He's even more clueless than I thought. He's fighting a digital war with analogue weapons."

"Let me read it. I read faster than you," says Bonnie.

Angel looks at the camera. "I'll read it out and you'll all listen together."

"Anything to get in shot," says Bonnie, exasperated. "Well? Get on with it."

Angel skims the text and frowns. She goes back to the top and reads.

***

Influenza

by Max Best

When I was a boy, I liked playing football. I liked chasing balls around and I liked kicking them. (I didn't like it when the ball smacked me in the face, but that didn't happen often enough to put me off the game.) The moment I discovered it was possible to put a bit of curve on a ball was a revelation. I loved kicking balls at an angle, with spin, I loved volleys and half-volleys, and my neighbour and I used to have hour-long nutmegging competitions. I watched matches on TV, I watched the highlights, I read about what I'd seen in the next day’s newspapers. I gorged on football. It was impossible to think that football might one day make me sick.

I'm sure you were exactly the same but without the nutmegging competitions. (Mate, no lie, I would absolutely crush you at nutmegs.)

You're a Chester fan. You grew up supporting the club and wanting it to do well. You put your money where your mouth is, too, to the point that you not only go to matches but you buy programmes. You're reading it now and even though it feels like I, Max Actual Best, am talking directly to you, which should be the highest moment of your day, there's something wrong.

You... what's the best way to put it? You sort of... don't love the club as much as you used to. You look around and you don't see eleven men who are busting a gut to carry the badge. You see eleven frauds who are stealing a living. You don't see eleven young men who are just like you, with the same hopes and dreams of promotion and cup glory. You see eleven leeches sucking life out of the club.

What happened?

You've been influenced.

Yes, that's right. The virus has spread. Tiny Chester FC has joined the ranks of the kleptoclubs and European Super League terrorists in having its own influencers. Some older readers might not know what an influencer is. Allow me to explain. An influencer is a grifter. A person whose only talent is having no sense of shame. Someone willing to channel their sociopathic tendencies in order to make you angry. Why angry? Because angry people click on videos. Angry people watch videos until the end. Angry people leave comments. Angry people, directly or indirectly, inflate the bank balance of the influencer.

Now, I'm the manager of a football club and I hear a lot of opinions I don't agree with, but I don't try to shut them down. Most of you know that at the last fans forum I put a microphone in the hands of a chap called Ollie. Ollie and I disagree about virtually everything, but I think it's important that Ollie's voice is heard at this club. Why? Because it's his club. He's a Chester fan and when he complains about signings, tactics, or the imminent cataclysm known as vegan hot dogs he does so from a place of authenticity. He's not angry for clicks and money, he's angry because he thinks I'm bad for Chester. And I respect that.

Today we will play a football match against Aldershot Town. We will start with eleven players who care deeply about football, Chester, and their personal performance levels. It will be a hard match against a good team and we might run into some difficulties. If you find yourself more annoyed than usual, less patient with our young players than usual, or just having less fun than usual, be careful! You might have received the influence virus. Look around. Is there someone standing near you pretending to be a Chester fan so they can make money by making you unhappy? Is there someone in a Chester kit recording hot takes that make your blood boil? You might ask yourself - is there nothing we can do about these chancers? Is there no cure?

Mate, I can't do anything. It's your club. Not mine. And certainly not his. (He actually supports Notts Forest, just so you know.)

Don't leave early. I intend to come on the pitch at some point. I've been looking forward to my return for a while. You'll see me run, dribble, nutmeg, and shoot. You'll see me play like a little boy in my old back garden. It would be stupid to make rash promises but here's one - I rashly promise to give you at least one magical memory. Something you'll think about for years.

That's my promise to you today.

Or maybe you'd prefer to go home angry?

***

"Yeah," says Kisi. "That's okay. Not very Max, somehow. He's like, saying the fans have to do it."

"He said we have to sort ourselves out, too," says Charlotte.

"Interesting," says Angel. "Listen to this bit again. Is there someone standing near you pretending to be a Chester fan... Why did he say standing? Chunks is normally in the west stand, isn't he?"

