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The Factory of the Soccer Gods

Luke James

I’m currently wearing a tree costume from Mel Gibson’s Macbeth, this is my disguise as I edge my way towards the gates of the East Works of The Factory of The Soccer Gods. This is where the gods assemble the great players of the beautiful game, the superstars, the prodigies, and enigmas, as well as the sacrificial cloggers and the media scapegoats.

Security is remarkably lax, Cerberus the guardian of the gates seems to have gone on a tea break or three. As I make my way to the main factory entrance, the air is heavy with black smoke, and the thunder of the factory hammers is shaking the ground like San Jose Earthquakes fans on a roll, and occasional gouts of flame are spewing up into the boiling skies like Galatasaray crowd flares.

Right, I’m leaving the tree disguise, donning the sacred dark blue overalls, smoke in the corner of my mouth, one behind my ear for later, and pushing a broom before me and, looking like I’m only sweeping up because I own the bloody place, here I go in through the main entrance.

The first workshop, not surprisingly, is the hairstyling shed. Should be plenty of stuff for me to sweep up in here. As they’re working, the gods are listening to Rock The Casbah by The Clash. So that accounts for that spate of dodgy Mohawks we’ve been seeing since the World Cup. Blame Joe Strummer. Mind you, it looks like they’re also catering for a fair number of Brenda-does, some crop circle shaving, and the ever popular, girly “needs a hairband to even get a sight of goal” merchants. I’m pushing the broom through the shaved-bald-so-they’ll-look-hard section, and this is getting a bit too much like hard work! Someone is having fake fur attached to his dome. He has a tag on his toe – Deliver to Manchester. Wayne Rooney.

The next room is really noisy, a constant babble of conflicting voices. No, it’s not the racist and abusive vocabulary department. They’re currently on strike, demanding fouler language and shorter bans. This is in fact the clichéd after-game interview programming lab. The air is chattering with “Well, Brian, I just hit it with me left and it went in” and “I’m really delighted for the fans” and “football’s not a game, Barry.”

Through this door is where they install the trigger-happy, dive mechanisms, and the Shakespearean rolling around in agony chips. Over there in the test department I can see a feather floating through the air, an Italian striker collides with it, and yes down he goes, clutching his face. He’s rolling on the floor and a sumptuous goddess in a designer gown is ripping an envelope open and awarding him the Oscar for Best Dive of the Year. There are many of these types coming along the assembly line.

Wait a minute! What’s this I’ve swept up; a crumpled-up delivery slip. It says Chelsea’s Fernando Torres’s bionic foot is still on back order. This must be where various faulty parts with expiration dates are fitted, thus ensuring an endless supply of media superstar players whose games go downhill, followed by their reputations, and their contracts.
There’s something under this tarp here. I’ll just take a peek … well this explains a lot, row upon row of Paul Scholes and Ryan Giggs clones waiting to go. So that’s how the Manchester God Fergiex does it. By trickery!

Here, right at the back of the factory there’s a door here covered in locks, bolts, padlocks, chains and skull and cross bones stickers. I’m pressing my ear to the wall, and just as I suspected, this is the R&D Department where the soccer gods are working on a project that has confounded even their celestial abilities for many a eon, namely to build a successful England manager. There seems to be a lot of yelling and shouting in Spanish, Italian and Portuguese, but it’s impossible to make anything out clearly because of the din of backhanders being dealt.

Well, I reckon it’s time this sweeper transferred out that back window before he gets caught offside. This is Luke Jimmy James clocking off until my next shift here on the shop floor of the Factory of the Soccer Gods.