Chris jogged onto the pitch, boots already scuffed and laces half-undone like he’d just sprinted out of a Wetherspoons car park, not a YouTube football shoot. He held the camera out, panning across the organised mess—bibs in a pile, George balancing two cones on his head like some discount unicorn, someone loudly debating whether the South counts as anything below Birmingham.

Alright, deep breath. Showtime.

“Alright, lads and legends—welcome to possibly the most unnecessary grudge match YouTube has ever seen: North vs South,” he declared into the lens, voice already dripping with mock seriousness. “One pitch, two teams, and roughly 3 functioning ACLs between us.”

He flipped the camera into selfie mode, brushing his hair back out of his face, already slightly winded from the jog. Pathetic.

“Team South’s obviously here to win—and look good doing it. Team North? I hope someone brought tissues. It’s gonna be emotional.”

He swung the lens toward the Northerners, eyes immediately locking onto Will—who was currently stretching like he hadn’t found out he was playing five minutes ago.

Will wasn’t even supposed to be here. They had a full squad. Ginge was their Geordie golden boy. But no—he cancelled last minute with some half-mumbled excuse about a “work thing,” which probably meant "hungover and spiritually unavailable."

So now we had Will, who was clearly milking this for all it was worth, acting like he’d always been first choice. Classic.

“Oi!” Chris called out, raising his voice just enough for the camera to catch it. “Did someone forget to tell you it’s not 2003? Those kits are tragic.”

Arthur snorted behind him, and Harry muttered something about “kettle calling the pot northern.”

Chris turned back to his own team, camera lowered, tone switching to that fake-coach serious that only came out when he was fully in his element—and also full of shit.

“Alright boys, remember: win, score bangers, and if you fall over—make it look intentional.”

He glanced at the pitch, the sun too bright, his socks already falling down, and still—

This was gonna be chaos. Glorious, painful, post-match-pint-worthy chaos.