ALIEN FOOTBALL FAN
a new and original fable....
I want to watch the World Cup. I demand to watch the World Cup. Nobody in this galaxy, or any other galaxy, is going to stop me watching the World Cup.
Have I made myself clear?
It is the year 2026. The biggest football show on this planet (planet Earth if you’re reading from another planet) is about to take place. The World Cup.
The world will be watching. And other worlds. At least they would be. But the signal has been scrambled. So alien football fans with fire sticks are out of luck.
Most planets weren’t bothered, for a variety of reasons. Whether it was other interests, like Orbaball, played in several galaxies, or the fact there was no life on their planet, or that there is life on their planet, but they felt the ‘game had gone’ on Earth.
But on Gorgatron, someone was very much bothered. Zorga the Overlord, who loved his football. Oh yes, he loved his footy from the planet Earth. It was the only reason he hadn’t already blown up planet Earth for a laugh.
Zorga watched TV football around the clock, though he didn’t actually own or need a clock, he knew time intrinsically and wouldn’t have cared even he needed to know the time. He dictated time on his planet. He was a proper overlord.
He was accompanied by his only friend, though friend isn’t quote accurate. Statsrobot was by Zorga’s side as a sense of duty, effectively trying to keep him fed with an endless feast of football, and keep him out of trouble.
Statsrobot didn’t do emotion or attitude, just facts, which Zorga liked, but had forgotten he liked it and just took it for granted. Zorga delivered and enunciated every sentence, often melodramatically in a deep, slightly computerised voice, like a cartoon monster villain. The megatrons of this world. Or more specifically the megatrons of other worlds!
Statsrobot gave off Metal Mickey vibes (ask your great grandparents). Zorga watched half an episode of this TV ‘comedy’ and declared it “overrated” in a booming voice. Followed by “get this shit off”.
In Zorga’s sights was the biggest, bestest World Cup ever. More, more, more. The 48-team let’s-cram-in-as-many-nations-as-possible 2026 World Cup in America, Mexico and Canada. “Bosh,” said Zorga, a word he’d picked up from earthling Tom Skinner on Insta.
Zorga liked to keep up with social media during a lull in a televised football match. He loved an eight-game ‘octobox’ even more than the NFL’s Scott Hanson, the best sports presenter on planet Earth.
But wait, Gorgatron, we have a problem.
“I cannot wait for the World Cup to start, my little robot friend. It’s the biggest and best ever.”
“Are you joking Zorga?”
“Why would I be joking? Bring it on?”
“I told you twice,” explained the always-correct, always-conscientious Statsrobot, in his little robot voice. He didn’t do bells and whistles, or speeches just facts, “They’ve blocked the signal. It’s just for people of earth. We don’t have access.”
“WHO?” boomed Zorga angrily. “Who blocked it?”
“I’ve got an army and weapons here that is the envy of the galaxy, well those planets that are left. They shouldn’t have pissed me off Statters.”
“Yes, but it’s difficult to target individuals from the range.”
“Then blow the whole thing up. Blow up Earth.”
“Then you’ll have no football to watch.”
“I’ll watch my archives. Years of it. Sod the plebs.”
“Fresh football is good. And what’s a pleb?”
“Jeez Statters. Know your street talk. You’re giving me the bloody ‘ick.”
“I would advise against a kneejerk reaction.”
“OOOH” boomed Zorga. “This is most bothersome. I’ve got one of my headaches coming on.”
“Would you like a pill?”
“NOOOOOO. No thank you. See, manners maketh the intergalactic overlord. I’d like to watch the football.”
“At the moment this isn’t a possibility Zorga.”
“Well then I’ll stage my own tournament. Better than theirs. An Intergalactic World Cup.”
*
Zorga spent an hour or two, converted into Earth time if you are reading this on Earth, going through his ‘Filofax’ and making a few calls to get a game in, like a Sunday football boss looking for a match for his pub team. I jest of course, he used cutting-edge space technology for him to pop up on the screens of football officials on other planets far and wide, simultaneously, a huge progression from 1970s Star Trek, with the screens crystal clear. He was friendly and polite, he often was, which was particularly disconcerting to aliens who were suddenly being bothered with minutiae from someone with a track record of blowing up planets like theirs.
