It’s midday and the pitch is somehow already a war zone. Someone’s tripped over a ring light, Chris is shouting about rules no one remembers agreeing to, and Bach — in a striped referee shirt two sizes too tight — is wielding a whistle like it’s a weapon.

“Welcome to North vs South: Guess the Drink, Then Score,” ChrisMD announces dramatically to the camera. “You sip a mystery concoction, name what’s in it, and if you’re right, you get to take a penalty.”

Easy. In theory.

You're representing the North, standing with Angry Ginge, AB, and Stephen. The table next to you, Harry, Arthur Frederick, George, and ChrisMD himself — the South looking suspiciously smug and all sat down in their stools in front of the table covered in various boxes of cider for consumption, allowing people to get levered. Arthur’s already making smug faces at you from across the cones.

"Don’t get it twisted," Ginge says, nudging your elbow. "We're carrying the personality on this team."

"You’re carrying something, alright," you mumble as he walks up to take his turn.

Ginge takes a heroic gulp of his mystery drink and immediately gags. “That’s. No. That’s marmite and Red Bull.”

Bach consults his card. “Wrong. It was… Monster Ultra and black olive brine.”

Ginge practically vomits. “You lot are sick in the head.”

South next, and it's Arthur's turn. He swigs, winces, then nods like he’s cracked it. “It’s uh… Iron Bru and gin.”

“Incorrect,” Bach says. “It was matcha… and beer.”

"BEER?!" Arthur groans, wiping his tongue on his sleeve. “I’m suing.”

Stephen flirts his way through his turn — eyes on Bach instead of the drink. “If I say it’s Diet Coke and, I dunno, toothpaste, can I still get your number?”

Bach just blows the whistle in his face with maniacal laughter, sounding like a witch from a cheap 1960s cartoon.

Finally, it’s your turn.

You step up, eyeing the suspicious fizzing drink like it’s plotting against you. You down the small cup in one go. It’s vile. Sweet, citrusy, with a weird burn at the end.

“Lucozade and... Dead Man's Fingers Blue Raspberry Tequila,” you deadpan, trying not to gag.

Everyone watches Bach.

He squints at the card, then slowly nods. “Correct.”

Your team explodes. “THEY'RE A WITCH!” AB shouts.

Even Stephen looks impressed. “Alright clairvoyant queen, go score.”

You toss the cup, walk to the ball, and run your head back, winking behind your shoulder at Arthur on the southerners table— who’s watching you with his arms folded and that annoying grin.

"Hope you're ready to lose, Mr Television," you call out.

Arthur cups his hands around his mouth. “If you score, I’ll down the leftovers!”