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live-laugh-loverpool · 2 years

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Old Trafford

Tags: @millythegoat, @football-and-fanfics, @alissonbecksfan234

Warnings: bring out Google Translate for this one!

In her eight and a half months with Liverpool, Florrie had only seen the team look like this once. Klopp had explained to her and Kairo (Grace, Ellie, and Henrietta were all asleep) that they had just lost a very important and special trophy, but Lijnders had told her that there wasn’t a trophy involved in this one.

So why couldn’t she find anybody with a smile on their face?

“Boss?” Florrie tried to search for at least one familiar face in the hall. She had spotted Klopp, but he’d disappeared and now she was amongst many legs and hips and stomachs. All she could see for yards around was gray, black and the occasional white of a sneaker.

“Ali? Lindy? Daddy?” Florrie pouted—she couldn’t identify anybody’s faces because she couldn’t see them. She tugged on a random pants leg, hoping that the leg would belong to Henderson or Milner or even Adrian.

The face that looked down belonged to none of the above. Instead, a completely different face stared at her, eyes narrowed into slits. He had some gray hair and a puffy jacket like Klopp, but his face was far too unwrinkled, and his nose much too sharp.

“Who are you?” Even the accent was wrong, and Florrie flinched at the tone. He was loud. Too loud.

“Have you seen the boss?” Florrie asked him, hands over her ears as if his nose would pierce through them even worse than his voice.

The man didn’t flinch at all. He gripped the microphone in his hand, continuing to stare at Florrie. “Erm, yes, but I want to know what you’re doing here.”

“I’m looking for the boss.”

“Yes, but what boss?” The man laughed, and Florrie pressed her hands over her ears even harder. The laugh was wrong—too sharp, too fake, too high-pitched and airy. It was a far cry from Klopp’s deep, booming laugh, and even his quiet, polite one whenever he tried to get rid of the press. “I was manager of Valencia for a few months—at least before I started working at Sky Sports with Jamie as a pundit. So I could be called the boss.”

Florrie had no idea what Valencia even was, much less what the strange man was talking about. He wasn’t Klopp! He was too young, too loud, too different. “No! My boss!”

The man rolled his eyes and leaned closer to Florrie. The little girl could smell the overwhelming scent of breath mints, and she shrunk back in an attempt to avoid the man’s piercing gray eyes. His eyes flickered over Florrie’s shirt, but then settled back on her face. “Tell me more about your boss.”

“He’s really big!” Florrie stretched her arms as tall as she could, and the man backed off a little. “And he wears a puffy gray jacket, and a hat, and he’s always saying Bundes!”

“Wait a minute.” The man’s eyes widened, and he pulled Florrie out of the crowd. “What does he do, little girl?”

“The boss wins us big, shiny trophies!” Florrie frowned as she tried to remember how many. “He won one this month!”

Finally, the man stood up. He pocketed his microphone, and looked around before picking up Florrie. Florrie crossed her arms, thrashing about, but the man was much stronger than her.

“I know just how to find your boss,” he whispered into her ear, and Florrie jerked her head away from him. “But if we don’t hurry, he won’t find you—what’s your name?”

“Florrie! And the boss will always find me!” Florrie argued. She pushed her feet against the man’s stomach in an effort to get out, but he just grabbed her tighter.

“Stop it! You’ll fall and hurt yourself.” He held Florrie’s head so she was forced to look at him. “And the boss won’t be able to find you if you don’t stay put. I’ll take you to a place where he can find you,” he finished with a grin. “Do you want to find your boss, or not?”

“Yay!” Florrie cheered. The man was strange, but if he was going to help her find Klopp, he couldn’t be that bad. She frowned as she tried to remember what Henderson had told her about how to call older people when you didn’t know them. “You’re a nice man, sir!”

“Ah, no need for sir.” The man made the same strange laugh as he began walking up the stairs, still holding Florrie. “I’m Neville. But you just call me Uncle Nevvy.”

Florrie decided that she didn’t like Neville’s walk. It was choppy and too fast, and he didn’t have that bounce in his step like Klopp or the rocking step like Milner. His voice, which was still in her ears, kept going on about strange people from a long time ago, but it wasn’t like when Milner would tell her and the other kids anecdotes from a long time ago.

Neville finally set her down in a large room. It was big—too big—and it had a lot of dust on the floor. He put her on the only chair in there, and exhaled.

“Okay, now I’m going to tell you a story.” Neville leaned against the desk, filing his nails. “Back in the day, there lived a man called Sir Alexander Ferguson. He was the manager here, and he loved this place so much, he wanted to protect all the little children. So he created a place where they could be found, and,” he gestured around him, “this is it.”

“Will the boss find me here?” Florrie wasn’t so sure about this. There was so much dust, which meant that nobody had been here for a long time. She’d learned this when she’d gone with Klopp to the old attic in Kirkby, and dust bunnies had poured out of every corner.

“Of course. There are just two rules in this place,” Neville explained. “One, don’t leave the room. Otherwise, I won’t know where you are. And two, don’t press any buttons.”

“Why?”

“Sir Ferguson was very protective of the Theater of Dreams,” said Neville, leaning closer to Florrie. She wanted to escape, but she couldn’t get down from the chair. “And he created something very, very special for it. If any bad people got in here, he had a special lockdown button. But he never pressed it, because that would destroy the Theatre of Dreams forever.”

He inched even closer to Florrie, swelling his chest. “Walls crashing! Floors crumbling and furniture cracking! Everything going up in flames, EVERYTHING!”

“Oh!” Florrie gasped, slipping off the chair and hiding under the desk. “I won’t press it Uncle Nevvy, I promise!”

“Good.” Neville finally got away from her, striding towards the door. “I’m going to find your boss now. And just remember— Uncle Nevvy.”

Meanwhile, Sir Alexander Ferguson slowly made his way out of the stands, whistling a jolly little tune as he did. He was happy—happier than he’d been in many a month—and that caused his whistling to turn into singing.

“Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind? Where we score goals on Liverpool, these days of auld lang syne—oh, Kenny!”

The other man, Sir Kenny Dalglish, shrugged. While Sir Ferguson had just experienced one of his best days in almost seven years, Sir Dalglish, somebody who had been with Liverpool his whole life, had just experienced one of his worst days in that same amount of time.

“I beg your pardon, Kenny,” Sir Ferguson spluttered, realizing just how inappropriate his timing was. “That was—quite distasteful of me, considering the circumstances…”

“Alex, it’s all good, ol’ chap.” Sir Dalglish managed to laugh, despite himself. He leaned on a chair, staring down at the pitch. “Last time you and I came ‘ere together, yer old face was all sour while me own face was grinning like I’d just spotted King David ‘imself. So if anything, I'm the one who should apologize.”

