Category: Unleashed News

I was today‑years‑old when I finally understood the difference between being Jewish and practicing Judaism. It sent me down a path that connected ancestry, religion, identity, and history in ways I never expected. Right now, with politics and religion so tangled, it’s hard not to feel pulled in two directions. My DNA shows I’m Scottish on one side, Jewish on the other. For a long time, that felt like being caught between two identities, two histories, two worlds.

That moment marked a turning point, reshaping the way I saw myself and the world around me. The truth was older, stranger, and more deeply human than I had ever imagined.

What I learned is that my Jewish ancestry has nothing to do with religion. Judaism is the faith. Jews are the people. And those people existed thousands of years before the religion ever took shape. DNA doesn’t measure belief; it measures ancestry. And that ancestry goes straight back to the ancient Levant, long before anyone had ever heard of Judaism, Christianity, or Islam. The people who eventually became the Israelites were part of the same ancient world as the Canaanites, Phoenicians, Arameans, and early Arab tribes. All of them came from the same deep human layers that formed in the cradle of civilization — the region stretching across ancient Iran, Mesopotamia, Anatolia, and the Levant.

What finally brought clarity was the realization that one can be Jewish without being a Jew in the religious sense. The English language, in its simplicity, uses a single word to describe both ancestry and belief, though they are not the same. When DNA speaks of ‘Jewish,’ it means lineage, not faith. Yet most people hear belief, and in that misunderstanding, confusion takes root.

With that understanding, another truth emerged. The Scots—my other half—are woven from the same ancient story. Not in a literal or theological sense, but in the deep, human sense that predates nations and names. Before Scotland, before Celts, Picts, or Gaels, the ancestors of the Scots were shaped by the same early migrations that flowed from the cradle of civilization. Early farmers and herders, ancient peoples who left the first cities and fields, moved north and west over thousands of years, mingling with Ice Age hunters and the peoples of the Steppe. From that long mingling rose the early Celtic cultures, and from them, the Gaels, the Picts, the Britons, and, in time, the Scots.

In reflecting on all this, I saw that I had spent years believing I belonged to two opposing worlds, when in truth, both sides of my ancestry were distant kin long before either bore a name. The people came first. The faiths followed. Politics arrived much later, a recent chapter in a much older story.

What is hardest to grasp is that the divisions we see today are far younger than the bonds we share. My DNA does not divide me; it reminds me that we all began in the same place, and the boundaries we draw now are recent, set against the long sweep of human history.

Today, years old, and suddenly aware that my ancestry is older than any religion, older than any nation, older than any label we use today. We all came from the same cradle. We just wrote different chapters afterward.

It’s been a while since I UNLEASHED. Life has been a carousel of busy, sick, busy again, and then suddenly today arrived — my birthday. Before anyone starts bouncing around with well‑meaning enthusiasm, let me be clear: birthdays have never been my thing. Not because I’m miserable about them, but because I genuinely don’t understand the concept when it comes to myself.

I know how to make birthdays special for other people. I can build a day, a moment, a memory. I can theme it, shape it, elevate it. But for me? I never had that growing up, so I never missed it. And when adulthood rolled in, and I tried to create something meaningful for myself, it felt hollow. Manufactured. Like adding another task to the list. No matter how much I spent or how clever the idea, it never felt special — it felt like work.

Then came the era when people actually wanted to make it special for me. And that’s when I realized I had absolutely no idea how to react. Compliments bounce off me. Gifts make me awkward. Attention makes me want to hide behind the nearest large object. So I did the simplest thing: I tucked the date away and moved on.

But here’s the truth beneath all that bravado. I genuinely appreciate every single person who takes a moment out of their day to send a greeting. I may not know how to receive it gracefully, but I feel it. Deep inside, beneath the persona, I’m still private and shy. The persona — the one people see, the one that fills rooms and carries the weight — that’s something I built. A shield forged from a lifetime of disappointments, rejections, and standards I was told to meet but never quite reached in my own mind. It’s armor, not arrogance.

But even with all that armor, there’s still a part of me — the part I pretend doesn’t exist — that watches the names on the Friends’ List every year. AngryWolf looks at the ones who don’t say a thing, don’t send a message, don’t even drop a lazy emoji, and he feels the list should be culled. Trimmed. Pruned like a tree that’s grown wild. It’s petty, it’s ridiculous, and it’s absolutely beneath the persona I built… but it’s there. And maybe that’s the most embarrassing part of all this: the quiet truth that even someone who doesn’t understand birthdays still notices who remembers, and who doesn’t.

So today, instead of cake or candles or forced celebration, here’s something better: perspective.

A fun fact to lighten the mood on a day I don’t quite “get.” 1900 is the point I now stand halfway from.

Let that settle. Sixty‑three years before I arrived, Queen Victoria was still on the throne. The British Empire was still a thing. People traveled by horse, steam, or sheer stubbornness. And sixty‑three years after? We’re livestreaming from glasses, arguing with AI, and carrying supercomputers in our pockets. I am standing at the midpoint of a 126‑year arc stretching from Victorian Britain to the digital age.

