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So the Football League’s Chairman, Lord Mawhinney, believes
that draws are old hat and that we need to introduce penalty shoot
outs to decide bonus points, in the name of “refreshing our
product”.
Dissolve the picture - one of those old school Dr Who effects -
and fade up the 2022 World Cup.
Football as we’d known and loved it had become obsolete. The
stakes simply weren’t high enough to get the apathetic masses
out of their seats. So now, instead of playing the World Cup for
something as nebulous as national pride or a stupid gold trophy,
it was played for money.
The winners were presented with their annual tax receipts each year
for the four years they held the trophy, the money being contributed
by the teams that failed to win the competition. The earlier you
went out of the competition , the more you had to pay.
Four years ago, when the Germans took the trophy, we had been privy
to the sight of one of the world’s most powerful nations being
subsidised by Senegal, who had been dumb enough to get knocked out
in the First Round.
In the new middle-class friendly world of professional football,
money was all that counted. And if England could win the World Cup,
it meant that the entire revenue-generating population would no
longer have to pay a penny in income tax, VAT, petrol duty or the
rest for four years, while the weak nations of the third world dug
deep. Unfair?
Come on, market forces, survival of the fittest, law of the jungle.
That’ll just teach those minnow nations to learn to play properly
- you can’t expect progress without a financial imperative.
The game ended in a 2-2 draw after the full sixty minutes, England
salvaging an equaliser with virtually the last kick of the game.
Ten minutes of extra-time could not separate them. Now we entered
sudden death, the shootout. This was the first game in which the
new Final solution was to be used.
The executives at Chordum TV had concluded that penalty shootouts
were far too dull, too drawn out, might take fifteen or twenty shots
to reach a decision. They lacked the necessary je ne sais quoi,
the melodrama that made a sporting event truly great. A quarter
of an hour of lost advertising revenue just waiting for someone
to fail.
Games weren’t about failures, failures were filth. People wanted
to glorify winners, failures weren’t worth the scrapings off
our shoes. And they couldn’t be identified with products. Only
winners could be used for that.
“From the past springs the future” was a motto that Robert
Chordum had always held dear. Looking into the history books, the
answer sprang out and hit him between the eyes. Duelling!
The English and Italian captains met in the centre circle and chose
their weapons.
The greatest of honours, to not only captain your country but kill
for it too. After years of commentaries that had likened sport to
war, the logical conclusion had been reached. They walked towards
the penalty area, stood back to back and took ten paces away from
each other, turned and fired.
The Italian was quicker and a shot pierced the oppressive blanket
of silence that covered Wembley Stadium. The Englishman staggered
back a pace or two and his left arm went limp as he crumpled to
his knees. A groan filled the stadium.
Then he gathered himself, stood up straight and tall. Just a flesh
wound!
Debilitating, disabling, career ending, but not fatal! Yes! A deafening
roar! England, a free shot to win the World Cup Final and shave
thousands off everybody’s tax bill.
The Roman looked to the floor, distraught, knowing he had let down
his country and would force them to shoulder a financial burden
they could ill afford. Then, bravely, he looked the Englishman in
the eye as he took his aim and fired.
The
bullet struck the Italian in the chest, hurling him backwards into
the net, where he became entangled, arms outstretched, begging the
fates for an escape that was never going to come.
The crowd erupted. The England captain was enveloped by his team
mates, a deafening roar of “England! England!” filled
the space. World Champions at last! The England coach, who by day
was Chancellor of the Exchequer, came out to congratulate his boys,
knowing his financial strategy was safe for another term of office.
Fans poured onto the field, lifting the captain aloft as blood seeped
through a hole in his shoulder. The Italians in contrast, trooped
disconsolately towards the goal, cut down their captain’s bloodied
body, zipped him up into a Nike body bag - available in the your
nearest mall for just £175 - and carried him off.
Has that refreshed the product enough for you?
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