Go Dig My Grave...
He left the hotel early and met his business partner on the approach to the Dorchester.
They marched off in lockstep, each carrying $1 million in a holdall.
They also had bonds and letters of guarantee.
They had ultimate control of The Soccerball Final.
They were meeting a broker and, as brokers are always late, they were left waiting for their man.
The meeting was to be a poker play.
Their cards were not a total certainty but it would take theatrical spectacle of such absurdity that it would bring integrity issues into the public gaze.
The two colleagues glanced at one another - they controlled both Netminders, they owned them.
The broker could only use intuition to prejudge the likely trading direction.
Insider trading direction, that would be.
They had negotiated in advance a 95% book underround as a gift for the "horse's mouth" orbit of information strength.
The Netminders are very key people in Soccerball as they can make the Scoring Net bigger or smaller by their actions.
It's like magical theatre.
The previous negotiations had gone on late into the night, as a multi-layered strategy was created to optimise the drama and maximise profits. A patsy needed to be chosen too. Time for some turf adjustment.
The big underlying foundation of every such negotiation is that every fecker has a price.
All of us.
That price is an input to the levels of market engagement required to achieve suitable levels of return on the venture.
In assessing A or B there are many strategic considerations outside of the immediate interpersonal.
Heroes can be molded via a captured narrative for our two friends own 20% of the Sportspeople involved in this Soccerball Final (while their colleagues exert influence over 6 more).
Legacies and fame and political capital and integration of the needs of state and sport, and insider traded wealth and movies and books and honours and places in an Upper Chamber and legendary status and all of the high class call girls and the joy of having vice-like control over The Happening.
Ah, but...
If This Is Soccerball Then I Don't Want It.
Go Dig My Grave.
If This Is Football Then I Don't Want It
Another sport that suffers from integrity issues is Association Football and today sees another Final between Spain and England in a Fascist Arena in Berlin. Nice.
The degree of intrigue and military operations and disinformation and deceitful strategy in the arena is up there with France 3 Brazil 0. Which is also nice.
The markets are really interesting on the basis of these foundational perturbations.
Using Quantum Market Analysis tools on military battlefield formations is highly performative - as various nodes are entangled together, these entanglements may be evaluated in scenario analytical form.
The marriage of Quantum and Bayesian and Neural Networks coupled with the Behavioural Forms of the Market Place are the Hologram where the Hyperreality resides.
Where the NeoHyperreality resides...
Permanent War is the Sport.
Deceit Is Everything.
When you peel off the shiny glossy packaging, there's ugly things underneath.
You must delve into this morass of misery where the sociopaths slither in their slimy excretions.
But the media hides this underworld from us.
A bit like the Lancet Report showing that approximately 186,000 people have been murdered in Gaza, or the images of the IDF killing all those kids playing football during a Euro 2024 game, or Netanyahu's ludicrous delusional fake of a ceasefire meaning a construct where his side have no compulsion to cease firing, or the Israeli's authorising the Hannibal Directive on October 7th - all these things mustn't be in the news.
Look at Wimbledon instead.
Fucking Henman Fucking Hill, Fucking Strawberries. Military People Randomly Placed. White People Smiling While Choosing The Victim Warrior Who Shall Be Booed For Not Being English Enough.
It's A Fucking Freak Show For The Fucking Great And The Fucking Good, Hunters, Currency Dealers, Monarchs, Buy-To-Let Landlords, Public School Plastic Surgery, All Waiting In Anticipation For The Moment Where They Are Allowed To "Oooooooooooooooooooo" Or To Perform An Arrhythmic Mexican Fucking Wave.
Anyway.
Enough of that.
But apparently a Royal Highness Of Great Britain was there today.
So that was nice.
Euro 2024 has witnessed the ongoing conveyor belt of randomisation, inputs to the infrastructure that create uncertainty in the analytics and a distortion of the basic premises of fair play.
Third place qualifiers leads to huge number of events that are insider traded.
The Swiss System in next season's Champions League will also produce a huge number of events where the market is dominant over the integrity - it remains one of the most astonishing things in recent football that there were discussions over the major G14 teams selecting their own opponents in the Brave New UCL.
Computer generated offsides and snickometers are further opaque inputs to the reality as are the interactions between captured media, referee and VAR over match decisions.
Coefficients and unknown thresholds of qualification, market constructs and spectacle narratives served onto the sports field etc etc.
Bureaucrats and autocrats and organised crime creating an image ... like an action painting with multiple artists. The simulacrum is never that which conceals the truth - it is the truth which conceals that there is none. The simulacrum is true. My man, Baudrillard...
This sport is just a particular iteration, a specific evolution of football.
It's simply another lethal mutation edifice.
Too much inappropriate baggage underpins (potentially) every kick in the era of spot markets.
The information that matters is audience share, maximising sale price of advertising space, the volumes in the betting markets, tilted books and insider trading, cartel control of the reality, doping, the role of match officials...
... gaming the illusory loopholed structures, the feedback loops of fixed and managed outcomes.
Scripted Sport.
Market efficiency and it's entangled corruption, the umbra and penumbra of battlefield control, events.
Being and Event.
Twists in the tail, in the tale.
The Usual Suspects all over again.
An Unbelievable Moment.
How surprising is That?
A Reality That Breaks Through the Spectacle and, by doing so, Enhances the Spectacle.
Sport becoming Silver Screen.
Pure Unique Theatre Entering The Annals Of History, For That Day, Until The Betting Markets Close On The Event And Then It's The Next Spectacle, A New NeoNarrative, a Joyous Moment, a collection of Joyous Moments, even Ecstasy. For today..
And the Pure Unique Theatre so recently in the Annals of History is just scattered around as the debris of an Event.
There's some people on the pitch, they think it's all over.
And sadly it is, for now.
Get that Court Bailiff off the field of play.
The referee selection process for Spain v England has been a crime scene. Different entities wanted their people in charge and, in the end, it was one particular node that succeeded in gaining this advantage in the hologram.
The referee is a bailiff as, apparently, there were no cat burglars, drug dealers or buy-to-let landlords available. Weird how many match officials come from an authoritarian construct - police and lawyers and bailiffs and the upper tiers of the private sector.
Just as the weather is a derivative of climate, and the Earth a derivative of the Black Hole at the centre of our galaxy, football is a derivative of markets.
The sports people are just products to be marketed and traded upon.
The NeoHyperreality is a Thing, not a Beautiful Thing, but definitely a Thing.
It's Meccano..
And a type of beauty (an aesthetic?) exists in the mechanistic form of the spectacle, rolling along in a cycle of fake.
It is a fascination advertorial demanding of observation, as with all Happenings.
History being made.
Literally.
Hand-crafted.
A reflection of a trading strategy buried deep in the underground and the future revenue streams of organised crime entities.
And Spain versus England?
UEFA would seem to prefer one outcome while the underworld prefers the other.
UEFA v Underworld.
The Beautiful Game.
If That Is Football Then I Don't Want It.
Go Dig My Grave.
© 2024 Football is Fixed
