Red is the colour football is the game

The molten faced Picasso child was the first casualty of the day,
clambering gingerly over the granite barrier, dropping uncertainly down
to the running track below.

Two hours earlier, she had danced into the stadium with her father,
excited at the prospect of seeing England take another step towards the
World Cup. Amid the carnival atmosphere around Wembley, she'd nagged
dad into letting her have her face painted in the red, white and blue
of the national side.

What had been a joyous acclamation of her faith a brief two hours
earlier now disfigured her, the tragic events of the afternoon had
moulded those colours into one, producing bizarre patterns, a fleshy
migraine, her face one grotesque, livid bruise as the colours ran into
one another.

The tears were etched onto her face, rubbed red and raw by her hands as
she'd clawed at her eyes to stem the floor, knuckles bloodied by the
impact of the concrete. The celebratory paints now perpetually
tarnished, press photographers would come to seize on the almost
primitive display as a shorthand symbol for the carnage that surrounded
them.

What does it say of our sporting obsessions that it took an age before
anyone noticed, that none could take their eyes from the spectacular
game unfolding before them.

Of course, 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.

But why should macro-economics matter to football fans? 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.

So, what's more interesting? A dying child or a potential tax cut? Like
you have to think about it.

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 put them in 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 tiny hole in
his bicep.

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 sports store for just ?175 - and
carried him off.