"Um... he's down there," says Kisi. The women stand on tiptoe and see that Chunks is standing about ten rows in front, scrolling around his phone. He's wearing a Chester top.

"God, I hope we win and shut him up," said Charlotte.

Bonnie points and waves. "There's Pippa. Pip!"

Pippa has come into the stand and is looking for her mates. She spots Chunks first, though, and visibly recoils. She grits her teeth and pushes herself up the stairs. A few fans recognise her and give her a shout out or offer a fist bump. She spots Kisi, pauses, and heads in her direction. The microphone doesn't pick up what she says, but they hug for a while and afterwards Kisi has an even wider smile than normal.

"Have you seen this?" says Angel, offering Pippa the programme.

Her sister sighs. "Don't you need to give it back to that guy?"

"No," says Angel. "He said he wants me to keep it."

Pippa takes it and starts reading. She perks up. "Oh!" By the end, her eyes are shining.

"What?" says Ridley T. "He doesn't say anything."

"Don't you get it?" says Pippa. "This is a declaration of war."

***

"Come on, Tom!" shouts Angel.

The producer mumbles, What are you seeing?

Angel points to the far end of the ground. "Tom plays the same position as me. He's the lone striker, though. I normally play with Bea Pea. She's over there with that mob. Tom's working hard. Working the channels, making life hard for those two defenders. It's what Vimsy calls a thankless task but it's the difference between Aldershot getting quality balls into midfield or not. Hey, what's Aldershot's nickname?"

"The Shots," says Charlotte.

"No shots for the Shots. It's been a bright start. We look good, zipping the ball around. Some good stuff. Crowd's buzzing!"

"We'll play here soon," says Kisi. "I can't wait!"

A high ball is played from Aldershot's defence. Zach and Carl both move to head it clear. Both leave it for the other.

"Don't let it bounce!" screams Bonnie.

A fast striker nips in and gets to the ball first. He looks up and plays a left-footed pass across the edge of the penalty box. Ben Cavanagh doesn't know whether to stay back or come out. He chooses the latter, but as he rushes out, the second striker rolls the ball into the net.

There is some swearing in the terrace, but otherwise it falls silent. All the noise is coming from the far side of the stadium where 400 away fans have made the four-hour journey. The number's much larger than normal because many are friends of the Brig.

"Is this..." starts Ridley T. "Is this a relegation battle?"

"You sound like that prick," says Bonnie.

"Fuck, sorry."

Bonnie grips the railing. "It'll get better."

***

Wide shot: Players trudging off the pitch.

Text: Half time. Chester 0 - 3 Aldershot

Medium shot: Five glum footballers.

"That was awful," says Diane. "Don't mean to be, you know, negative. But that was just..."

"I know," says Bea Pea. "Poor Max. He got us all here so we'd learn something and the lads did that."

"He probably wants them to lose," says Robyn. "He's weird like that. Learn more from losing than winning."

"They're learning a lot, in that case," says Femi.

Angel appears. "Hi, girls! Mind if I join you?"

Everyone looks at the camera and sighs. "Fucking hell, Angel," says Bea Pea. "Give it a rest."

"I don't know what you mean. How's everyone - oh. Is that Max?"

Heads turn. "It is Max," says Femi. "Maybe he has come to apologise to us for giving us a reason to hate football."

"He seems pretty chipper," says Angel.

From a different angle we see Max is smiling and gazing fondly at the stadium roof. He looks back over his shoulder and says something to the Brig. Max exchanges a joke with a groundsman, gives a Maxy two-thumbs to a photographer, and peers up and down the stands.

"He's looking for Chunks," says Angel.

"Asking him not to go so hard on the players," says Robyn. "At some point all the losses will get to them. They're only human."

"Who are they?"

Max is talking to some guys in the crowd. They are macho-looking young men and they are pissed. The presence of the Brig deters them from getting too aggressive, but they're complaining pretty hard.

"Some randos," says Angel, taking it all in.

Max smiles and laughs and gives them little jabs on the arm. They remain furious - until they break. They shake their heads. Whatever Max is saying, they can't believe it. Soon, the group is all smiles. Max looks around some more, sees his women's team looking bleak - which seems to delight him - and as he strolls back towards the tunnel, he pauses to look at the roof of the Harry McNally stand one last time. He points and the Brig nods. He makes a joke, puts his hand on the Brig's back, and the older man laughs uproariously.

