At one end are the soaring arches of a premiership stadium, the endless shiney trays of meat pies, and the 10,000 gallons of drinks served to the 40,000 spectators, during a match. The shimmering lights bring forth teams with the value of a small European country, from the era of emperors and mighty armies.

At the other can be found Wells City FC.  A few mates, a cup of tea and a bag of chips, dropped in surpise when Gary lofts the ball out of defence, across the roof, and into the garden next door, accompanied by the rather unnecessarily melodramatic sound of breaking glass.