“Ye don’t say!” Sir Ferguson tried to remember if he’d seen Sir Dalglish that day. “Yer right, I can barely remember it, Kenny.”

“Yer club played well today, ol’ chap. It’s not yer fault that we’ve been rubbish.” Sir Dalglish stared at the exit. “I was just going to go home, open a bottle of me old-fashioned Scottish whisky, and brood. You going home, Alex?”

“Soon. I was just about to visit the old office.” Sir Ferguson extended his hand to Sir Dalglish. “Until next time, ol’ chap.”

The Scottish took Sir Ferguson’s hand, shaking it, and proceeded to walk away. “Ta-ta, Alex. Enjoy yer Theater of Screams.”

Sir Ferguson shook his head at Sir Dalglish’s nickname for Old Trafford. The former Liverpool manager used it whenever Liverpool had played a bad game there. Sir Ferguson, likewise, called Anfield “Shamfield” when the same happened to United. He began to walk up the stairs, wincing as he heard his joints creaking. He was getting older—but it was all good with him. He’d had his time being young, and now it was time for him to be old.

“Sir Alexander Ferguson!” A young man, probably a steward, bowed to Sir Ferguson, extending an arm. “Would you like assistance in climbing the stairs?”

“Come now laddie, no need for that,” Ferguson chuckled, ruffling the steward’s hair. “I’ve got it m’self, but thank you for asking. Just going up to visit me old office.”

The steward, who still seemed rather flustered from the hair-ruffling, nodded, heading in the opposite direction. “Good evening, Sir!”

Meanwhile, Florrie stood in a corner of the room, staring at her nails for the tenth time. She decided that she didn’t like it here—it was too big, too empty and too dusty.

And plus, she was bored.

There were no toys to play with, no TV to watch, and nothing to do in general. Nobody to talk to, no flashcards to match, no blocks—wait a minute. From the corner of her eye, Florrie spotted a flat red object under the empty bookcase. Could it be a book?

She ran towards the bookcase and peered under it. Sure as day, it was a book—something for her to read while she waited for Neville to come back. Her little hand fit under the bookcase with ease, and Florrie pulled out a dusty book—so dusty, in fact, that she couldn’t see the color or title of it.

Florrie took her hand—not wanting to use the corner of her Liverpool jersey for fear she would mess it up—and brushed off the dust. The book was a shade of sky blue and had many pictures on it—a green frog, a golden ball, a green ball, a princess in a fancy dress and hat, and three fat, pink piglets, among others. But for some curious reason, Florrie couldn’t read the words on the front cover.

Florrie squinted, tilting the book from one side to another. She could read—the fullbacks had taught her how! So how come she couldn’t read these ones?

She opened the book, and saw that while she still couldn’t read the words inside, there was a beautiful picture of a castle, highlighted with gold and cream-colored walls. On the next page, there was a prince, crowned and walking among a row of princesses.

I’ll just look at the pictures, Florrie decided, going under the desk. It was the only area that was carpeted, so the dust was considerably less than on the open floor. They’re pretty pictures, anyway.

She tried to get comfortable on the carpet, but it was very hard and nubby, and the endless dust permeated in every corner. Florrie finally found a spot with less dust—but immediately shot back to the other side as a rancid-smelling hazelnut poked her arm. She curled in on herself, the book next to her, hoping that Neville would come back soon.

After some effort climbing the stairs and taking elevators, Sir Ferguson finally made it to the office on the third tier of Old Trafford. He turned the knob, only to find it was locked.

“Hmm…I don’t recall locking the door,” he mumbled, fishing for the keys in his pocket. He found them, and inserted the keys in the slot. The door opened with a loud, familiar creeeeak, and he stepped into his office.

The first thing Sir Ferguson noticed was how dusty the place was, like nobody had been there in years. Upon further inspection, he also noticed that there were distinctive footprints leading towards the desk—two sets.

Intrigued, he bent over as far as he could. While one set of footprints were man-sized, with standard shoe-prints, the second pair were very tiny, toddler-sized footprints—even tinier than when Kasper Schmeichel, five years old at the time, had come with his goalkeeper father, Peter Schmeichel, to his first training session.

“Hello?” he called into the room. “Anybody home?”

Of course, Sir Ferguson didn’t expect anybody to answer him. What he didn’t expect was a soft rustling coming from underneath the desk, then a small, high-pitched “ow”.

Intrigued, the elderly Scotsman bent down to take a look, grumbling as he felt his joints creak. All the grumbling vanished into thin air, though, when he spied a tiny child, curled in on themselves and shaking.

“Gee willikers,” he whispered in hushed surprise. “A wee bairn, would ye know it!”

He tried to touch the little kid, grab it from under the desk. But as soon as he touched their back, a leg kicked out. The child rolled over, scooting further into the corner, and Sir Ferguson caught a glimpse of red hair bows—a little girl.

“Relax, wee bairn.” Sir Ferguson chuckled upon seeing her worried face. “Just an old Scotsman, knocking around the grounds. Say, how’d you get ‘ere?”

Instantly, her face brightened upon hearing those words. “You sound like Robbo!”

“Robbo?” Sir Ferguson tapped his forehead, trying to recall who he knew who had that name. Finally, he remembered. “As in Andy Robertson?”

“Uh…yeah!” She sat up, hugging a book to her chest. Her shirt fully on display, she raised an eyebrow, squinting her eyes into slits. “You’re old!”

“That’s true, lassie,” Sir Ferguson chuckled. “Say, what’s yer name, bairn?”

“Florrie. Are you Robbo’s daddy?” she responded promptly, and Sir Ferguson knew that his suspicions were right. Only a kid raised around a Scot would know that much Scottish at three.

“Nae, but I’m from the same country.” He extended a hand to Florrie. “Sir Alex Ferguson’s me name, from jolly ol’ Scotland.”

Florrie giggled, taking his hand. “Now you really sound like Robbo!”

“Do you come from Liverpool?” Sir Ferguson decided to keep his questions clear and straight.

“Yes! Hendo’s my daddy, and the boss kicks butt!” Florrie grinned with pure conviction, and Sir Ferguson couldn’t help but smile. “How’d you know?”

Raising a wrinkled finger, Sir Ferguson tapped the Liverpool badge on Florrie’s jersey. “It helps when ye know yer league rivals, lassie. I played fifty-two games against Liverpool as manager here in the league alone. Of course, that’s before I retired.”

