Saturday, Brazil.

Every four years Brazil changes colour. The yellow shirt comes out of the drawer, the crates come out of the bar, and the country's real stadium turns out to be the backyard, the corner bar and the pavement outside it.

Palermo's football capsule was set in that world rather than on a pitch. Ochre and olive walls, beer crates stacked into seats and plinths, a ball that rarely gets kicked, shirts drying on a washing line. The casting mixes women and men, curls and a bleached buzz cut with the brand written into it. The 10 is on almost every back, because in Brazil only one number counts.

The result reads less like sportswear and more like a summer. That is the point: a shirt worn for ninety minutes sells once, a shirt worn all weekend sells again.