I look out the window so he won’t see me laughing. It’s the sort of thing he usually saves for the Blackpool results. Hoping and hoping that they’ll be relegated to division three, or that we’ll go up to join them, so he can tell the donkey-lashers to their faces to shove the fucking tower up their arse. He’s meant to reign it in around me, but things slip out. He can’t help himself. I make my face serious, pretend I didn’t hear. Turn back and stretch out my legs. We’re earlier than usual but there are already fans everywhere. Five men wearing home shirts and jeans, crossing right in front of us even though the lights are green.

‘Get a move on, lads,’ Granddad says, but he doesn’t beep the horn.

I try the handle on the glove compartment and it pops open. The WD40 rolls out onto my foot and out of reach. He doesn’t even notice. The car park is packed. He drives right round to the far corner and backs into a space like a pro.

And then we’re walking up the hill to the stadium. It’s hard to keep up. Billy is almost skipping. He looks like a wally. Like someone pretending to be a kid. I hope no one from school sees us.

‘It’s a long-shot, mate, that’s all,’ Granddad says, ‘we’d need three goals. And that’s only if they don’t score.’

‘But we can do it,’ he looks at me for a second, ‘Al agrees with me, don’t you, Al?’ he doesn’t wait for an answer. ‘We can get to Wembley. We can win it on aggregate. Those are the rules.’

He keeps saying that word. Aggregate. Like he’s proud of it. Like he wants everyone to know that he knows what it means. I wish he didn’t have to come. I wish he wouldn’t call me Al. And then I feel bad for thinking it. Because I know what Nan would say. I’ve heard her arguing with Mum. He’s not a bad lad, just needs some looking after and Mum saying why does it always have to be you, though? He’s always had a thing for me. It’s creepy. And don’t look at me like that. You can’t deny he’s a couple of sandwiches short of a picnic.