He looked out the office window, saw exactly what he wanted to see, and picked up Florrie. “Look Florrie, we’d better get you back to your gaffer. He’s worried sick about you, no doubt.” And he began walking towards the door.

“Wait!” Florrie grabbed his arm, eyes darting around in panic. “We can’t leave the room.”

To say Sir Ferguson was confused would be an understatement. “Why not?”

“If we leave, they won’t find us!” Florrie exclaimed. “Uncle Nevvy said so.”

“Uncle Nevvy?!”

“He says his full name is Neville, but he said to call him Uncle Nevvy.” Florrie’s face fell as she toyed with her hair. “He said he was looking for the boss, but he hasn’t come back yet!”

“Well, then.” Sir Ferguson instantly realized what was going on, trying to conceal his fury for Florrie’s sake. “I know exactly where your boss is. And I’m the boss around here, so Uncle Nevvy’s word isn’t the last. Mine is.” He puffed out his chest a bit at the last part, opening the door. “And while we head there, why don’t you tell me about how you got here, wee bairn Florrie?”

Florrie nodded, holding up the book. “Okay!”

Meanwhile, Lijnders and Klopp were pacing in the office. As if the manner of the loss wasn’t bad enough, and struggling to bolster the spirits of the squad wasn’t a difficult task, now Florrie had gone missing. And while both the manager and vice-manager were anxious about Florrie’s disappearance, it had definitely hit Klopp the hardest.

“I can’t believe we lost her, Pep,” Klopp repeated for about the third time. “I just can’t believe it. We let her go missing.”

“We’ve searched everywhere,” Lijnders answered with a sigh. Ever since Jennings had rushed in with news of Florrie’s disappearance, the German had been…numb. Of course Lijnders had been surprised as well, but the news had sent Klopp into a state of shock.

“I made a promise to Florrie on the first night, you know.” Klopp finally faced Lijnders, and the Dutchman sighed in dismay at what he saw. Klopp had the cowl up, the one that had been a Christmas present from a long time ago. The German only wore it in very troubled times—like January 2021, or right now.

“She’d been sleeping in Ali’s bed, and Ali had her all bundled up like a little package. I unbundled her because she was too hot, and then…” He paused for quite a while before continuing. “I promised that I’d keep her safe. That no bad guys would get her, ever again, without one of us coming for help. I promised to protect her, Pep, and I couldn’t even do that?”

“We should search again,” Lijnders reasoned, glancing at the map of Old Trafford he’d picked up from the tourist’s center. “This place has three tiers, Florrie could be on one of them.”

“We sent the boys out to search and we stayed here as mission control.” Klopp opened his briefcase and took out a piece of paper. It was the drawing of a trophy Florrie had given him after the Crystal Palace game. He still remembered what she’d said to him.

“If we can’t win a shiny trophy, we’ll draw shiny trophies!” Florrie insisted, hoisting the drawing high above her head.

Klopp smirked. This kid was too precious for this world. “That’s really sweet of you Florrie, but I’m afraid that’s not how it works.”

She frowned. “It isn’t?”

“No, liebling, I’m afraid not. You see, you have to deserve a trophy. You have to earn it, schatzi, by working hard.”

“Deserve?” Her face scrunched up in thought.

“It means that you worked hard for it and did a very good job. One worthy of a reward.”

Florrie scrambled into his lap, her face lighting up. “But you work hard, boss! You protect us all, you already deserve it! And anyways.” Florrie held up the drawing, gazing at Klopp again with those pure indigo eyes. “I love you.”

“Florrie trusts us to find her,” Klopp mumbled, stroking the waxy crayon drawing of a trophy. “And we can’t let her down. She’s not our only kiddo, Pep, but she’s our first one. Our first little Liebling.”

“You’re right, Jurgen.” Lijnders sighed, refilling his coffee mug. “We have to keep waiting. We mustn’t lose hope.”

They remained in silence for a while, Klopp wearing a hole into the floor while Lijnders drank from the coffee mug like it was his lifeblood.

“Say, Jurgen.” Lijnders decided he didn’t like the silence and opted to start a conversation. “Where’d you get that neck-warmer from? I don’t recall you having it when we first arrived.”

“Oh, this?” Klopp fingered the fabric, finally halting the pacing. “It was a Christmas present from my mother. I was always stealing her scarves, and I guess she finally got sick of it,” he added with the slightest hint of laughter.

No calls came in with any news of Florrie.

All of a sudden, Lijnders and Klopp heard strange footsteps echo through the hall. They were soft but large, and carried a certain gravity to them.

“...Jurgen?” Slowly, Lijnders tried to see if Klopp was playing a prank on him. “Was that you?”

“Do I look like I’m in a mood to play games?” Klopp retorted, and Lijnders had to admit he was right.

The same footsteps sounded again louder this time. A large, ominous shadow slowly appeared, flickering in the lamplight. Lijnders jumped in fright.

“I’m scared, Jurgen,” he admitted, ducking behind the German.

“I am as well, Pep, but I can’t hide behind you or we’d look ridiculous,” Klopp pointed out. But he did hide under the desk.

As the shadow got closer, the footsteps got even louder. Soon, a pair of voices mingled with the footsteps—one of which was comfortingly familiar.

“Florrie!” Faster than you could say “Mainz”, Klopp was out from under the desk. Followed by an equally eager Lijnders, Klopp sprinted into the hall, where he saw…

“Sir Alex Ferguson?!” Lijnders squawked in disbelief. “What in the name of Heinekein are you doing here?!”

Klopp paid no attention to Lijnders. His eyes were only one person—the toddler Sir Ferguson was carrying in his left arm.

“Florrie!” Klopp swept her up, hugging her tightly. “Oh, for Mainz’s sake, I was so worried about you, Schatzi!”

“Boss!” Florrie beamed, crossing her chubby little arms. “Me and Mr. Fergie found you!”

“Mr. Fergie?” Lijnders was still in shock over the fact that Sir Alexander Chapman Ferguson was standing right there, in front of them—and after his team, United, thoroughly embarrassed Liverpool, no less!

“Sir Ferguson.” Klopp, with Florrie on his hip, approached the Scot. His tone was grateful, as was his smile. “You don’t know how much this means to us. I’m going to text the rest of the boys and girls, and tell them that we found Florrie.”

Florrie whined just then, wanting to be let down. Klopp obliged, and she immediately ran towards Lijnders, squealing in delight.

“She’s a spry bairn, that’s for sure,” Sir Ferguson chuckled. “You’re lucky to have her, Jurgen. Say, is she Henderson’s kid? Jordan Henderson?”

“Er…no,” he faltered, bewildered. “Why do you say that?”

