FADE IN:
EXT. A BUSY CITY CENTRE – DAY.
A throng of shoppers, bedecked in summer attire and all carrying a multitude of bags and slurping cold drinks, collectively stop in their tracks at a disorientating noise from above. They squint into the sun-speckled sky, instinctively pulling their children to them as they cower in fear and confusion.
The humid air is whipped into a tepid breeze as dust and street debris dance around them. Some run for cover into shop entrances but their route is blocked further by a number of armed, uniformed guards who appear en masse down each side of the high street. They are suspiciously good-looking to a man. Models hired by the hour.
Above is a helicopter, camouflaged and festooned with the logo of a well-known betting company. Frantic jostling ensues to create a circle large enough in this pedestrianised area for the chopper to land but instead it hovers barely twenty feet above the chaos; its blades rattling the windows of the upper floors of each megastore.
From an unseen PA system music blares out. The Ride of the Valkyries: booming and loud. Only the familiar baritone of Brian Blessed quietens it.
“Good people of planet Earth. The battle has been fought. Now it’s time for war!”
A ladder unfurls from the side of the chopper and a soldier emerges. Then another. And another. Their descent is clumsy and tentative.
“Last year these valiant brothers secured fourth. Third had better look out,” Blessed intones, his voice as serious as a nuclear countdown. “Their blood, sweat and tears are our blood, sweat and tears. We fight as one.”
At this moment, as the third soldier touches terra firma with some considerable relief and kicks aside a half-eaten choc ice that has been abandoned in the panic, their faces become familiar to the crowd.
There is the defender who missed half of last season with a stubbed toe. There’s the midfielder who is currently holding the club to ransom to increase his ‘insulting’ seventy-five grand a week salary. There’s the striker who was seen out clubbing just hours after the club’s humiliating derby defeat last October.
“These legends of the turf. These gods who play as we dream.”
The players’ faces are perfectly still and set to kill besides a faint flicker of acknowledgement from the striker at being referred to as a god. As Wagner’s magnum opus finally dies away to be immediately replaced with Tina Turner’s Simply The Best, all accompanied by a cacophony of fireworks, a child can be heard wailing.
The players exchange a quick glance. Now is the moment that they practised for at the behest of a club employee after training a few weeks ago. With Chippendale panache they tear off their army fatigues that are loosely held together at the back. The big reveal is upon us.
Blessed is roaring something about ten per cent off for all season card holders, Tina is screeching ‘better than all the rest’, while the fireworks are lost in the bright sky but their whizzes and crackles and whistles deafen all around. The players adopt the same pose Mad Bazzer down the Rose and Crown does every time a student accidentally jogs his pint-arm; fronting up, their faces curled into belligerent fury.
A supporter of the club deep among the throng takes stock of the new kits. The home, the away, the gratuitous third. Though pristine and sleek he notices they are almost identical to last season’s regalia save for a thin strip of red piping down the arms.
“We play to win. We dress to impress. We are you and you are we”. To be honest, Blessed isn’t making much sense anymore.
The model soldiers fire blanks into the air and the helicopter rises up and away. The players meanwhile panic, realising they haven’t been briefed for this part. They are stranded in civilian-ville and with no phones to call their agents may be forced to actually interact with people. These valiant brothers exit as hastily as they can.
FADE OUT
INT. A TYPICAL FAMILY HOME – DAY
A boy watches a short video wide-eyed on his phone. Post-production has since added numerous explosions and weirdly some lasers. The awkward moment when the defender performs a bow then swiftly legs it into Debenhams has been edited out. The boy approaches his father who is sitting in an armchair.
Boy: Dad, you know it’s my birthday next month. Well…
He presses play and holds his phone up.
Dad: A hundred f***ing quid for a football shirt? It’s exactly the same as the one you’ve already got!
Boy: But the explosions, dad. The explosions. And look there…no closer. The bit of red.
FADE TO BLACK