FIFANIGHT

Has a spreadsheet. Says the underlying numbers are good. The underlying numbers are a mortgage, a hairline, and 3–2 from two up at home for the first time since 1976.

Stopped caring years ago, he says, at 22:40, unprompted, in a voice note, for the fourth time this month. Grief takes many forms. His is a podcast.

Won it at last and it fixed nothing. Same flat, same job, still crying in your kitchen at 1am about a shootout. Do NOT say “penalties”.

Supports a private equity fund. New owner, new manager, same man, same sofa, still calling it a long-term project. So is he. Nobody is buying either.

Champions eighteen months ago, sixth today, and he will explain that this means more. Wears the £125m striker's shirt indoors. His wife has stopped asking him not to, which is worse.

One back, 2019. One wrist, 2024. One thumb, last Christmas, cause never established. Nobody saw a doctor. All five declared fit, by text, by themselves.

A minute off the pitch after treatment. Five seconds to restart. No grappling at corners. Adopted in full, ignored in full, like every rule we have ever agreed to out loud.

412 unread. Two men arguing about a date neither can do. One voice note nobody will ever play. Years of this. You are looking at the only thing that came of it.

The referee is the television. It has no replay, no lines and no opinion. Whoever is losing supplies all three, at volume, while the kids sleep upstairs.

We do this until one of us cannot travel. Then we do it with four. Nobody is going to say that on Saturday, so it is being said here instead.