"What the fuck," says Angel.

***

"No changes at half time," says Bonnie, shaking her head. "I don't know. If I didn't know Max was coming on, I'd probably want to stay in the Blues Bar and drink."

The whistle goes and the second half gets underway. The ladies watch in a subdued mood as Tom Westwood chases a ball. It goes out of play and a substitution is announced.

"Replacing number twenty, Tom Westwood, number nine, Henri Lyons."

Westwood sprints off to generous applause from the fans left in the stadium - many are taking their time over their pies and beers.

"You know what this means?" says Kisi, bouncing, almost squeaking.

"What?"

"He's mates with Max again! Henri loves the attention! You know Max is mad at him when he doesn't let him get a round of applause. They're really friends again!"

"That's stupid," says Ridley T, but with a big smile. Kisi's an influencer of a sort.

"Come on, Chester!"

***

In addition to the scenes with the women, we start to see match footage taken from various angles with Boggy's commentary overlaid.

An Aldershot defender clatters into Wes Hayward, who crashes to the turf and rolls around.

Boggy: Wes Hayward has taken a knock! That looked a nasty one. It's been an ineffective match from him so far. Yes, this could be a good time to give young William B. Roberts some game time. We haven't seen him since his wonderful debut goal. Or perhaps Best will throw Magnus Evergreen on, since this match is lost anyway. Best has been known to play right-midfield himself, though he might decide it's not worth it given how the referee is letting Aldershot get away with murder.

Hayward comes to the side of the pitch and Best puts his arm around him and gesticulates furiously.

Boggy: Hmm. Very much looks like Best is asking Hayward to stay on a while longer. Something of a surprise. The atmosphere, I'm sorry to say, is very flat. [Sighs.] Very flat.

***

"Strange," says Robyn.

"What is?" says Diane.

"Max is asking Sharky to keep going. He'd normally sub him off no worries, unless it's an important game. And even then he'd normally sub him off anyway."

Femi spins around. "This game is lost. What's so important about it?"

"I dunno," says Robyn. "That's why I'm saying it's strange, is all."

Femi stands a little straighter. "Low block."

"What's that, Fems?" says Diane.

"He said he would bring WibRob on when there was a low block. But even with Henri, Aldershot are far better and have most of the play. What was he thinking?" Her eyes widen and she raises her left arm. She sees something there that shocks her. She wipes at it, but the goosebumps remain.

***

Omari Naysmith jogs to the side of the pitch and exchanges a high ten with Max Best. Behind, the electronic board shows the number 77. There's a miniature standing ovation from the main stand.

Boggy: Here he is! Player-manager Max Best. It has only been a month since he got a hairline fracture in his arm. Let's just hope there's no recurrence of that injury in what is, honestly, a dead fixture. Still three-nil to Aldershot and Chester are huffing and puffing and boring the house down. Well, someone is in high spirits! Max Best doing a little dance in midfield. Clicking his fingers, swaying left and right. In the match programme he promised us one magical moment. I hope it wasn't that.

***

"What's he doing?" laughs Bonnie.

"Dancing," says Angel.

"Don't let Dani see," says Kisi. "She does everything Max does."

"What song's he got in his head, do you reckon?"

"Best will tear you apart," says Bonnie. "What else?"

