Here's something good from my head:

It is the 20th June 1984. Somewhere in the foothills of the Bavarian Alps, a rich German businessman is gunning his jet black Porsche 911 turbo, up and up the winding roads to his bauhaus power-pad (fully glazed facade, coloured glass-block partition walls, mezzanine love-nest, cocktail bar, sun terrace).

The sun has been shining down every day for over a month. He is slurping on a can of Pepsi and nodding along to some terrible German rock music on the cassette player. The threads? Leather jacket, white shirt, grey trousers, white socks and expensive shoes. The look? Medium sized mullet and well groomed moustache (naturlich).

Upon arrival (crunchy gravel drive) he goes to the bedroom and changes into an absolutely amazing dark green addidas tracksuit with white zip. He walks through to the spotlessly clean lounge, opens the sliding doors and hits the ice-white Turnturi fitness-bike; flicks the dial to 'schwer' (hard) and pumps for 30 mins.

He glances up at the Seiko drop dial wall clock. Its 8.15pm. The match kicks off in fifteen minutes. Perfect. He sits down on the pea-green leather sofa and pours out a healthy slug of apple schnapps. 560 miles away in Paris, West Germany are about to play their last UEFA 84 group match against Spain in the Parc de Princes. The TV pundits are in confident mood, lauding Rudi Vollers' clinical brace in the 2-1 defeat of Romania. Just one point needed tonight and yet another final beckons.

The sun begins to set behind the mountains, turning the sky a luxurious red. He pours another schnapps, lights a cigarette and smiles to himself. The referee blows his whistle....