The FIFA Club World Cup is an utter waste of time – an overfed, unwanted, bloated parasite clinging to the dying host of modern football.

Nobody cares. Players don’t want it, fans don’t ask for it, clubs resent it, and yet FIFA’s expanded it to 32 teams? It goes on forever and it’s utter bilge.

Give players a rest, give fans a rest! We might not ask for it but we all need it!

It’s not about competition. It’s about revenue. A soulless cash-grab disguised as “global growth,” flogging tired players through another needless tournament while domestic leagues buckle under the strain.

The Champions League is already the world (European) championship. This ‘thing’ is just noise, plastic prestige with an air-conditioned VIP tent.

Scrap it. Football doesn’t need more fixtures. It needs its soul back. It’s making already big clubs bigger and smaller clubs smaller. Addicted football fans are paying for this out of fixated desperation in the absence of anything else. The divide just gets bigger.

We already have Euros and World Cups, give us at least some break so we can become bored once again and learn how to live outside of the prefabricated world of elite football.

Bring back jumpers for goalposts.

The FIFA Club World Cup is an utter waste of time – an overfed, unwanted, bloated parasite clinging to the dying host of modern football.

Nobody cares. Players don’t want it, fans don’t ask for it, clubs resent it, and yet FIFA’s expanded it to 32 teams? It goes on forever and it’s utter bilge.

Give players a rest, give fans a rest! We might not ask for it but we all need it!

It’s not about competition. It’s about revenue. A soulless cash-grab disguised as “global growth,” flogging tired players through another needless tournament while domestic leagues buckle under the strain.

The Champions League is already the world (European) championship. This ‘thing’ is just noise, plastic prestige with an air-conditioned VIP tent.

Scrap it. Football doesn’t need more fixtures. It needs its soul back. It’s making already big clubs bigger and smaller clubs smaller. Addicted football fans are paying for this out of fixated desperation in the absence of anything else. The divide just gets bigger.

We already have Euros and World Cups, give us at least some break so we can become bored once again and learn how to live outside of the prefabricated world of elite football.

Bring back jumpers for goalposts.

Eighteen years ago today, my dad died. He was just 64. Not old, not ready, not done.

There’s rarely a day that passes where he’s not, in some quiet way, still with me. But on anniversaries like this, the loss surfaces more sharply, not just because I miss him, but because I know how much he would have loved the great-grandchildren he never got to meet. He would’ve adored them and they would have adored him too.

He was a northerner from a very working-class background, and he wore that heritage with silent pride. No pretence. No shortcuts.

He never missed a day’s work in his life as far as I recall. Work wasn’t just something he did, it was a duty, it was who he was – a provider, a grafter, a man who showed up, no matter what.

We used to joke that he was tight with money. Looking back, it was never about stinginess. He was careful. Meticulously, intentionally careful. It turns out that thanks to him, when he passed, Mum had savings that gave her comfort and security. He gave her that whilst bearing the slings and arrows we hurled his way for being a ‘tight wad’. But he received it all with grace and never, ever made a fuss, he just got on with it.

Dad wasn’t flashy and he didn’t chase recognition, but he lived an honourable life and he worked hard for modest comforts. He never expected anything to be handed to him. He didn’t grumble or cut corners. He just got on with life, the way that generation often did.

And I suppose what strikes me today is that we live in a world full of noise, social media outpourings and performances of success, declarations of virtue, curated lives. But my dad? He just was – reliable, kind and steady, in his own undemonstrative way.

I think he’d be proud of what’s grown in his absence. The extended family, the laughter, the lives continued. But I also think he’d shake his head at all the silliness and the fuss. I know he’d tell me to stop being daft and to get on with things.

I miss him but I’m very grateful and very proud of the quiet, honest way he lived his life. He was dignified, yes, that’s the best way to describe Dad.

Eighteen years ago today, my dad died. He was just 64. Not old, not ready, not done.

There’s rarely a day that passes where he’s not, in some quiet way, still with me. But on anniversaries like this, the loss surfaces more sharply, not just because I miss him, but because I know how much he would have loved the great-grandchildren he never got to meet. He would’ve adored them and they would have adored him too.

He was a northerner from a very working-class background, and he wore that heritage with silent pride. No pretence. No shortcuts.

He never missed a day’s work in his life as far as I recall. Work wasn’t just something he did, it was a duty, it was who he was – a provider, a grafter, a man who showed up, no matter what.

We used to joke that he was tight with money. Looking back, it was never about stinginess. He was careful. Meticulously, intentionally careful. It turns out that thanks to him, when he passed, Mum had savings that gave her comfort and security. He gave her that whilst bearing the slings and arrows we hurled his way for being a ‘tight wad’. But he received it all with grace and never, ever made a fuss, he just got on with it.

Dad wasn’t flashy and he didn’t chase recognition, but he lived an honourable life and he worked hard for modest comforts. He never expected anything to be handed to him. He didn’t grumble or cut corners. He just got on with life, the way that generation often did.

And I suppose what strikes me today is that we live in a world full of noise, social media outpourings and performances of success, declarations of virtue, curated lives. But my dad? He just was – reliable, kind and steady, in his own undemonstrative way.

I think he’d be proud of what’s grown in his absence. The extended family, the laughter, the lives continued. But I also think he’d shake his head at all the silliness and the fuss. I know he’d tell me to stop being daft and to get on with things.

I miss him but I’m very grateful and very proud of the quiet, honest way he lived his life. He was dignified, yes, that’s the best way to describe Dad.