In an experiment to establish whether there is any merit in the significance that Discordians attach to July 23rd, and given the potential connections discovered previously between 3-sided football and Sirius, players from SOF were in attendance at a community event on a certain housing estate in Silvertown this Sunday.
Ostensibly, the event was organised by a group of local squatters and was intended to celebrate the area’s working class inhabitants, through a survey of area’s pubs – past and present – and by collecting local memories of the Ferry Festivals of yesteryear.
These squatters – amongst them a sometime affiliate of SOF – had occupied the Tate Institute in March 2016, in a simultaneous, superpositional pincer move with SOF’s own – slightly briefer – occupation of the Tate Modern at that exact same moment. Whilst the latter was a studied example of quantum superposition – with the Tate’s director of programming apparently still making up her mind about whether to give us permission to play there, one and a half years after we already did – this alternative occupation has been doing rather better in combating the imperialist and profiteering ambitions of Mr. Tate. We look forward to them going further in this respect; the sugar business is pretty far from the sweetness it has long sought to project.
In the meantime we took up the invite to resurrect Tate FC for the occasion, perhaps in the hope of exorcising some of the Tate’s historical power, so effectively concealed by its latter-day art franchise. Given the Tate’s ongoing cultural imperialism and the portraits of spitfires hanging in the doorway of the Royal British Legion, the the swastika graffiti adorning the exterior was an unpromising, if ironic, start. Yet the “Legionnaires” seemed amiable enough, and biscuits were shared, whilst someone deconstructed Louis Armstrong Jazz records on a gramophone, via a complex method of arrhythmically varying the speed of rotation.
In the end, after much chasing of giant soap bubbles through the estate, the afternoon spontaneously gave rise to a game of 3-Sided Football between Triangles, Hexagons and Circles, essentially comprising of those possessed by the ghost of Tate FC, a group of Romanian kids from the estate (plus their grandmother), a family of Lithuanian tourists and various members of the Royal British Legion. This motley band commenced playing with a magically charged rubber fetish of the contemporary US President’s head. They did so on the cusp of a sudden thunderstorm, which immediately drew everyone together in sheltering under the legionnaires’ canopy; by pure accident going further in the cause of community relations than any number of carefully choreographed participatory art projects. They did so, however, without the art’s spurious illusions of “democratic” consensus, given the conspicuous NO BALL GAMES signs that haunted the particular courtyard outside Costcutter, and which served as the impromptu concrete pitch for the match.
Neither ourselves, nor the players yet fully understand the significance of these events, but given the turbulence of the storm which immediately followed the game, surely something was shifted within the unique morphology of relations – the situation – which this accidental collision, this game, brought momentarily into play.