Sol Campbell scans the skyline with the trance-like intensity of a toddler with an iPad. It’s a look we’ve seen before, like when he’d steamroll a striker dribbling towards the net or mouth the national anthem as if quietly channelling some inner power. Yet, in this moment, standing in a field in hunting boots and a massive leather gilet, he looks happier than he ever did playing football for Tottenham, Arsenal, Portsmouth or England. Then again, he didn’t shoot much as a centre back.
“PUUUULLL,” he bellows, in a voice that’s not as deep as you’d expect for a man of his size. Two disks fizz into the air and, in one deft motion, he lifts a Beretta gun to his shoulder, aims and lets off two rounds. Crack. Crack.…
