Chair War — France v. Portugal, the Game of Life.

I can hear them from the open window of the apartment, the fans singing — ooing and booing -

the intake of a collective breath held in a second of absolute silence before being expelled in a voovoozela carcophany of whoops, reverberating through the midsummer night. 2–2…

I stand amongst them — a thick crescent of humanity, faces radiant in the glow from the big screen.

The lucky few bagged the chairs outside the little cafe hours ago and are now three sheets to the sway of the standing spectators crowded behind them, pressing down so as to leave the road free for the occasional van which is ceremoniously thumped as it edges through.

My view of the match is oblique — red figures on green facing off white figures on green — a slice of Italy, a pizza slice of projected dreams — a ninety minute feeding of the worshipers…

The pungent smell of cheese and fries from Moonshine

A group of Chair Gods stands as one, slamming shots — toasting one of the moves on screen from their birds eye view. Yes, gods — invincible, all seeing and all knowing right here — right now.

Behind me, a young woman is being harassed by a couple of mecs. She hesitates, then suddenly moves, disappearing into the back of the crowd and leaving…