Football, at the highest level, has become an absurdity. Grown fat on the teat of oligarchs, sheikhs and conglomerates, the beautiful game is as much a procession of commercialism, haircuts and tabloid tittle-tattle as it is a sporting spectacle. But by God we still love it.
I like nothing more than to lampoon the circus that now envelopes the beautiful game, be it unashamed transfer BS, maladroit owners or prancing prima donnas. The18 gives me the freedom to do just that, delivering our readers a healthy dose of British cynicism to accompany the raking Hollywood passes and 40-yard thunderbastards.
