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there were lots of shiny plasma screens dotted around the room. But look a bit closer and you could see flaking paintwork and worn carpet.
    Ted turned to check they were still there.
    ‘This way,’ he said and he pushed open a service door before stepping through.
    Pete and Erasmus exchanged a bemused glance before following.
    Beyond was a corridor dimly lit by industrial low wattage bulbs. Pipes and bundles of cable lined the walls. Some of the cabling had long streaks of copper wire that had burst through the perished rubber.
    Ted was chuckling.
    ‘I know what you’re thinking! How do we get the Fire Safety certificate each year? Let’s just say the inspector is an Evertonian and the council leader brave enough to piss off half his constituents hasn’t been born yet.’
    Ted didn’t look at them as he talked, he kept walking at his eerily fast pace, his little legs scuttling along the narrow corridor. They followed him along the corridor, which twisted and turned through the bowels of the stadium, for a couple of minutes. Finally, they came to another service door. Ted stopped, pulled out a key on a silver chain from under his shirt and used it to unlock the door.
    ‘Through here,’ he said with a flourish of his arms.
    The door opened out into what looked like a large study more appropriate to a country home than a football stadium. The back wall was made up of bookshelves and a rich brown mahogany desk sat in front of them. But what was really impressive was the outer wall of the study. This was a floor to ceiling window that looked out onto the pitch.
    Pete whistled.
    ‘Nice,’ he said.
    Ted manoeuvred his bulk around the desk.
    ‘Assume you’re not talking about the team. It’s one-way glass.’ He jabbed a fat finger at the window. ‘The buggers can’t see us. Drink?’ he asked.
    The fans outside might not be able to see in but they weren’t insulated from the cacophony of boos and jeers rolling down from the stands at the hapless home players.
    Pete nodded.
    ‘No thanks,’ said Erasmus.
    Ted poured out two large glasses of whisky and passed one to Pete. He then crashed back into his chair and let out the sigh that comes to all men of a certain age when they return to a sitting position.
    Erasmus decided he had wasted enough time here. He hated football and so far the cruel pettiness and barely restrained violence he felt had done nothing to change his view of the sport.
    ‘So, I know that you instruct one of the magic circle firms for your corporate and transfer work and you use a local firm, Cuff Roberts, for the smaller stuff just so you can boast you support local businesses, so why in the world would you want to instruct us?’
    Erasmus noticed Pete suck in his bottom lip.
    Ted stared at Erasmus for a second during which Erasmus wouldn’t have been surprised if he had told them to get out right away. Then pointed out at the pitch.
    ‘Look,’ he said.
    Erasmus turned and watched as the final whistle went and the players in red held up their arms. The Everton player’s body language told him everything he needed to know – hunched shoulders and downcast eyes – as they trudged slowly off the pitch. The booing and jeering was of the kind usually reserved for child killers as they sped off in a van from court.
    ‘Fuck, we lost,’ said Pete.
    ‘Again,’ said Ted. ‘Do you know what this means?’ He didn’t wait for answer. ‘This means we are second from bottom in the week before Christmas and do you know how many football teams have been second from bottom at Christmas and then not been relegated? Well, you won’t know Erasmus so I’ll tell you. None.’
    ‘It’s Wayne’s fault,’ muttered Pete.
    Ted took a large slug of his whisky.
    ‘If we are relegated this club won’t survive. We will lose £125 million, be forced to sell our best players and we will be as welcome in this city as a Mancunian Tory.
    Erasmus felt his thinner than most patience start to give.
    ‘So, what has