***

Boggy: Chester in possession. It's astounding how well they're keeping the ball, now. Green, Youngster, and Best are passing the ball around like Xavi, Iniesta, and the other one. Best, now. Sprays a pass wide right! Behind the defence. Best has been looking for that pass three times a minute since he came on! Hayward sprints, gets there, tries a cross. Keeper catches. It's crazy. I wish Spectrum were here to explain it but it looks like Best has told Hayward to keep sprinting at the left back to wear him out. Why? Are we set for a barnstorming finale? We can't be! But bit by bit, Aldershot are retreating. Like the good military club they are, it's an orderly retreat. But Chester are suddenly sharp in the tackle. They're winning headers they weren't before; they're fastest to the second balls. I look around and the team makes sense. There's danger from the wings and solidity in the centre. Ryder wins a header. Moore challenges. All a bit scrappy. James Wise puts Best in a bit of trouble with a loose pass. Best with a man at his back - nutmeg! And Best is away. He's gliding across the pitch. Look at him go! The fans are off their feet. On their feet. Best feints to hit Aff, sways right, plays it ten yards behind the left back. Hayward is after it... Fouled! He's fouled again! The left back looks ragged. Yellow card! At last the referee finds his pocket. Yellow card and a free kick in a dangerous position. Naysmith took some good dead balls in the first half but the true master is back in the saddle. Best spots the ball. He's to the right of the penalty box. Perfect angle for a whipped-in cross. Or will he try a cheeky near-post shot?

[We see the women hopping and bouncing on the railing.]

Boggy: Lots of movement in the penalty area. Best steps up - Ryder! Hits the crossbar! Scrambled away. Lyons is alert. His shot's blocked. Hoiked clear. Could be dangerous? No - Best's flying across the pitch. He shoulder-barges the striker - wow! Away he goes! Best smoothly turns goalwards. He looks left and right. He signals Hayward on the wing. But he shoots! What a save! Tipped over the bar! Best shot from all of fifty yards and it was going in! He really looks in the mood and the team are responding. His team. His players. There's no-one on that pitch he doesn't want on that pitch. He's got a big grin on his face as he goes to take the corner. It'll be an outswinger. Youngster and Eddie Moore are back in case of counters. Everyone else is in the box. Best - oh! Massive header from Carl Carlile but it flashes wide. Best not in a hurry to get back to midfield, and Aldershot aren't in a hurry to take this goal kick. And how quickly the game changes! Now they're worried. Now they're time-wasting!

[We see and hear the women hurling abuse at the goalkeeper. Sample text: Hurry up, you twat.]

Best walks down the line. As he goes, his smile turns into a frown. He pauses in front of Aldershot's manager and asks a question. The manager shrugs in response. Best laughs and calls out to Sandra Lane, his assistant. Best turns back to his rival manager and seems to say, "Sorry."

[We cut to the women, who are restlessly jiggling up and down. As one, they nod their heads like they're going for a header. They arch their back ready to celebrate, they relax, they break into a smile. They're living every header, every kick, every shot.]

Boggy: Chester making their final change. It's young William Roberts, WibRob, making his second appearance for the first team. The third match of his career. But first Best sprints to Wes Hayward and gives him a huge, huge bear hug. His has been a mixed display, it's fair to say, but no-one can deny his effort. WibRob will play now against a tired defender who is on a yellow card. Fifteen minutes to go and the home fans are making some noise. It seemed like a lot of people had left but they're back in their seats and while the result is another poor one, there are signs of life in Chester's season.

An aerial shot shows that Aldershot have fallen into a low block and every Chester player bar Ben is in Aldershot's half.

Boggy: Here's where I need Spectrum. Are Aldershot sitting back because the match is over or because we've forced them back? I think it's the latter but I can't tell. WibRob miscontrols. Best is there to recover the ball. Back to Carlile. Youngster. Green. Youngster again. He signals. Chester's players drop five yards deeper but I don't think Aldershot will fall for it. Best, huge grin on his face, sweeps left, demands, and gets, the ball. Off he goes, stabbing at the heart of the defence. There's - there's eight defenders between him and goal, so quite what he thinks - oh, here come the kick-ups! He's doing kick-ups, taunting the defenders, and they can't do anything about it because a free kick there would be deadly. Best lets the ball drop. What's next? Putting his knee on the ball, isn't it? These tricks normally work best when the team isn't three-nil down and there's more time. Only about twelve minutes to go. Best exchanges passes with WibRob. Another one? No! Ball clipped over the defenders. Carl Carlile is thundering ahead! It's like last year's Chester, this. Carlile, low cross, Lyons competes, smuggled clear, Wise slides in, pops the ball to Best. He chips over the defence. Dubhlain is there on the volley!

[The women jumping around, hugging, arms raised in jubilation, pints of coke flying.]