A barrage of footsteps thundered through the hall. At first the three men thought it was the others, returning from their search, but when they looked back, they saw someone completely different.

A pale-faced man, with streaks of gray hair, a big, pointy nose and a gray, puffy coat stormed towards them. As he approached, they could all smell the overwhelming scent of breath mints on his breath.

“Naughty girl! I TOLD you to stay put!” he roared, crossing his arms. He stared Lijnders down. “What is wrong with this generation?”

“Gary Neville?!” Klopp marched up to him, staring the Brit down. “What do you know about this?”

Florrie turned towards Klopp and Ferguson, clinging onto Lijnders. “That’s him! Uncle Nevvy!”

“You don’t say.” It all clicked for Lijnders, and he set Florrie down. “Stay here, Florrie.”

A flash of panic crossed Neville’s face. He stepped back, unsure of what to do about the three men approaching him.

“You had better tell the truth about what you did to Florrie.” Unsurprisingly, Klopp spoke first. He pulled out an ashwood baseball bat, brandishing it with pride. “Or I will whoop your Hintern with much more than this bat. I will unleash my hands, my feet, the darkness in my soul, some stale pretzels from Oktoberfest 1979, desk furniture…”

“Florrie?” Neville fiddled with the lining of his hood. A nervous smile showed every one of his teeth, crooked as his soul. “W-what do you mean by that?”

Sir Ferguson huffed in disgust, his glare pinning Neville down to the ground. “The poor, defenseless young lassie that you trapped inside my old office!”

“WHAT?!” Klopp took out his ashwood bat again, quickly glancing at Ferguson. “May I whoop his butt with this please, sir?”

Ferguson nodded, and Klopp hit the bat at Neville with all the fury he had pent-up inside of him.

“B-but this is ridiculous!” Neville squawked, after the smarting on his backside had subsided a bit. “I never meant to trap her—OW!!!”

“Done and dusted.” Lijnders had retrieved his own metal flyswatter, and had done quite the job with it. “Pray go on, Sir.”

“Gary Neville, I know you very well.” Sir Ferguson pursed his lips in disapproval, shaking his head. “You knew that she was a young, innocent lassie. You trapped her in the office, on purpose, and you tricked her into thinking it was a place to keep lost children!!!” The Scot sighed, leaning against the wall. “I didn’t coach you that way, Gary. Your soul is as corrupt as Manchester City, to trick and lock up a young girl.”

“You left her all alone there,” Lijnders hissed, venom dripping from his every word. “You left her by herself, in an old office, with nothing to do and nobody with her? Sir Kenny’s right—you are a monster, Gary.”

“An old office!” Klopp grabbed Neville by the shoulders, so tight that the Englishman couldn’t even try to wriggle free. “Are you out of your Bundes-MIND?! Did you think about the surfaces she could fall from? How much dust there is inside? What she could bump against? And it’s old, Gary—she could’ve fell from there, easily!”

“Out, out of my sight!” Sir Ferguson commanded, pointing towards the exit. “And don’t you dare show your face or talk to me until I do.”

Neville raised his arms, looking as if he was going to protest. But one more smack from Lijnders, and he ran off, crying out for the help that was never coming.

“There goes a rotten apple,” Sir Ferguson commented. He stood up, grunting at his old bones. “Well, that’s a day for me. Until next time, you three.”

“Wait!” Florrie ran up to him, holding up the same book from earlier. “What’s this?”

“Oh—oh!” Sir Ferguson smiled as he took the book from Florrie, opening the pages. “It’s that Dutch book of fairytales! Ruud’s young daughter brought it in one day, and I think she forgot it in my office. You can keep it,” he chuckled, handing it back to Florrie. “Moa’s probably too big for fairytales now, anyway.”

“Oh, can I?” Florrie pleaded, eyes darting from Klopp to Lijnders. “Pleeease?”

“Why, of course! I’ll read it to you,” Lijnders offered, scooping Florrie into his arms. “I’ve not seen one of these for years! There’s The Entangled Mermaid, The Golden Helmet, The Boar with Golden Bristles…”

Klopp and Sir Ferguson watched Lijnders and Florrie head back into the office, chattering away. When they finally closed the door, the German looked up at the Scot.

“Thanks again, Sir Ferguson,” he said, finally exhaling a sigh of relief. “If something happened to Florrie, I don’t know what I’d do.”

“It’s my pleasure, Jurgen,” the former manager replied. “Don’t tell anybody I told you this, but you’re a good young man. Keep on managing.”

The two shook hands before parting ways, back to their respective rival clubs.

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bluemoonstonesy · 3 months

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Imagine SpongeBob trying to explain that bullshit penalty in the fa cup final

id genuinely rather have spongebob than gary neville on comms

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novelmonger · 1 year

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Harry Potter for the ask game?

Favorite Male: Albus Dumbledore (He's my favorite character overall - so complicated and layered with so many shades of grey! Such a great sense of humor! So many great quotes!)

Favorite Female: Luna Lovegood (We'd totally be besties if we went to Hogwarts at the same time - especially because I'd be in Ravenclaw too. I had a couple friends in college who were a very similar flavor of dreamy-and-thought-of-as-odd-but-actually-super-cool.)

Favorite Pairing: Hmm...probably Romione, mostly because we got to see its slow development up close. I can't stand them being dumb jerks to each other and others in HBP, but in a way that makes it even more satisfying to see them mature into an actually good, supportive couple in DH.

Least Favorite Character: Dolores Umbridge (Isn't she everyone's?)

Most Like Me: .____________. *blank stare* I'm...not sure any of them are much like me at all. I identify with little bits and pieces of characters here and there, but they're often so much larger than life that I don't really see much similarity with boring ol' me. I mean...I would love to say that I'm like Griselda Marchbanks, the inspiration for my writing pseudonym, but...I'm not really. I guess if I have to pick someone, I'll go with Remus Lupin - particularly as he was in his Hogwarts years. A good student, amazed to discover that he actually has friends, too afraid to speak up or stop them from doing what he knows is wrong, for fear of being alone again. Yep. That could be me.

Most Attractive: Sirius Black (Please note I'm going from my imagination when reading the books, not from the movies. Gary Oldman is great and all, but...sorry, I don't find him particularly attractive. The Sirius who lives rent-free in my brain, on the other hand, especially pre-Azkaban....)

Three More Characters That I Like: Neville Longbottom, Nymphadora Tonks, Minerva McGonagall (to pick ones that I haven't mentioned at all yet)

Send along another series to ask me about!

