Nobody presses.
We play 4-2-0. Four at the back, two in the middle, nobody up front who can't take a joke. The ball does the running.
Kickoff 16:20 · Home dressing room
You are standing in the dressing room of 420 FC, a fictional club with a real kit, a glass-roofed cage and a terrace that never quite empties. The shirt is on the hook. Take a look around, then walk out.
The squad sheet
Every player at 420 FC is invented. Open a locker to meet them, then send their name and number to the print shop for your own shirt.
All players, characters and places on this site are fictional. Any resemblance to real people is unintended.
Three club rules, said in the tunnel
We play 4-2-0. Four at the back, two in the middle, nobody up front who can't take a joke. The ball does the running.
Not 16:00, not 16:30. Fixtures, doors, the kettle and the match ball all start at the same minute.
Support whoever you support. We're the one you check for after that, the one that makes the afternoon better.
Home ground
A Victorian iron-and-glass hall with a five-a-side cage dropped inside it. Wet turf, warm floodlights, ferns pressing against the fence and rain tapping the roof. Capacity: whoever fits.
The terrace
Behind the goal, under the tin roof, a hundred knitted scarves are tied to the barriers and nobody remembers who started it. This is where the singing comes from, and the flares, and the tea.
Drop 001 · The shop
Heavyweight jacquard, crinkle nylon and knitwear, folded properly. Everything ships with a copy of The High End and an Admit One.
The print shop
Down the back stairs, the heat press is always warm. Choose a name and a number and we press them in gold flock on the back of the chevron shirt.
Printed down here
A risograph zine in purple and gold: tactics drawn on napkins, terrace recipes and a perforated Admit One. It comes free in every bag.
The last door
Floodlit five-a-side, one night, one cup, kickoff 16:20. Ring the bell and put your squad's name in the ledger.