He had hundreds of agreements to play in an Intergalactic Cup within seconds. Sadly, he'd fired his Organising Committee of multi-sport games into space, for taking too long to set up an event, a few years back. Zorga had very little patience, it was only watching football from planet Earth that actually kept him quiet. Which is the main reason Statsrobot liked it too.
It suddenly dawned on Zorga, without the need of a Statsrobot interjection for once, that this would be a lot of work for citizens on his planet, whom he didn’t really like, trust or could be bothered to even order around. He didn’t mind them working hard, he just couldn’t be arsed to give orders. And so, just a few minutes after his grand idea, he jettisoned it.
The most influential leader, making rash decisions, brainlessly, on whims. Imagine that.
*
“Back to Plan A,” muttered Zorga to Statsrobot, as they sat in the empty cinematic suite of their state-of-the-art bijou, must-be-seen, light spacious airy space station, close to a local transport station and all the amenities. If it’s ever on the market, no timewasters please.
Plan A was watching the 2026 World Cup on planet Earth. But the signal was blocked. Still.
“Unblock the signal.”
“We can’t. AI is causing us problems as well as them, and it’s just not something we can unscramble in the time available.”
“Stop pissing me off Statters.”
“Apologies Zorga sir, I just deal in facts.”
“That’s it, my patience has snapped again. Kill them. Kill them all. If I can’t watch the World Cup, nobody will.”
“I would advise against this, based on your overall football enjoyment, because eventually you’ll be able to see the games I’m sure, which should usurp any appetite for destruction.”
“Welcome to the jungle, ner ner ner ner ner ner ner ner ner.”
“I beg your pardon Sir.”
“Guns and Roses. Noooo. Wait, Guns N’ Roses. It’s an ‘N’. Appetite for Destruction. That was their best album. Tremendous stuff. And I was singing one of the main tracks Welcome to the Jungle. Want another one?”
Statsrobot said nothing.
“Ooooo ooooo ooo sweet child of mine.”
“You’re not my father Zorga.”
“I am your father.”
“Respectfully you’re not.”
Zorga was chuckling. Statsrobot hadn’t seen him this happy since Stevie Gerrard slipped over. He loved schadenfreude. He had access to most intergalactic culture but loved stuff from earth from when TV became colour and would constantly indulge himself with little references. Statsrobot had actually once run a clandestine check to see if Zorga could possibly have an earth relative, using a saliva sample, a bit like our ‘DNA’ testing on Earth.
“Star Wars Statsrobot.”
“I’d advise against.”
“No, it’s a line from that stupid Star Wars film, Darth Vader to Luke Skywalker. What an ill-informed portrayal of life out here in the universe.”
“It’s quite accurate. I am aware of the film and line. I know everything.”
“Yes. silly me we binge-watched them all together didn’t we. I’ll never get that time back.”
“When was Star Wars released to earth cinemas? 1978?”
“1977”
“Well, I would have known about that, but I was in an interplanetary scrap that year. You should have seen me. Bringing truth and justice,” said Zorga, feeling his biceps one after the other through his black cloak.
“Hang on. Wait. 1978.”
“1977”.
“No, 1978, it was the World Cup wasn’t it? With all the ticker tape. I liked that one.”
“Argentina 1978, won by the hosts, beating the Netherlands 3-1 in the final, though they were without the man regarded as the world’s best player, Johan Cruyff. And the win was controversial, as the country was ruled by a military Junta.”
“Junta my arse. I’d have destroyed ‘em with a stick of rhubarb. Melts. I liked that tournament. I liked David Coleman’s commentary style. Kempes – wan nil!”
“One nil”
“No my little friend for once you’re wrong, his voice made one sound like wan, and it’s his catchphrase, Know your football. Wan-nil to me. I win! And this has given me a splendid idea.
“Let’s just have Earth’s players here on Gorgatron.”
“They are playing in the Earth World Cup.”