#ask and you shall receive #sailforvalinor #ask games #harry potter #albus dumbledore #luna lovegood #ron weasley #hermione granger #romione #ron weasley x hermione granger #dolores umbridge #griselda marchbanks #remus lupin #sirius black #neville longbottom #nymphadora tonks #minerva mcgonagall

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clockend · 1 year

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I wanna know more about your crushing on gn. I promise I am not baiting. Because I just keep seeing this man on the dash and thought "haha he's cute, what if" (as a joke) then it evolved (or devolved) into "haha he's cute, what if" (for real). You seem to have more history I literally just saw his face repeatedly until I caught feelings.

ngl i do feel a bit like theres a gun being held at my head. i do feel so sorry for u like i feel this is the worst thing to get acquainted with him like that truly with looks only like im so sorry but this is a support group. a safe space

i dont even know how to explain this without making it sound like a confession booth. there was just something in the water during prems 15/16 season and skysports was milking mnf with gn and carragher for what its worth to the point where it can be studied as a subsection of 'rpf queerbaiting' and like up to that point i truly hated him as like any sane person whos not a man utd fan would. but then i dont know i relapsed into my mentall illness and i blinked and then every monday i was watching monday night football on illegal skysports streams and then later watching his valencia games and so on. like i truly still cant stand him in a lot of ways and i loathe many of his views in terms of politics and his actual actions and i do need to run him over with a car and i Am a LESBIAN but i dont know gary neville is awful and pathetic and hes beein living in my brain. sometimes i forget hes not a figment of my imagination.

#genuinely so sorry used his full name also in case anyone might wanna block it out . this is the worst thing thats ever happened to MEEee #gnev anon

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unitedbydevils · 7 months

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Match Review: Manchester United 2-1 Brentford

Football, bloody hell.

Since we're quoting Fergie, I'd like to pay my respects to the Ferguson family and give my condolences on the passing of Lady Cathy Ferguson. She was a remarkable woman and gave crucial love and support to a man who provided so much joy to Manchester United football club and its fans. May she rest in peace.

How apt though that it was one of Ferguson's academy kids Scott 'McSauce' McTominay who came off the bench and rescued United from despair with not only the equalising goal but also the winner.

Not just that, but the winning goal was assisted by Harry Maguire; an almost loathed figure amongst the fan base at present but one of our best players today. He had a very resolute game in defence and quietly got on with his job. Perhaps he was aided by the veterancy of Jonny Evans and that calm support and guidance. Perhaps he simply cannot play with Victor Lindelöf.

We should roll back to the earlier parts of the game though, and what for 90 minutes was simply dire football. United seem to constantly suffer lapses in concentration, which meant we conceded a silly goal to Jensen in the 26th minute after Casemiro lost the ball and Lindelöf failed to clear properly. Onana could perhaps have done more to save it, but he is looking behind a crowded box of United and Brentford players, and should he not expect one of his seasoned defenders to be able to successfully get rid of a ball?

Both Casemiro and Lindelöf appear to be devoid of form, and Onana's not far behind. After the international break it will be interesting to see if other players force them out of the side. Starlet Kobbie Mainoo is close to a return, Hannibal Mejbri has impressed, and if a left back can return to fitness then Amrabat can stay in midfield as the anchor or pivot.

United's play seemed to lack not only intelligence, but also energy. Are we unfit? Are we tired? What is going on? Because at this rate I'm more inclined to put our poor performances down to a lack of willing or desire, and simply put that isn't on at Manchester United. You fight for the badge or you sling your hook.

Confidence is blatantly lacking though, and that's definitely impacting United's composure to retain possession and perform habitual passing patterns, whether triangle moves, give and go, one-touch retention... it's sloppy and uncoordinated and very frustrating as a fan.

For all United failed the eye test, the statistics show we were the better team which (Thomas) Frankly is embarrassing for Brentford. 64% possession to Manchester United, 21 shots, 8 on target, 7 corners... the intent was there but it's about the execution, and that comes from confidence and synergy.

Højlund looked poor today, for example, but he's still young and new and bedding in. This is why he was talked of as a second-fiddle for a star signing like a Harry Kane - he will take time.

Erik Ten Hag is as culpable as the players for poor results, and many fans will say we got away with it today and decry the lack of standards from other fans for enjoying a 2-1 win. That was, after all, the first time United had trailed in the 90th minute of a Premier League game and then won it.

To the bitter fans I say go boil your head, because if you can't enjoy United winning then what's the point of you. We're not owed success. We're owed a desire for success - from players and coaches. We're owed a determination to do well. That's where we should rightly be criticising people. McTominay's heroics at the end of the game bagged us two goals in under 5 minutes. Now imagine if we play with that urgency earlier in the match. We could have snotted this lot and given them the sort of rodding that would boost any ego and make Gary Neville or Jamie Carragher think he had a chance at pulling Beyonce.

I also believe that Erik is as deserving of praise when things go right as he is of criticism when it goes wrong. His choices to substitute Casemiro for Eriksen, Rashford for Garnacho, and Amrabat for McTominay proved to be excellent decisions. We know he has tactical intelligence, we saw it at Ajax. He's been on camera and broken his style down in interviews. The issue is players, man management, and in-game decision making. We don't know the whole picture, but fuck it, at least today he got the decisions right.

The man is under huge pressure at a club owned by people who only care for money. He will get some things wrong. He also has to let players try and prove their worth, which might cost him and United. How many fans would have been happy at McTominay coming on as a sub to try and win the game? Honestly? The answer is not many. Yet he bangs in two in Fergie Time, the Old Trafford crowd roars, and McSauce pulls off yet another textbook knee slide. Fuck yes.

United are in a bad way. The players are playing like shit, and the manager has made some dumb mistakes, but we have to be fair and give them time to fix up. That doesn't mean they are exempt of criticism, but there's a balance to be had that isn't just TEN HAG OUT, SELL RASHFORD, TAKE AWAY BRUNO'S CAPTAINCY, BENCH ONANA. Honestly, go and watch United in the early days of Fergie, or even before that in the void after Sir Matt Busby. Understand that there will be bad times - yes, even more than a decade - and that it's on us as fans to be loyal and support the club.

What next though... I already jumped the gun and said that the Burnley win might be the turning point, and the Palace cup match seemed to prove that, but we're still faltering. We need a good international break now and to regroup with fresh ideas and renewed confidence ready to go on a run to Christmas. We have the talent, but do we have the mental fortitude and that drive to bounce back? Now's the time to show up.