Text: Chester 1 - 3 Aldershot

Wide shot: The Chester players go to the left of the Harry McNally terrace to celebrate with the fans. Max watches, thoughtfully. The camera adjusts to follow him as he goes to the right of the stand. He says something to some fans there.

***

Selfie cam: Angel

"What's happening? This is too much. We've gone from looking like relegation certs to the best team in the world. We're amazing! The crowd are up for this one. There's something weird in the air. I don't know. It's kind of scary." She blinks and wonders if she's sure she wants to continue. She looks at the pitch. We can guess she's looking at Max. "I don't think the gaffer came to lose, today."

***

Close-ups of the action from the main stand side of the pitch. WibRob holding off his marker and passing to Best. Best lazily waiting for a tackle to come before passing to WibRob. A feint, a pass, more opponents drawn close, but the Chester pair have the ball on a string. They threaten to pass Aldershot to death but Best boops the ball through a defender's legs and chases after it.

Boggy: Best launches another thrust! He tries to find Lyons but the centre back gets there first. He absolutely leathers the ball downfield! Carlile takes a quick throw up the line towards WibRob. The youngster lets the ball bounce once. His marker comes to compete but WibRob lifts the ball ten yards square - he knew Best would be there. Best takes a touch, hits a dipping, curving ball to the left. Surge of excitement from the fans! Dubhlain meets it on the full, first time volley into the centre, Lyons diving header, goal! Goal for Chester! What a beauty!

[The women are one mass of bodies in amongst a thousand more. Limbs everywhere. Boggy's voice continues.]

"The ball didn't touch the floor from the minute it left WibRob's boot and Chester are back in this. They're back in this and they're absolutely flying. The noise is unreal. Henri Lyons is back in the team and back in the goals. It was a wicked cross from Aff but Lyons had a lot to do and he bravely flung himself at it."

Text: Chester 2 - 3 Aldershot.

[Again, most Chester players run to the left of goal, following Henri. But Max waits and as the celebrations start to die down, he approaches the fans to the right.]

"What's happening in the Harry McNally terrace? Some kind of trouble in the stand. There's quite a lot of pushing and shoving. Oh, and now someone has thrown something at Max Best! Oh, no. It seems... it seems to be okay but the other players are rushing across. Best tells them to stop. It looks like he's got a phone. Someone threw a phone at him. Best says something into it." A feral cry comes from the stand. "Max Best boots the phone onto the roof of the stand! He took the phone and kicked it onto the roof of the stadium. What on earth is that all about? The fans there are going crackers. There's a ferocity to it that's hair-raising."

The angle has changed because the camera crew have repositioned themselves behind the women, feeling it's slightly safer at the back. As such, they get a great shot of Max Best leaping onto the advertising hoarding - held in place by Zach Green and Henri - and him pointing at someone in the crowd and screaming at the top of his lungs. Despite its evident volume, we don't hear it over the frantic roar of the rest of the stadium. It's only as other players and the nearby fans join in that we begin to hear the edges of what's being said.

And only when virtually the entire Harry McNally joins in that we hear it with true, terrifying clarity.

"You're not fit.

You're not fit.

You're not fit to wear the shirt!"

The song sweeps around the Deva until at least two thousand voices are raised. Someone tries to rush towards the stairs and there's a surge of bodies. The camera picks up more commotion and suddenly a Chester top is flung from the middle of the throbbing mass. It's thrown towards the front until it's finally handed to Max.

He drops to the pitch and runs behind the goal holding the kit above him like a revolutionary flag while his team follows in his wake. He shows his trophy to the west stand and sprints across the pitch to display it to the main stand. He defiantly thrusts it at the executive box and starts yet another new chant. Again, it is taken up and spreads like wildfire.

"Chester!

Not for sale!

Chester Chester not for sale!"

Best hands the tarnished kit to the Brig, gets a yellow card for some reason, and retakes the pitch with firepits instead of eyes.

***

Kisi, Bonnie, and Charlotte are arm-in-arm, one unit. "Chester! Not for Sale!"

Femi is standing like a hooligan on a train platform. Arms high, wide, and defiant. "Chester Chester not for sale!"