“Not those wannabee mugs. Who cares about them? I’m talking about the greatest players ever, well, my favourites, sent up here. Send them all up in a rocket. Starting with Pele, Maradona and Georgie Best. Let’s have them all up here. Flair players mainly. Proper football. For the fans.”
“They have all passed away sir,“ said Statsrobot.
“Bring them back to life. Bringgg, them, back toooo life. Evanescence, my dear Statters.”
*
“Statters where’s my notepad? And a pen. Why can we never find a bloody pen on this space station? Where do they all go? Didn’t I suggest a pen section in the pen drawer, like ages ago. It’s just so BOTHERSOME.”
Zorga didn’t have or need the awareness to realise his booming overload voice felt at odds with his fussing and use of the English language from planet Earth, largely developed through popular culture, after it was popular. Statsrobot was used to it.
“I’m going to pick my first team. Then we’ll get them all up here. And they can bring their dinners. Other teams can have my rejects. It’s my game, my tournament. I thought of it. To hell with them. They’re gonna get one hell of a beating. Mark my words.
“Right, goalkeeper. But my favourite of all time won’t be available. Guess why Statters? He’s not even real! Billy the Fish. A cartoon goalkeeper from Viz comic. I must refresh my subscription. Half man, half fish. Never mind.
“Then I want that Gianthingy Buffon guy. Careful not to misspell his name with an extra o,” said Zorga, now carefully writing Gianluigi’s name in a calligraphic style on his team sheet, impressed with his own writing and decision-making.
“He’s probably still playing somewhere, and he’s got style. Send him up. Oooo and Pirlo. The maaaaaestro,” he elongated it for effect. “The artist, the conductor. Pure class. I know I’m charging ahead but he’s starting in midfield. With Zinedine Zidane. Yes! Try beating those two. Imagine the passing!! I’m excited now. This is fabulous. I cannot wait. They can sit next to each other on the rocket.”
“Travel here won’t be easy Zorga sir.”
“Oh ffs, let’s not worry about that yet. They’ll do what I say. Let’s cross that bridge.”
Statsrobot did deadpan very well, lucky in a way to be devoid of such human emotions as irritation and frustration. He just gave the facts, in a way, he was the opposite of social media. He was certainly the opposite of his boss.
“Right defence, defence, a good team is built from the back. Start with a solid base, and then the flair will win you games. I reckon I could have been one of the great managers you know. Not a coach, I’m not that basic, manager. I’mlike a combination of Busby, Shankly, and Fergie, building a legacy. For the people. Not some tracksuited training ground numpty. But I’m also continental. Like those Dutch guys, the Hungarian one. Total football. But better than them, because I’m intergalactic level.
“THAT SAID….I don’t want my team to be outmuscled, so I’m afraid to say – breaking news Statters – there’s no room for the Beckenbauers of this world, or indeed this universe,” he said with a throaty chuckle, that became a boom.
“I’m thinking of an underrated leader, get your head to the ball. Steve Bruce. Yes Steve Bruce. And alongside him, Gary Pallister. Controversial. Deal with it. These are men not afraid to get their hands dirty, like me, no airs and graces. My kind of dressing room figures. They’ll walk out hand in hand with a ballboy, but anyone tries to leave a foot in they’ll sort them right out.
“Ooo talking of which. Protection in midfield for the artists. Bollocks to Vinny Jones, let him run around Hollywood. I want former Millwall bruiser Terry Hurlock. He’ll put the shit up the oppo, give ‘em an early memo he’s marking them. Studs up. Bosh. Yes. He’s our number 4.
“I don’t know where he is sir, but I’ll check what number he wore.”
“He’ll wear four for me. Find him. Send him up in the rocket. Stick him in a suit and tie from Burtons. None of that tracksuit with giant headphones. We’ve got class. He’s in. No wait! Scrap that. Stick Scott there and tell her to get stuck in. Stick Hurly burly on the bench for now.”
“Right. Wide players. Starting in defence. I want more proper defenders. Not these attacking ones. Leave that to my out-and-out out wingers. Yes. Right, let me think. Give me a MOMENT for goodness sake. Okay. Ashley Cole? I don’t like him, but nobody would take liberties with him because of his pace. Yes. NO. wait. Gary Neville? No. He’d start to get all mouthy and players representative-y with me. I’m not standing for it Statters. He’s out.
