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“Where the hell have you been?” barks Bill Kenwright at me across the car park.

I get out of my car, grab my bag out of the boot and stride over to him. This is ridiculous. I’m the manager of Everton Football Club and I’m being shouted at like I’m some sort of… actually, no, this is quite normal.

“We’ve been trying to reach you for days,” says Bill, aggressively jazz handing.

“I’ve been busy,” I snap.

“We need to talk,” says Bill. “It’s not working out.”

“We’re third, Bill!” I shout. “We’re third in the Premier League, we’re in the quarter-finals of the League Cup and we’ve qualified for the knockout round of the Europa League! What do you mean, it’s not working out?”

“That’s the problem,” says Bill. “People don’t want this, they don’t want success. People don’t want you to do well. And it’s really affecting the numbers.”

I give him a long, hard look.

“Look, Iain, we’re struggling to get people through the door. It’s possible we went too broad. We tried other sports, that didn’t work. We tried some music stuff, nothing happened there. We even had Danny Kelly doing a presentation on the Wu Tang Clan… that was actually quite cool, but still… we can’t seem to get people interested and the board… well… the board are wondering if it’s worth carrying on.”

“Of course it’s worth carrying on,” I wail. “This is the best it’s ever been, for Christ’s sake. I can’t stop now!”

“No-one wants it, Iain!” bellows Bill.

We both fall silent. A group of academy players have gathered by the main entrance. They stare at us in shock.

“I’m sorry, Iain,” says Bill. “I really am. But someone had to tell you to your face.”

“s’fine,” I sniffle.

“Look, it’s not all bad,” says Bill, putting his arm around me. “You’ve still got that podcast.”

I crumple into his arms and start to sob.

“One more game?”

Bill holds me and strokes my hair.

“One more game.”

Well, if this is to be my final game, then let’s make it a good one. We rested everyone for Europe in midweek, so we are full strength and I want all of my old boys back. So it’s Seamus and Leighton as full-backs, it’s Demigod Vida back in the defence, it’s James, Ross and Idrissa in the middle and you bet your shiny bottom that it’s big Rom up front.

I don’t tell the players what’s going on, but I think on some level that they know because they get straight into Palace from the first whistle. We’re making chances for fun and it isn’t long before Jonathan Biabiany drags a low cross along the edge of the box and Lukaku smashes it home. Just before half time, Coleman lofts one to the back stick and Filip Kostic nods in a second.

The second half goes exactly the way I want it. Nothing happens. Nothing at all. Not even half chances, just a few scuffed shots and desperate long range efforts. The game simply drains away. It’s the best going-away present I could have received. Why can’t they all be like this?

I thank the players for their efforts today and for the past 18 months and then I tell them that I’m leaving.

“But boss,” says Seamus. “We’re second in the table. Why on earth are you leaving?”

“Because no one wants it, Seamus. They want to see a middle-aged man struggling to survive. That’s the joke, you see. That’s what made it work. The juxtaposition of a hopeless nerd who loves a game, but the game hates him and it conspires against him and he gets sad. It’s no fun if the game loves him. No one wants to see a middle-aged man doing really well on a game he’s played for years. It just looks like boasting. So it’s over, Seamus, it’s over. And I’m sorry.”

No one says a word. I leave the dressing room quietly, I put on my big coat and my big hat, I pull the collar up and the brim down and I slip out into the crowds, leaving Goodison anonymously rather than, as I had once hoped I would, on an open top bus.

“We were good today, weren’t we, dad?” chirrups a small boy, walking hand in hand with his father in front of me.

“We were, son,” he says. “We really were.”

“Was it because of Lukaku, Dad? Or was it Kostic? Or was it Barkley? I like Barkley, Dad, he’s my favourite.”

“I think it was all of them,” says the dad. “It’s a team game, you see. You need everyone. Even the best player in the world couldn’t win without a good team around him. But most of all, you need a good manager to tie it all together.”

“Have we got a good manager, Dad?”

The father takes his time with the answer. He mulls it over.

“I think we have, son. I wasn’t sure about him at first, I wanted Ronald Koeman. But you can’t argue with results. He’s bought good players, he’s made us a much better team and he’s even brought back European football. I think he’s done just fine.”

I smile and I stand a little straighter.

“Yeah,” says the boy. “But he’s a such a dickhead, isn’t he?”

“He is, son,” says the dad. “He really is.”

Two weeks later, the phone rings. I stare at it for a bit. I haven’t been answering calls recently. It’s just journalists asking what went wrong and why I left and what I’m going to do next. The truth is that I don’t know what I’m going to do next.

Football management is what I know. It’s what makes me tick. If I’m ever out of work, I feel like there’s a piece of me missing.

The phone continues to ring. I lean towards it and check the number. It’s an international call, but there’s a strange code on it. Which country is +65?

I answer it.

“Iain Macintosh?” says a voice.

“Yes?” I say. “Who’s speaking?”

“My name is Peter Lim. Tell me, Iain, what do you know about Valencia?”

TO BE CONTINUED?