Diane, Lucy, and Robyn have their arms around Pippa, who is crying tears of triumph.

A step behind, for once trying not to be noticed by the camera, is Angel. She's watching Max Best's every move, cheeks slightly flushed.

***

A drum beat slides into existence. Military drums. Dum dum dum dum. It's leading somewhere. Rising to a climax.

Chester players are passing left and right, going through the drills they practice every day. Eddie finds Aff and sprints forward. Aff eases the ball to James Wise. Wise checks - Eddie's marked. He turns and slips it to Youngster. He lays it first time to Max. The drums speed up. Best simply plays his part in the drill. The drums ease off. WibRob exchanges passes with Carl Carlile. The drum beat loses a few joules of energy. Aldershot's exhausted left back tries to barrel into the back of WibRob, but the kid shrugs him off, turns down the line, and accelerates away. He's faster than he looks and the defender can't foul him; he's on a yellow!

The drums go mental.

WibRob dribbles. A defender slides in but he dabs the ball over the tackle, hurdles the leg...

[The women leap and bounce and fling their arms up.]

Henri rushes to be useful. Aff powers to the far post. Even James Wise decides it's time to make a rare penalty box entry. Aldershot are shot. Their defenders are guessing. Their structure has been annihilated and their only hope is the final whistle.

WibRob blasts a pass diagonally backwards. Henri can't do anything with it so he lets it go through his legs. Max Best is there! He collects with a perfect first touch that takes him past two defenders. His second is heavy and allows the goalie the chance to come off his line and narrow the angle. Max will get a shot away, at least...

[The noise reduces to an echoing silence as we see freeze frames of the members of the women's team. Femi's ready for battle. Lucy's got her hand up behind her like she's a jockey and she's hitting a horse. Charlotte is on her toes and her head is forward like she's embodying the process of a dinked shot. Bea Pea is already celebrating. Angel's knuckles are clamped around a railing and her eyes are huge as she drinks it all in.]

In slow motion, we see Max go for the dink Charlotte wanted. The keeper's momentum is taking him towards Max and his arms shoot out above him trying to block as much of the goal as poss. A normal shot will slam into his body. The dink has a fair chance of hitting an arm.

The shot...

Never comes.

Max's momentum takes him another stride forward, and suddenly he has an open goal. He passes the ball into the back of the net. It's that simple. He doesn't break stride to do anything as gauche as check his work, though. He keeps running and leaps into the crowd. A hundred grown men throw out their arms to embrace him. A thousand more surge closer. They roar - it's joy with no small amount of rage - and the volume only increases as other players arrive to join in.

At the top of the stand, twenty-five women and their partners go utterly berserk.

The celebrations continue almost until full time.

The final score is three-all, but for years people talk of the day Chester beat Aldershot.

***

Medium close-up: Angel

Text: Angel, Striker, Number Ten

Angel's in a new location. It looks like it might be a coffee shop. She's in her Chester tracksuit, ready for the first game of the season. She's looking around, either because she's very interested in what's on the walls or because she's not very interested in the camera.

The producer asks, "Do you still want to be an influencer?"

Angel doesn't seem to hear, at first, but then she processes the question and her eyebrows shoot up. "An influencer?" She smirks. "Yeah. I want to lift my team mates. Lift my club. Wrap a whole stadium around my little finger." She scoffs and shakes her head. Quietly, she mumbles, "I won't underestimate him again." She shakes her head again as she adjusts on the chair. "I feel sorry for Merseyrail. I honestly do. The girls are wound up and they're gonna go off like a rocket." She pushes her lips together and smiles. She blinks and unclips her lapel microphone as she slides off the chair. She pauses. "Erm... are you still rolling?"

"Yeah."

Angel sits for a while, lost in thought. Finally, she slides back. "Let's do that one again. You might want to get tight on this shot." She tries to stop herself smirking, which is inexplicably hard. She closes her eyes, takes a few deep breaths, and gets to some sort of normal expression. She lifts the lapel microphone about a foot in front of her mouth. She looks right down the lens. "The girls are wound up... and they're gonna go off like a rocket." She smoulders at the camera as it zooms in...

And the screen fades to black.