'This way,' says Mrs Trellis, placing a hand on her good friend Agnes's arm. Gmswjambo's PA removes the passes from the envelope and holds them up. 'We've got VIP treatment!'
The pair make their way through the crowds milling around the turnstiles and head for the Xpert Arena's main entrance. Once inside, they're ushered to the VIP suite where a veritable corruption of FA elite, sponsors, and celebs have gathered to take in the match. She clocks Hank Marvin, from a big sandwich chain, with his impossibly fit young wife, Shea van Gusset, hanging on his arm; cricketer Ryan Frontbottom is propping up the bar; Roy Hipknoll, an exec of the BBC, is also in attendance.
Club Chairman, Dick Spray, welcomes them with a flute of champagne apiece before an elderly gentleman in a perfectly ironed shirt, polished black shoes, and an long black apron shimmers into existence with a selection of volevonts on a silver tray. Trellis takes one, Agnes takes three, and the waiter melts away into the crowd.
With a good hour to kill before the players even begin their warm-ups, the pair are nicely sloshed before Matchstick Men take to the field and begin stretching.
'They don't look like arsonists to me,' mutters Agnes.
'Nor are they too skinny with redheads,' chucklesTrellis.
'Why are they called Matchstick Men then?'
'No idea,' Trellis takes another sip of champers. 'Maybe we'll be able to meet Mr Brazil after the game.
'Mr Brazil?' creams Agnes, 'Ooh, I do love a Latino!
Referee Manuel Ficu blows his whistle. The match gets underway. Costinha has a half-chance with a header, but it's straight at Foran. The top-flight side have a decent spell of possession which culminates in a corner. Brauner swings it in. Combe swings a boot at it but misses. Anselmo Costamera throws his caution to the wind and flings himself headlong at the ball. He makes contact, glancing it past the desperate glove of Conkelberry and into the bottom-left corner. The fans behind the opposite goal erupt; it's where 'The Fire Starters' have their ultras. Cue the flares.
Lisieux reacts quickly. Just five minutes later, with a multitude of orange flares still burning behind Foran's goal, Lucho Aymar dances into the box and cuts back for the onrushing Adílio Araújo. He plants it in the top right bin, leaving the Matchstick Men stopper for dead, levelling at one-apiece. One by one, the flares go out.
'Game on!' cries Trellis, punching the air in delight.
'I say!' grins Agnes, 'This isn't nearly as boring as I thought it would be. Oh, yes please,' she nods, as the smartly dressed gentleman refills her flute before oozing off once more.
Back come Matchstick Men. For all their possession, however, there are few chances. Half-time beckons, and suddenly it's Gmswjambo's side finishing the stronger. Araújo finds a pocket of space, beats one man, and tees Costinha. The striker puts his laces through it. 2-1 to Lisieux! The yellow and black scarves of 'Les Abeilles' are spinning around in the stands behind Conkelberry's goal. The goalie celebrates with them and flirts with a booking. Ficu, however, hasn't noticed.
A setback for Matchstick Men occurs early in the second half, with defensive enforcer Silvino Boim seemingly injuring himself in a tackle on Toussaint. Youngster MacCaig comes on in his place. He's a promising talent, but he's still a way to go before he can fill big Boim's boots.
Gmswjambo and his assistant exchange a look; Matchstick Men's defence has just been splintered. Could they capitalise?
Not exactly. They can't add a third. But they're under less pressure in midfield and succeed in keeping their opponents largely at arm's length. It's still a nervy finish but, at long last, after 4 minutes of added-on time, Ficu raises the whistle to his lips and blows.
2-1 it finishes. C.A. Lisieux Pays-d'Auge have won the Xpert League Cup.
Some time later, back in the VIP suite, Mrs Trellis smiles at her friend. Agnes is plastered to the extent that she's snoring softly in an armchair in the corner. Suddenly, there's applause. Gmswjambo and his opposite number, Tony Brazil, have left the dressing rooms, spoken to the press, and are now undergoing the contractual obligation of schmoozing the who's who. Trellis bides her time. Gmswjambo manages to extracate himself from the windbag that Trellis recognises as Isaac Butts, a bellend financier from one of the league's corporate sponsors.
'Ah, Trellis, you made it! What a game, eh?'
Trellis nods politely as the manager explains some of his tactical decisions. She's had too much to drink to care. He turns and waves a man over.
'Trellis, meet Tony. Tony Brazil.'
The opposing manager smiles and says hello. Trellis offers a few words of commiseration and wishes him the best for next season.
'Thank you, and you too,' smiles Brazil. 'Division one beckons, and the XCL! You'll be kept busy.'
Christ, thinks Trellis. He's made a very good point. She opens and closes her mouth but words desert her, 'Not that it'll knock you off your stride, I'm sure. I follow your work; you do a fine job.'
Trellis is flattered. She's been reading Brazil's press reports for years, even some of the ones from White Swans, his Xpert Ladies outfit. As he goes to move on to the next bigwig, her inebriated abandonment takes over.
'Would you mind if I took a selfie with you?' she gushes. He grins and agrees.
It's time to go. She shakes Agnes awake and they make for the door. In the taxi, Trellis shows the photo of her and Brazil.
'That's Mr Brazil?' she asks, mouth twisted into half a grimace.
'Yes. And he seems very nice, too.'
'Never!'
'It is! Look,' after a couple of clicks and swipes she finds a suitable article. 'There you go. Tony Brazil. Matchstick Men manager.
'Pfft. I suppose he's alright and I've done worse, but he's no supermodel.' She squints again at the selfie then adds, 'And he's not nearly tanned enough. Mr Brazil my foot!'
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