“But I want competitive men. Or women. It’s the 2020s after all. If they are good enough they are in. What about Jill Scott? Box-to-box, and when she told that German player to fuck off. Yes. I like that. She’s got good spirit. Hang on she’s a midfielder though. What about Carlton Palmer? I like him. No, I need full backs. Stop distracting me Statters. I’ve got it. You’ll love this. Symmetry. I’m going for a pair of West Ham stalwarts. Proper full backs. Vintage. Left side? Can you guess. Yes, Julian Dicks. The Terminator. Bosh. He wasn’t a real Terminator Statters, not like Arnold Schwarzenegger. Or anyone poncing about in Hollywood. He’ll put a bit of sauce on his tackles. Oh yes.
“And on the other side, former Scotland international Ray Stewart. Ten caps. West Ham right back for the entire 1980s. 345 games for them...” Zorga paused.
“Oh okay Statters, look you’re the stats robot, I shouldn’t encroach on to your ground. I looked it up on wiki. Just now. Sneakily. I know so much, but I can’t know everything. I accept that. I’m an overlord with humility. And I’ve got more important things to worry about. Like ruling the galaxy and stuff. Anyway, this gives me what football pundits call a nice headache.”
It appeared just for a moment that Statsrobot raised a sardonic eyebrow, though it may have been the light in the Space Station doing him a disservice.
“Dicks and Stewart BOTH take penalties. And BOTH rarely, if ever, miss. Their style is to smash the ball into the net. No pissing about. Bosh. Goal. I can’t bear namby-pamby penalties. Little dinks? Panenkas? Not on my watch.”
“You’d need them at the exact age they played and took penalties like this Zorga. That’s complicated.’
“Is it FUCK! Send that exact version of them. 1983 and 1993 respectively. Or send them now. You never lose it. You should see my pens. Now then. I’m liking this symmetry. And I love my wingers. And so, step forward two little Scots who aren’t footballers. They are magicians. Mr Archie Gemmill on the right, Mr John Robertson the left. If they come inside too far, there will be trouble. I want chalk on their boots. You know who said that? Their manager at Nottingham Forest Brian Clough. Cloughie. European Cups 1979 and 80. I LIKE him. Mourinho a poor imitation. Doesn’t possess his wit. Cloughie was earth’s number one in my book. Should have been England manager. But they BOTTLED it. He’d have liked me. A better, intergalactic version of him. But my own man. YES. Thank you Cloughie. I’ll take Robbo and Gemmill from here. What a team this is.”
“You have ten players and no striker.”
“Yes, I know. And I know what you’re thinking. Big number 9. For those crosses from my little wide men. But NOOO. No Statters. This better not leak. Don’t tell the fucking space media. I’ll wrongfoot them. Let me write this down and show you, See what that says? MARADONA. And why? Because he’s the goat. I don’t need anyone tell me otherwise. F’in know alls. Messi this, Ronaldo that. Send up the Napoli version of Maradona and see if anyone can get the ball off him. Only problem is that I nearly wrote Madonna. And that’s made me think of that UB40 song, the one that goes. “I-vo-ry Ma-do-nna.” It’s an ear worm you know. You know it’s not called Ivory Madonna. What’s it called. Oh balls, I can’t be bothered to look it up. You should know Statters.”
Statsrobot had stopped listening. But Zorga had his team for the 2026 Intergalactic World Cup.
Buffon, Dicks, Stewart, Bruce, Pallister, Scott, Pirlo, Zidane, Robertson, Gemmill, Maradona.
Even a team with cloaking devices and next-level technology, who were unaware their planet would be liquidised if they beat Gorgatron, would struggle against that eleven, mixing flair and steel. Now they just needed to be fired into space in a rocket. Simple.
And Zorga was happy. Quietly singing an old tune to himself.
“If you belieeeeeve, they put a man on the moon.”
Sadly Zorga was about to be foiled again…leading to a drastic decision - the need to actually travel to Earth. (read on with a paid subscription, monthly or annual)….