Kevin Davies wasn’t expecting the call. He almost let it ring out when that familiar name flashed up. Big Sam had a habit of phoning up in the early hours after a few too many pints of pinot, and he'd taken that walk down memory lane too many times.
But answer he did, and so there he was: 41-years-young, three harsh winters into retirement, leading the line for England against Tunisia at the 2018 World Cup. Behind him, Wayne Rooney, Jack Wilshere, Jonjo Shelvey and Mark Noble, prowling and scowling and taking long, anguished breathers around the centre circle. To their side, Allardyce grinning like a well-fed cheshire cat. The match goes precisely to plan: a triumphant 0-0 draw.
Sammy Lee and the rest of the backroom staff were out on their arses a long time ago, of course. Bar an aborted attempt to bring Fray Bentos in as the team’s dietician, Big Sam is going it alone on the training ground. It’s not rocket science, is it? Three hours of headers and volleys followed by laps around the pitch. A character-building day of piggy-in-the-middle for Adam Lallana. Get John Terry and Chris Smalling to punt medicine balls against a wall for a bit. Job done.
It works, too. Back on the pitch, Roberto Martinez' mercurial Belgium team are no match for Phil Jones, who manages to get his face in front of every single shot and most of their passes. Big Sam spends the Panama game bothering the oppo manager for financial advice. Elsewhere, Joe Hart tries to pass it out but ends up booting every goal-kick into the Caspian Sea. Somehow, the stars align and Big Sam's brave boys ride a wave of bore draws right to the top of the group. A few shots on target, a million frantic clearances, three HR-able half-time team-talks and now, against-the-odds, four wins away from World Cup glory.
Back home, the blue-tacked flags are disappearing from windows. Bunting trickles from bins. The papers aren't even reporting on the World Cup anymore, really. You always think you want Allardyce until you have him. It's the greatest Faustian pact of modern football. But Big Sam doesn't care about the boo boys. It's the hate that fuels him, really, alongside Rustler burger breakfasts and his patented Lucozade/Bovril blend.
He's deep in preparation anyway, drawing up potential game-plans based on old episodes of Mind Your Language. Against Japan, a 1st-minute Kevin Davies head-butt goes undetected by VAR and England eke out a win on penalties. So it goes, shootout win after shootout win, until Big Sam's barmy, slightly baffled army are sidling up for the World Cup final against Argentina.
A violent scramble earns England an early 1-0 lead, and the whole team valiantly solder together on the goalmouth for 83 tortuous minutes. Argentina's possession stats hit the triple digits, and Allardyce has steadfastly refused to stop singing the national anthem at any point. But then the final whistle half-heartedly blows. The BBC will struggle to make a montage out of this, but... England have won the World Cup.
Boos erupt around the stadium. The players stare sheepishly at the turf. A P45 is crumpled into Allardyce's hands before he can even touch the trophy, and men in black shades escort him off the pitch and onto the streets of Moscow. Once outside, Big Sam takes a big, satisfied snort of air, straightens his tie and dusts his palms. He wouldn't have had it any other way.
