The year? 2008, Spain was at war with Switzerland in the leafy suburbs of South London. The Swiss were confident of victory as always but there emerged a fearless warrior from the south, some say he had the "Sangre de Toro" in his veins, others said "are all your leading men pissheads? Is there something you want to tell us?"
This Weekly would have left the story untold but for a chance comment by the twat's girlfriend who was touring this virtual citadel and issuing missives to the susceptible, as is her wont.
But before the battle was joined there were several days, some say as much as fourteen, where many came and grunted and sweated on the grass for a few heartfelt hours of insipid passion before being put out of their infertile misery. The Sisters won their cause and some said these were the most predictable final challengers in the closing days, others said "what do you want? the world number one from Belgium already quit". Perhaps it was, after all, a hollow victory for the winning Sister. We can but speculate.
But on the final day the battle ebbed and flowed for hours, the elements raged, the paella rained through holes in the cheese, the oracles re-told stories of Sweden against America from fully twenty eight years ago and the Swiss picked up the paella time and time again and hurled it back at the rampant Spanish.
Finally the Swiss crumbled under the incessant onslaught, this was not to be the Swiss time. The sleeveless wonder gathered the spoils and Ran to the Hills. The onlookers dispersed, night fell and the kebab sellers went back to dreaming about their cousins.
And as night fell the virtual citadel once again took on the eerie feint glow of a dim wit. Many wondered about what had taken place on this day, some simply accepted what they had seen, others plumbed the murky depths of conspiracy. What would have happened to the mysterious Swede if his record was taken by a Cuckoo? Why was he there? No one really knows what he was promised in exchange for quitting the scene in favour of Oil Money all those years ago.
Oil Money was an interesting concept to me at the tender age of eleven, I couldn't understand why a battery that lasts for five minutes takes four hours to charge. My friend had a remote controlled car and he was always saying he wanted to take out the electric motor and replace it with a petrol engine. The serious racers had five or ten cc petrol engines on their model cars, they were always beating the electric cars. That was the problem, we didn't have oil money, we just had dinner money so we went to the chippy at dinner time and set fire to the bins behind the council flats. With hindsight it's obvious there was a better solution but at the time it made perfect sense.
But these tales will be told long after my ashes have been sucked into a jet engine or washed into the global seafood bisk. But remember this; this was our time, we were men, our hearts swollen with pride and our petrol tanks brimming with diesel. We laughed, we cried, we sang the great victory songs, we marched, we danced.
We lived like Kings then, because tomorrow we will live like Maharajahs.