#manchester united #man u #man united #manchester reds #man utd #erik ten hag #casemiro #old trafford #marcus rashford #christian eriksen #victor lindelof #harry maguire #scott mctominay #mcsauce #thomas frank #brentford #andre onana #sir alex ferguson #lady cathy ferguson

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cuti-romeros · 2 years

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An anon requested carraville + stress—I had the prompt swirling around in my head for a little while, then Man United lost 4-0 and this was born

Set somewhere during Gary’s playing days after a bad defeat, established carraville because poor Gary deserves some comfort 🥺

He is completely, utterly numb. Mind. Body. Everything. He walks into the changing room like a robot, ripping off shin pads and boots and his kit. It’s red just like everything here is red, red red red, etched in his heart and body and soul.

Red like his blood. They’ll be calling for it, he thinks absently. Gary Neville, the one who gave it away. The thought is startling enough that it drags him out of numbness for a moment.

Only a moment. The shower, normally a stinging pressure, barely registers. He turns the knob as hot as it’ll go and stands beneath the water, lets it steam and turn him red, red, red, running in little rivulets across his body. There’s a speck of dirt on his knee that persists, and he’s halfway to ripping it off his skin when the water finally washes it away.

Out of the shower. In his bag there are two shirts, one black and one red. He stuffs the red one back into a corner, can’t imagine ever wearing the color again, and slips into the black. Feels appropriate, somehow. Like mourning.

Someone calls his name. They sound annoyed, like maybe it’s the third or fourth time, but his ears are hardly working, everything muted and muffled like he’s hearing it through a very thick wall.

“Gary!”

Any other day, he’d stop, turn around, talk to them. Try to find some words of wisdom, or even just a pat on the back and a commiserating smile. He’s the captain, after all. Captains don’t get to break.

Today he has.

Speaking to him won’t reassure anyone right now, and there are no words, anyway, only shards of glass stuck in his throat. So he keeps walking, lets their voice fade behind the changing room door.

No one stops him on his way to the car, and through the numbness he’s glad. The thought of someone offering him comfort now—a pitying hug, a desperate it wasn’t your fault, a hopeful it’s okay we move on—twists his stomach into something sick.

His seatbelt clicks, and the tears come. It’s hard to stop them, once they start, and he just sits there in the parking lot, sobbing until his eyes are red, red, red in the rearview mirror.

When he’s gathered himself enough that the road isn’t a blurry mess before him, he drives.

The soaring stadium fades away into the gray, well-worn streets of Manchester, a home he normally feels as deep as his bones. Today it’s all but suffocating, dark and tight, the red banners hanging above every other doorway a stark reminder of how these streets dreamed. He killed those dreams, tonight.

It’s a vicious thought, one he loops over and over in his mind like pressing on a fresh wound.

Many of the banners will be down by tomorrow, maybe the ones with his name shredded and burned. His mum will cry when she sees it, when she hears the abuse he’s sure to face. That hurts more than anything.

He drives on autopilot, barely conscious of the road. By the time he pulls the key from the ignition to figure out where he’s ended up, over an hour has passed and he’s most definitely not at his house. It’s a different doorway that greets him, deep maroon instead of slate gray, surrounded by browning shrubs barely clinging onto life.

Despite himself, he cracks a threadbare smile. Jamie has always been shit at gardening.

He tries to be surprised that driving on instinct, barely one eye on the road, led him here. It’s hard to be. The thought of seeing anyone right now hurts, but so does the thought of sitting on his couch alone with a bottle in hand, and he’s knocking faintly on the door before he has time to change his mind.

The door swings open, and Jamie stands before him just seconds later. He’s in gray sweatpants and a white shirt, not a fleck of red anywhere in sight, and Gary is absurdly grateful. He opens his mouth, tries to come up with something, anything, to explain why he’s here or what he needs, but comes up empty. There’s nothing.

But this is Jamie, his rival, his mate—his soulmate, he thinks sometimes in the privacy of his own head, deep in the middle of the night when no one has to know. Jamie just opens the door wider and lets him in without a word.

They don’t speak for a long time. Gary takes a seat on the couch he knows better than his own, a lumpy green monstrosity Jamie’s had since they first met. It’s seen them through hard times before, and Gary lets the familiarity of it wash through him, wonders if the ratty thing has got any of that healing touch left.

Jamie brings him tea, sweetened with honey and sharpened with lemon. His hands curl around the yellow mug, very pointedly not one of Jamie’s innumerable liverbird-emblazoned red ones, and he hopes Jamie can hear his thank you without the words. Such a small thing, but he knows it’s an intentional gesture because this is Jamie, who knows him better than anyone and thinks about little details just like that.

The telly is on, Gary notices as he takes another sip. Cartoon reruns, muted and grainy, volume turned up just enough to provide a steady hum in the background. The significance of that, in the house of the man who watches more football than anyone he’s ever met, isn’t lost on him.

Jamie returns with a mug of his own—plain white, chipped at the handle from being knocked off a table years ago while their hands were being put to better use—and takes a seat next to him. He’s close enough that Gary can feel his presence, and the perpetual warmth Jamie radiates like a furnace is the only comfort he allows himself. It would be easy to collapse into those shoulders, lean on them in the way he’s missed being able to this season, but knows he’ll be gone if he does. Right to pieces, a bawling, sniveling mess the way he only lets himself be in front of Jamie, and he can’t afford to do that right now.

Minutes pass. The silence is mostly comfortable, punctuated here and there by sips of tea and the sounds of cartoon characters running into each other on screen.

His phone rings. The shrill of it pierces the quiet like an arrow, and he jumps nearly off the sofa, cursing.

“Fuck—” he fumbles with it, fingers clumsy, searching for the off button. He doesn’t bother looking at the caller ID. The only person he’d even consider speaking to right now is sitting in this room.

“Here.” Jamie plucks the phone out of his hand, powers it off, and smoothly sets it face down on the table. “Forget about that.”

While he knows Jamie means the phone call, the word tumbles out anyway. “Can’t.” A small, broken thing, half buried in a sob he swallows away.

Jamie watches him with no trace of pity—and that’s why he came here of all places, isn’t it? Jamie’s the only one who might understand, who might be able to keep him company tonight without tripping one of the seventy-nine fuses all tangled up inside him.

But for all the lack of pity, Jamie’s eyes are so so sad, and suddenly Gary can’t do it.

“I’m sorry.” He looks away. “I shouldn’t have—I should—”

What right does he have to sit here on Jamie’s couch, looking pitiful and crying himself a river? Jamie who hates United with every single part of his red, red, wrong shade of red heart, who should be out on the town with his mates celebrating their loss tonight, who has his own problems and his own responsibilities and his own club to deal with, who is the strongest and toughest person Gary has ever met, who has never lifted a Premier League and maybe never will but has still never once thrown his success back in his face. What right does he have, to come here and complain after one bad defeat, wallowing like a child?

