Have no doubt that some of my blog readers will march away in disgust if I admit this, but.
I'm dreading the start of the World Cup next month. Can't think of anything duller than watching all those blokes chasing a little ball around a field (truly the unspeakable in pursuit of the inedible*). And there isn't even the consolation of the muscular physiques and chunky thighs to oggle at, as there is in rugby. (One takes one's consolations wherever one may find them.)
But the Guardian is making a brave stab at adding a literary focus to the event.
Can you tell the story of England's World Cup in the style of an author of your choice in just 442 words? You can apparently be as surreal about it as you like.
I'd write in the style of Douglas Adams and have all the teams and supporters abducted by little green men and transported to play in the Intergalactic Cup on Planet Penalty which is way so far away that any transmission of match reports would take several million light years to reach earth.
Then maybe I'd get to watch what I want on TV.