The fan spun its blades during a particularly warm spell in England. Where the sun rose early, and lingered all day in a blue sky the likes of which artists try to capture in their paintings of sublime landscapes. The air was warm all day and night, like a hug from the summer season.
Frank the Fan was made in England. And a follower of the beautiful game where twenty two human beings race around a field, trying to kick the ball into the fishing net lookalike strapped to posts at the other end. The ball, a pig bladder encased in stitched leather, enjoys the constant kicking and bouncing.
And with the World Cup underway, Frank finds himself watching the television, to follow the matches played by Nations he’d heard of because they also had fans. But also Nations whose names he couldn’t pronounce on account of him being a fan.
And Frank watched Harry Kane and England with the kind of intensity that only a true fan (steel blades, none of that plastic nonsense) could muster.
And he worried. He worried to the point that on one particular day, he was plugged in and switched on, but simply forgot to keep his blades moving. The humans he was supposed to be helping keep cool? They shook him and banged him in confusion, thinking he was broken.
He spun his blades again, telling them to move, so he could see the TV screen. England were playing. In another typically tense, nervy match where Panama, a nation better known for playing a game with bats and balls, were making life difficult for Frank’s England.
He sweated, he chewed his lower lip and he let out the occasional nervous fart. Which was okay, because he was a fan. An extra toot of air made little difference.
As he watched, he could feel himself ageing. His blades creaking and his electric motor started to sound like it had ball bearings in a biscuit tin powering it.
The TV he was watching noticed his panic.
—England fan, mate, yeah?
—Yeah, I’m in a constant state of panic.
—hard innit? You wanna be me. I have to have their matches on my screen. At least you can rotate away.
—Fair point.
—Coming ‘ome then, is it?
Frank didn’t know what to say to that one. He spun his fans a little harder.
—I hope so, he said.
The TV smirked, shrugged and went back to standby. The next match was at 17:00 today.
Frank spun his blades. Nerves already affecting his motor.It sounded like a small vacuum cleaner that had hoovered up a sock.