As I walk through the ruins of Holmeside I glance around despairingly, emotional at the wreckage that surrounds me.
Delving deeper into the former city I find a pack of feral mutants roaming the streets, I prepare to run but soon realise that Blanford Street somehow remains intact. I feel eyes watching my every move and danger looms large, this isn’t a safe place to be - not for me - not for anyone. I keep a hand on my hunting knife as I pick my way through the wreckage of our city, wary at all times. A flossy-wearing savage scuttles through rubble as I disturb his feasting on the remnants of a Greggs steak bake - what have we come to?
You might be wondering what happened to us? How did it get to this? What was the cause of our demise? My answer is a simple one: our spiral into chaos began with the resignation of Sam Allardyce.
Long did we teeter on the verge of disaster, miracle after miracle prevented us from total implosion and that cycle of uncertainty was seemingly put to rest by the arrival of our man, Sam.
But, after a disastrous European Championships, things took a turn for the worse. Somehow, the much maligned former Football Association finally made a sensible decision and asked our savior to lead his country to glory. We begged and pleaded for him not to abandon us, there was no telling if we would survive the aftermath of his exit… alas, our fears were realised.
England, under the guidance of our once glorious leader, lived up to expectations for once at a major tournament. Sam steered the lads to a first final since 1966, though we exited gracefully to a far superior Cayman Islands team managed by Sepp Blatter, which featured a host of financially minded superstars including Lionel Messi and Javier Mascherano.
The euphoria soon turned to chaos, however. England, by bucking the trend of every other disastrous tournament ever, somehow caused a paradigm shift in socio-economic and political spheres and thus the doom was brought down upon us.
It’s not all horrific news, however; for example, our city has once again found itself in a positive footballing situation. Only this year did we win the PoundWorld Premier League with captain Jeff Whitley on hand to score the decisive penalty. I gaze down at the shell that was once the Stadium of Light, a ruined edifice standing broken on the skyline, Bob Stokoe since melted down for precious metal, though at least the pink seats have gone.
"Sam, you should never have left us, your competence and pragmatic ways have ruined our once beautiful city. Sam, Sam, Sa-....."
I am woken by an elbow to my ribs and I sit up in a sweat-ridden state of panic. "Tom," my wife murmurs, "go back to sleep, you’re having one of those stupid Sam dreams… who is she, anyway?"