Few things in life are as satisfying as a heist movie. The planning, the meticulous preparation, the breaking down of an impossible task into a series of merely improbable ones, competent people nailing their tasks.
And then the moment the viewer dreads, which if done well is the highest moment of the film. The moment it all turns to shit. The weather turns, their man on the inside double-crosses them, the sports cars have been sabotaged. How are they going to get out of this?
Some movies start with that moment, do a super-cool freeze frame with a record scratch noise, and then bring you back in time to show you the build-up. You know what? Let's copy that.
Location: unknown. Time: the near future.
Close-up on me. Max Best, football manager, famous for always wearing a cheap black hoodie because a young mother told me it was great that her kids could afford to wear the same clothes as their idol. I seem to be in a good mood. Why's that? I look up at the scoreboard. A lot of people in the stadium seem to be rather unhappy with what it says. A goal flies in. Upgrade rather unhappy to spitting mad.
To my right, where the hard-core fans known as 'ultras' dwell, there is movement. A group of hooligans has left the pack and is moving around the stadium towards me. Oh-oh.
On the grass around me is a painted rectangle. That's my technical area, the space in which I'm allowed to stand and give instructions to my players. I do this now, but only after strutting down the touchline like I'm on a catwalk. (The ultras boo and whistle my every move.) I wave my arms around and yell nonsense. It's for show; there's nothing I need to change. The tactics, the method of playing, they were decided long ago. You could even say they were set in stone the very second I agreed to take this job.
To my left, more movement. A bunch of angry fans are trying to invade the pitch and the police are rushing to stop them. My head snaps to the right. The ultras are getting closer. The back of my skull tingles - the fans have coordinated this move. Get the police to one side of the stadium, attack from the other. It's clever. It's the kind of thing I would do.
I am briefly terrified, but I remember my mission. Acting confident is part of it, so I moonwalk back along my technical area and add a Saturday Night Fever dance move flourish.
Another goal is scored and the boos and whistles are absolutely deafening. A cameraman bravely rushes to my area and points the lens at me. I know I'm being shown on the big screen and on TVs all across Europe. The thought washes away the fear; I glow. I summon up all the joy and love I've ever felt and let it reach my eyes, my lips. I smile and blow a kiss to the watching world.
The boos shake the foundations of the stadium... which makes me laugh.
The hooligans have reached a point close behind me but find themselves blocked by a brave band of police and match-day stewards. The ultras light flares and hurl them towards me. My coaches and substitutes scatter, but I can't believe my luck. Neither can the cameraman. There are half a dozen flares all around me and I'm bathed in red light, the hate of the entire stadium made plain in one neat visual. I rush to get one that landed on the pitch so that the match can continue - this game needs to finish. The result needs to go in the history books.
With a red flare in one hand, I'm reminded of the incredible, flawless movie The Rock, starring Nicholas Cage. I pick up another flare and fall to my knees, holding them above my head. The cameraman gets closer - he's going to win some kind of fucking award for this.
I hop to my feet and use the flares to direct my players like those guys at airports who tell planes where to go.
That's when the ultras break free. They're by the side of the pitch, running towards me. A group of riot police appear and form a thin blue line between us. One snatches the flares out of my hands and gives me a disgusted look. I should probably stop, I think. I've probably done enough. I should run into the relative safety of the stadium and initiate my escape plan.