He feels sick.

“I should go,” he says, standing up.

Jamie blinks, expression frozen like he’s been slapped. Then it relaxes into something—tender, almost, and Gary’s traitorous heart skips a beat.

“Gary, lad,” Jamie says quietly, and his voice is only a little gentle. Gary could drown in the familiar rumble, rough words woven with so much affection. “You already did the hard part, drove all this way. Just come here.”

It wasn’t really that far of a drive, given that both of them regularly travel several hours a day for away matches, but that doesn’t matter. Gary hears come here and he does, can’t not when it’s Jamie looking at him like that, firm and steady. Like a drowning man to an anchor, a dying man to a priest, he goes.

And then Jamie’s arms are around him and it’s nice, so nice, to just close his eyes and sink into them. Gary lets his weight sag, lets the burden come off his shoulders for just a moment, and it’s so unbearably liberating that he has to push away.

Because Jamie shouldn’t have to shoulder these burdens. Jamie might be with him but he’s still Scouse, Liverpool through and through, and the only thing he asked for back when they first decided to give this thing a try was to keep the football on the pitch. United won the League that year, and Liverpool barely scraped their way to the end of the season—the promise came easy then. It isn’t fair to go back on that now.

Except then Jamie says, “Shh, shh, it’s okay”, tightening his arms, and Gary doesn’t have it in him to fight this anymore.

He lets go of the reigns, and sobs.

#carraville #*writing

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mountttmase · 1 month

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Can you imagine 😭 I bet he’d be so disheartened with all the false hope 😭

I was listening to Gary Neville’s podcast for sky yesterday and he was talking about masons goal and what it’s like to be injured and he mentioned how tough and disheartening it is for a player so he was happy for mase

Ohhhh I love that I’m gonna go have a listen 🥺 I just love it when people talk about him hahaha

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lakelin9 · 6 months

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Profit over inclusivity: how it's not just football's problem

A social media post by Mohammad Salah. A social media post by Hamza Choudhury. That’s all it takes for people asking the Premier League, the FA and the EFL to condemn these players and their actions. Their actions? A plea for help. A plea for peace for their fellow Muslims as Israel continues it’s genocide of Palestistinians. What comes of this, is no condemnation but no support either for these players. They dare not too. They fear the backlash. Financially and in terms of publicity. Just the latest example of where profit in sport comes before morals and inclusivity.

Sport is a reflection of society. Sport is simply a footnote in the rolodex of history and modern life when we look at the wider problems of the world. Without trying to sound like Lenin’s vanguard and banging the drum of revolution, capitalism, conservatism and whatever other evil heads the right poses, are the sole reason why money and profit will be put before the lives of ordinary people in terms of inclusivity and collectivisation. This way of thinking is inherent with capitalism. It does exactly what it says on the tin. As long as capitalism is our mode of production, and thus our current ‘human nature’, sport will be a reflection of this. After every incident of discrimination, the rhetoric is that the sport has a problem. No it doesn’t. Society does. Transphobia is a current problem within sport, but how can we be surprised when you have the two leaders of the two main political parties in this country, denouncing even the existence of trans people in their latest party conference speeches.

Especially when you have sports governing bodies acting like political parties and governments it should come to no surprise that profit comes before inclusivity.

One that stands out, especially in recent years is English football’s response to the emergence of Black Lives Matter in the midst of the coronavirus pandemic. Taking a knee has been a well known anti- racism symbol historically, which again rose to prominence following the murder of George Floyd in the U.S. There is no problem with the universal taking of the knee of footballers because, as you can imagine for young children seeing their heroes make such a stand against injustice, you can see why people may think that can make an impression.

But that’s where English football’s response to racism and in fact any forms of discrimination ends. It's all performative. Just slogans and symbols. Initially taking the knee is more than commendable but when you carry on doing it for a further 18 months without building upon it with actual action, then one must really question the intentions of the football governing bodies in this country.

Taking a stand: After initially taking the knee, Crystal Palace star Wilfred Zaha thought the impact of the knee was diluted through its constant use. (Getty)

When Show racism the red card was first founded back in 1996, it was set up on the premise of educating against racism throughout society in the United Kingdom. There is little to no evidence of this. In an interview with Global citizen, Dr Paul Ian Campbell spoke about how organisations such as Show racism the red card and Kick it out haven’t done enough to tackle racism and that the two organisations going into their third decade of existence is proof enough. However, Campbell goes on to add : “their remit is within football... they can only tackle those aspects solely within the game. Ultimately, they are, in many ways, toothless.”

Personally I can't see how these organisations are only limited to football. They are anti- racism organisations, it is their duty to call out racism and the possible root of it, even if that is from the very top.

Gary Neville speaking following a racism incident during Chelsea’s 2-0 victory over Tottenham back in 2019, spoke eloquently on the subject, suggesting that the country has a problem rather than just football, citing the problems of racism of yet again the two main political parties of this country. If Show racism the red card really is about educating the whole of society, it starts by questioning the people who lead and rule over this country.

In what must have been of the most cringy and gut wrenching pieces of live British television, the presenter of this specific Sky Sports Super Sunday, Dave Jones then clarifies that these were the opinions and views of Gary Neville and not their employers Sky Sports.

Here is where profit comes before inclusivity. Sky sports as an organisation, feared the backlash of Neville’s comments from the press and the government so much they thought the need to step away from one of their employees’ rather simple and rudimental observations of causes of racism in this country.

Watch Neville’s full verdict on racism in the UK here: (Sky sports)

Sky sports, who have practically ran and dictated the sport in this country since 1992, cannot even associate with one of their employees who takes a real stand against racism never mind support them, then is there any wonder profit still comes before inclusivity when Sky’s obvious main target here was not tackling racism and the possible causes of it, but instead their image and how they might be perceived as a company which is all to do with financial gain.

Dr Campbell, whilst also acknowledging the much deeper societal issues of racism, he then concludes that Brexit has been another accelerant of racism in this country. This thinking severely downplays the impact of Britain's colonial past which has resulted in decades of obviously society cursed by racism but also football being intertwined and fused with jingoism and nationalism.

In Simon Hughes book There She Goes, which examines Liverpool’s economic status through the lens of seven major impacts on the city’s reputation and economic status in the 1980s, the Liverpudlian writer explores how social depravity and poverty are the causes of unruliness, hooliganism and general crime, creating an ‘underclass’ nationwide.

During this time, the National Front was at it’s peak. The white nationalist organisation, during the 70s and 80s targeted football fans, trying to recruit them and spread ‘awareness’ of what was happening to this country, at games.

