In a turn of events that has left football purists reaching for the smelling salts and cynical hacks like myself reaching for the gin, a referee by the name of Artan (presumably not his Christian name, unless his parents were ardent Scrabble enthusiasts) has insisted that his papers are valid amid a Fifa World Cup eligibility row. Oh, the humanity, the bureaucracy, the sheer, unadulterated pointlessness of it all.
Artan, whose qualifications appear to have been stamped by a particularly generous printer in a back alley of Mogadishu, stands accused of being less a referee and more a man with a whistle and a vague understanding of the offside rule. His papers, he claims, are as legitimate as a politician's promise, which is to say they are about as watertight as a colander in a tsunami.
The eligibility row, which Fifa is treating with all the gravity of a nuclear disarmament treaty, centres on whether the referee in question is actually certified to officiate in a tournament where the biggest crime is not diving but not diving convincingly. Artan, with the steely resolve of a man who has clearly never met a lie he didn't like, has doubled down. He brandished his documents like a holy relic, demanding that the world's governing body accept them at face value. Which is, I suppose, one way to approach things. Another would be to actually check them, but that would require effort and potentially a magnifying glass, which Fifa appears to have misplaced along with its collective common sense.
The timing is exquisite. With the World Cup looming like a tax bill you hoped would go away, this is the last thing we need: a referee whose primary qualification seems to be a firm handshake and a wardrobe full of overpriced tracksuits. The players, meanwhile, are doing their best to look serious, but you can see the fear in their eyes. It is not the fear of a harsh tackle or a missed penalty; it is the fear that this man may actually be the one blowing the whistle on their dreams.
Artan's supporters (and yes, there are apparently supporters, proving once again that humanity will rally behind any flag, no matter how absurd) insist that his papers are above reproach. They cite his years of experience refereeing village games in which the only real rule was 'no weapons,' and his impeccable record of never once being killed by an angry mob. But the doubters, and there are many, point out that his signature looks suspiciously like a squiggle a spider might make after a heavy night on the whiskey.
Fifa, in its infinite wisdom, has launched a full investigation, which I imagine involves a lot of people in suits sitting in a room, drinking cups of tepid tea, and looking at documents with the vague hope that the problem will just go away. I have seen more decisive action taken by a cat presented with a cucumber. The word 'farce' is being bandied about, but let us be honest: farces are usually well-structured. This is a mess, a glorious, bewildering mess that reminds us that football, at its heart, is just a game played by people who have forgotten how to laugh at themselves.
What saddens me most is the lost opportunity. Instead of this, we could have had a magnificent scandal. Imagine Artan being revealed as a former circus clown with a doctorate in applied chaos theory. Imagine his papers being forged by a retired forger who now only does it for fun. But no, we get this. A man with a whistle and a piece of paper that may or may not be a shopping list. I need another drink.
