They shouldn’t have built this stadium here. Not in this part of Gardenia. Fifty years ago, sure, you could have put it here. Fifty years ago, this was all fields and the occasional out-of-town shopping depot. Now, the place was a twisting maze of boxy DIY stores and defunct super casinos. The pawn shops and gold buyers who’d been opening up shop in dead high streets fifty years ago had now come for the suburbs, converting disused supercasinos, talkies and megabowls into warehouses of cheap fourth hand clothes, pop-up stolen-goods stalls and newly legalised “Leisure Centers” for which there were not nearly enough bunny ears in the world. They’d turned Snorthern Upolstery Mattress Warehouse into one of those. All they’d needed was a few hundred quids worth of soundproofing.
Jeremy tipped his flatcap down over his face to *specifically* ignore one such Mattress Warehouse and kept his eye on the prize ahead.
The National Arena had been put up around the same time as the Nuclear plant a few kilometres away over in Scierno. Both places had had a similarly bureaucracy-filled history and both places shared the same concrete-and-vague-handwaves-towards-what-a-middle-manager-assumed-‘style’-was aesthetic. The exterior of the stadium was even pebble-dashed with the same graphite they’d used in the reactor (not the *exact* same graphite, though that would have saved on undersoil heating) and the effect was as shit as it sounded. If you ran your fingers across it you’d lose the fingers. It was supposed to sparkle in the sunlight but it didn’t. There was so much smog that no sunlight got through.
Rows upon rose of plastic trees, hot dog vans and beer tents stood between Jeremy and the entrance to the ground. He almost didn’t notice the young lad staring a hole in the side of his head.
Jeremy half-flinched as the boy came near him. I say ‘boy’. Jeremy reckoned him to be about 23 but with the look of someone who’d never had to work a day in his life. He recognised the grease marks on his shirt cuffs and hands. Ah. One of them.
“Futusmafist” the boy said, stuffing an amount of thick paper in Jeremy’s right hand. Jeremy nodded and grumbled. The boy’s gaze immediately left the side of Jeremy’s head and made its way towards its next mark.
A few yards down the road, Jeremy peered at his hand to see what he had been given.
The Futuraist Manifesto
Ah yes. Definitely one of those.
You could kind of see where the Futuraists were coming from. Here at the very N of the New World, the possibilities seemed absolutely infinite, especially for the kids. Their grandfathers had paid men to till fields, their fathers had paid men to work mills, and now it seemed that for their generation their job was to drive incredibly fast - at upwards of 20 or even 25 miles per hour, on dirt roads. This guy and his friends at Boarding School had their own personal metal tubes with bits of oil and rubber that whipped them round the streets of the western cities faster than any horse could ever have carried them. They wrestled for right-of-way with double-decker trams. Gargantuan metal tubes were starting to transport them and their friends to and from the most beautiful tropical islands they could ever have dreamt of. And the more the future descended upon them, the more desperately the Futuraists scrambled to make room for it. Churches. Museums. Cemeteries. They All Had to Go. In their place? Things that went *vroom*, as well as a font that they liked and, apparently, association football.
Fittingly enough, the Futuraist Manifesto had eleven entries. One for each position plus the amount of subs you're generally allowed these days.
'holy fuckin sh** shut the c*** up' thought Jeremy, taking the leaflet and tucking it into a gap in the concrete between him and the seat behind him. He tried momentarily to convince himself that he had not been quite so righteous, quite so thoughtless or quite so absurd as a 23 year-old. It felt like a life time ago.The Futuraist Manifesto, 19XX wrote:1. We want to sing our love of danger, energy and the long ball game.
2. We want to demolish museums and libraries, fight morality, feminism and all opportunist and utilitarian cowardice.
3. We want to exalt movements of aggression, feverish sleeplessness, the double march, leap, hook, uppercut and sticking it in the mixer
4. We declare that the splendor of the world has been enriched by a new beauty: the beauty of speed. A roaring motor car which seems to run on machine-gun fire. And that our opposition Don't Like It Up Them.
5. We want to sing at the referee, to cast aspersions on the virtue of his parentage.
6. We will follow, follow, wherever our football team will go. We will come there on a Plane and Throw your Tables.
7. But I don't want to pay taxes?
8. Time and Space died yesterday. We are already living in the absolute, since we have already created eternal, omnipresent speed.
9. Beauty exists only in struggle. There is no masterpiece that has not an aggressive character. Football must be a violent assault on the forces of the unknown, to force them to bow before man.
10. We don't use Helvetica here. I mean look at the name mate.
11. We will sing of the great crowds agitated by work, pleasure and revolt; the multi-colored and polyphonic surf of revolutions in modern capitals: the nocturnal vibration of the arsenals and the workshops beneath their violent electric moons: the gluttonous railway stations devouring smoking serpents; factories suspended from the clouds by the thread of their smoke; bridges with the leap of gymnasts flung across the diabolic cutlery of sunny rivers: adventurous steamers sniffing the horizon; great-breasted locomo
It was only about ten years ago, though. If that.
The stadium, like most modern ones, had an electronic scoreboard. Jeremy wrapped his scarf tightly around himself and watched as the lower line etched out a rudimentary SQUORNSHELOUS in glowing strips.
He could hardly blame the Futuraists. This New Football World, with Audioslavia seemingly in the epicentre of it from the off, was intoxicating. Jeremy found himself already looking forward to the next instalment of the World Cup. Just a few months and about seven qualifying matches stood in their way, the first of which here, today. World Cup 5 Qualifying: Audioslavia (11) vs Squornshelous (Unr)
We should tonk these guys.
Jeremy folded his arms and peered into the glass box. Between the ancient badges, rattles, scarves and player cards was a white booklet. Completely white. Except…
The more you looked at it, the more it looked slightly, but very slightly, like it had once been yellow, with white writing. Even if he’d had his glasses with him, Jeremy figured he wouldn’t properly be able to make it out but, there, on a small stand in front of it, was the number ‘1514’ in altogether more readable blank ink, with THE SPORTS MUSEUM PROJECT stamped underneath.
Jeremy picked his PROJECT GUIDE out of his pocket and thumbed through it until he reached entry number 1514.
FUTURAIST MANIFESTO, 19XX
This manifesto of wide-eyed laddish photo-fascist rich-boy edginess was recovered from a small concrete hole at the now-abandoned National Arena in Former Gardenia. Once yellow with white ink, the cover has faded completely to white due to the after-effects of the Cherno-Bull disaster at the nearby Scierno Nuclear Reactor site.
Consult a tour guide for more information on the Cherno-Bull Disaster
Jeremy didn’t need to consult a tour guide. He knew his history. For him it was just ‘story’. He was there, in the world, if thankfully not in western Audioslavia at the time. He knew the story. He knew of the ethos of the Futuraists - those who will wait for nobody to achieve their aims. He knew of the general practices of the nuclear reactor in Scierno. They were largely the same. Hence the disaster.
He allowed himself a brief moment of enjoyment at the idea of a Futurism Manifesto lying in a museum, and then moved on.
“Thorough job you boys have done here” he said, looking across at one of the two dozen staff members of The Sports Museum Project. “Good work”
“Cheers boss” said one of them, smiling brightly. “We think we’ll still be on to open for the end of the week”
“Good good” said Jeremy, smiling under the rim of his hat. “In time for the game?”
“Opener of World Cup Qualifying?” asked the guy. “Absolutely”