The Secretary-General slouched gloomily in his specially imported high-backed Korean pinewood chair looking at the slow moving traffic on the East River. A mist was slowly spreading and obscuring the view. He sighed.
“So much for the World Cup,” he said to the blond woman sitting opposite. She was one of the most powerful women in the country and soon, possibly, if the electorate got it right, one of the most powerful people in the world, and so he not only valued her opinion, but he also knew on which side his bread was buttered.
“Well, we did okay. No silver but we’ve laid down a marker and the soccer mums are more likely to vote for me than before.”
“Hmmm,” said the S-G, “I was thinking more about the goodies the competition was meant to bring. You know, world peace, and so on.”
The woman looked startled. “But hey, c’mon, no sad face, your team came fourth in Group H. Not bad, s’okay.”
“World peace, eliminate poverty, disease … .”
“And now we have Israel into Gaza, Ukranians shooting down air liners … .”
“Just loved all those sensitive Brazilians in tears.”
“Isis in Iraq … .”
“Bloody referees. Shoot the lot of them.”