Social deprivation and poverty does create hostility. It is economic desperation. Desperation easily leads to hatred. An “Us and them” scenario. Just like sport. At the time when Hughes focuses his book, unemployment hit 3 million in 1983 in the UK. A peak not seen before or since. That level of social deprivation results in that level of restlessness.

Class warfare, racial warfare and fighting against any other forms of discrimination are all the same battle. Margaret Thatcher’s monetarist and later neo- liberal economic policies pitted these different groups against each other in the name of economic progress.

Typical: football violence yet again came to ahead at Italia 90’ for England fans with the country’s fortunes still at rock bottom. (BBC)

This is why Dr Campbell is naive in concluding that something as trivial as Brexit is the key cause for increased racism, when in fact football, politics and racism have been intertwined and equally as integral as each other in making the sport what it is today, since the professionalisation of football itself.

Although the majority of sports are all alike in terms of this fixation of profit, resulting in inclusivity taking a back seat, football is the sport that results in the greatest turnover globally thanks to mainly tv rights and sponsorships and so it is only seems natural to find many more examples where inclusivity is compromised by putting profit over people in the arena of the not so beautiful game.

FIFA. The mothership of all sporting corruption. Qatar recently held the 2022 FIFA World Cup, a country where homosexuality is illegal. With the 2034 World Cup looking likely to be held in Saudi Arabia where it is also illegal to be a homosexual, you must start to wonder if the LGBTQIIA+ is ever considered when the big decisions are being made by the football governing authorities.

Nevermind the obvious connotations of sportwashing, Qatar being handed the 2022 tournament altogether was clouded in deception with, at the time, FIFA President Sepp Blatter being investigated for corruption including, how Qatar’s bid was successful back in 2010. This itself is where inclusivity is shunned for profit. Two countries, in Qatar and Saudi Arabia, where the persecution of women and the LGBTQIIA+ is not only normalised but also a part of law, can be seen as allies of football and FIFA, is the perfect example of where profit becomes before inclusivity.

In the light of the Newcastle United takeover by the Saudi Arabian government, Adam Crafton has been a bastion of shining a light on the real issues the LGBTQIIA+ community has to endure from the hands of the Newcastle owners.

In his real focus piece on his investigations, the Athletic writer included interviews with the few who managed to escape their nightmare, with one interviewee discussing the psychologically and physically torturing ‘conversion therapy’ he had to endure. This is just a normal reaction from the Saudi Arabian government when it comes to homosexuals. They must be converted. They must become normal. These atrocities are being aided and abetted by the Premier League, the FA and the Conservative government.

WIth his latest round of investigations, Crafton uncovered that the British government concluded that is would be in the best interests of this country for the Newcastle takeover to be granted by the FA and the Premier League with the UK’s relationship with the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia (KSA) being under serious threat if it was to fall through.

Papers released by the foreign office in 2020, claimed that PIF, the Saudi Public Investment Fund would look to invest $30 billion over a ten year period into the UK.”

It remains to be seen if this money is still coming from the KSA, but it just shows that sportwashing, especially of the Saudi kind, is the ultimate example for profit coming before inclusivity. Whether that is the KSA, this government, the Premier League or the FA. Money, in allowing the KSA to become the owners of one this country’s biggest sporting institutions, has come before the LGBTQIIA community and everyone else who has suffered the human rights abuses inflicted upon them by Saudi Arabia.

Howay the Jihads: Prince Mohammed bin Salman, current ruler of Saudi Arabia and Premier League club Newcastle United. (Libyan express)

Sportwashing as a whole, is all about profit. Not only is it the disregard of inclusivity but everything. Acception. Morals. Justice. If we are to look at any example of sportwashing throughout history, from Hitler’s 1936 Olympic games to the current ownership of Newcastle United by Saudi Arabia, both profit and lack of inclusivity go hand in hand. Sportwashing cannot be successful without failing people. Failing inclusivity.

In a journal of democracy article, Sarath K. Ganji, uses Nazi Germany’s 1936 games and Mussolini’s FIFA World Cup of 1934 to compare how Qatar also has tried to “lure and impress foreign publics with displays of iconic infrastructure and athletic success” though the use of their World cup, Ganji also points out how Qatar has also used other intermediaries such as state- owned enterprises of beIN and QSI.

These organisations were known all over the World well before the actual tournament. They were already embedded throughout the globe, with people in this country often using beIN coverage to illegally stream matches. That is sportwashing. These state broadcasters and the country itself, already normalised before a ball is even kicked.

These ‘displays of iconic infrastructure’ came in the form of the country's eight World Cup match hosting stadiums. Gary Lineker tweeted during the tournament about his “favourite stadium” in reference to Al Bayt Arena which is proof of how media personalities can be drawn into the grandeur. Now tweeting about how much you like the look of a stadium is not exactly a full endorsement of the Qatari government but it does show how sportwashing works perfectly.

TV judge and all round TV personality Rob Rinder pointed out to the BBC presenter of just one the migrant worker deaths that occurred during the building of the Qatari stadiums.

Even just tweeting about your favourite stadium already normalises how the many deaths of migrant workers can be almost justified if the stadiums look nice.

Now there have been many more nuanced reports and research into the findings of the treatment and exploitation of migrant workers than a TV Judge, but Rinder’s point still remains. If a figure of Lineker’s stature, a man who denounced Qatar’s human rights record in the build- up coverage to the opening tournament match, can be taken in by the lure of “iconic infrastructure”, then how can the sceptics or the doubters of Qatar’s poor human rights record have a chance at being seduced by the sportwashing.

Guilty!: TV judge Robert Rinder’s twitter exchange with BBC presenter Gary Lineker. (Daily Mail)

Money talks. In all walks of life. Whether it’s being influenced by whole sportswashing nations, sports governing bodies, the clubs themselves or even broadcasters. Their influence reigns supreme with people’s rights and lives taking a back seat. However, it isn’t just money and profit being the reason behind the lack of inclusivity for so many people in football. The sport just doesn’t want to be inclusive. You can have as many token BAME or LGBTQIIA+ members of the FA or a Sky Sports pundit panel as you like, there’s still an underlying agenda there that doesn’t result in real change. These people more often than not will hold similar opinions on how the game is run, and once part of the elite group, they will cut off this ‘inclusivity’ and prevent others from climbing the ladder. They too become part of the status quo. In recent years, BAME politicians’ opinions on immigration is example enough, of how it does not matter what minority you come from, if your views on the world and inclusivity don’t differ from the ‘middle- aged, straight white man’. So here yet again, football and sport are a reflection of society. It is non- negotiable. As Long as the world shuns inclusivity in the name of profit, then sport will continue to do so too.

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