And if you want to know what 1900 looked like, it wasn’t quiet. Britain was deep in the Second Boer War, fighting in South Africa. America was a young 124‑year‑old nation with a population of about 76 million. Animals we’ve since lost — the passenger pigeon, the thylacine, the Caribbean monk seal — were still alive. Queen Victoria was in her final full year. The Labour Party had just been founded. The Daily Express printed its first issue. The first council estate opened. Tonga became a British protectorate. Cars were still a novelty, and a 1,000‑mile motor trial was considered heroic. Influenza outbreaks, anarchist attacks, and tennis tournaments all shared the headlines. I don’t know why I care about tennis — I really don’t — but apparently even in 1900 it was causing a fuss.

Football, though — proper football — that’s different. Even back then, the game was already carving out the world I’d eventually grow up obsessed with. Aston Villa were champions of England. Bury lifted the FA Cup after battering Southampton 4–0 at Crystal Palace. North of the border, Rangers took the Scottish League, while celtc won the Scottish Cup. And in the annual England v Scotland match at Celtic Park, Scotland absolutely thumped England 4–1 in front of a crowd so big no one could agree on the number. Some things never change.

When I was born, Victoria had been gone for only 63 years. The Wright Brothers’ first flight was just 60 years old. America was 187 years old — it’s now 250. The world population was 1.6 billion; now it’s over 8 billion. The world I entered was closer to Victorian Britain than it is to today.

So no, I don’t “celebrate” my birthday. But I do acknowledge it. Not as a party, but as a marker. A reminder of distance traveled, battles survived, and the strange, stubborn fact that I’m still here — still learning, still uncomfortable, still trying to understand what it means when people say “Happy Birthday.”

And that, in its own quiet way, is enough.

Here’s a bit of honesty for you: when someone says ‘game night,’ what they really mean is ‘let’s drag out Cards Against Humanity and pretend we’re all having a riot.’ Well, I’m done. I’ve played it, suffered through it, and faked enough laughs to last a lifetime. I’ve done my stretch. Paroled. Never going back.

Cards Against Humanity isn’t a game. It’s a factory-made brain drain, all dressed up in a black box, like a funeral for your intelligence.
The whole idea is a sad joke: slap something crude on a card and watch the sheep laugh. That’s not comedy, that’s just embarrassment with a price tag. It’s like a bunch of teenage boys finding their old man’s dirty magazines and thinking sniggering at naked women makes them interesting.

You don’t play Cards Against Humanity, you just endure it. No strategy, no spark, no cleverness, just a conveyor belt of cheap gags that hit the floor like a cold shepherd’s pie. It’s like being forced to watch someone else heat up leftovers, only you’re not allowed to leave. Whoever wins is just the one who’s best at being daft. Congratulations, you’re King of the Idiots.

The pace? Like watching a car crash in slow motion, only less exciting. In the first round, someone snorts when a card says something rude. Five minutes later, you realize you’ve signed up for a marathon of recycled filth and forced laughter. Everyone’s faking it because if anyone admits the truth, the whole night falls apart. This isn’t a party game; it’s a test of who can keep up the charade longest. It’s like Laurence Olivier torturing Dustin Hoffman in Marathon Man, but at least there was a cure for that pain.

And don’t get me started on the fake edginess. CAH likes to pretend it’s the wild child at the party, but it’s just lazy. It doesn’t push boundaries, it tiptoes around them like your uncle after too many pints, thinking he’s a rebel because he made a rude joke at Christmas dinner. If you want to be edgy, try being clever. If you want to be bold, try being original. If you want to be funny, actually put in some effort. CAH does none of that. It’s a beige wall with a few swear words stuck on for decoration.
But the real crime isn’t what’s on the cards; it’s the hours of your life you’ll never see again. Time you could have spent reading something decent, watching a film that doesn’t make you want to eat glass, talking to people you don’t secretly despise, or even just staring at the ceiling and questioning your life choices. All of these are a step up from CAH.

Honestly, I’d rather read Tolkien, get a tooth yanked, chat with strangers, alphabetize my sock drawer, ponder the heat death of the universe, sit through a presidential debate, watch Nicole Kidman escaping to an empty theater, or those two idiots flogging Coke at AMC, or try sword swallowing with no clue what I’m doing. All of these are more enriching experiences. I almost said watching Arsenal, but I haven’t reached the bottom of life’s barrel, but CAH is almost there.
It’s a crime against trees. Environmentalists? My arse. Every time you crack open that box and its endless expansions, you’re basically voting for deforestation. Well done, you’ve killed a forest for a cheap laugh. Hippy Card revoked.

So here’s the verdict, delivered with the full authority of someone who has endured far too many faux‑fun evenings:
Cards Against Humanity, shut the fuck up.
You’re not funny.
You’re not clever.
You’re not daring.
You’re not a game.
You’re a black box stuffed with printed misery. Hostage situation, no negotiator, just snacks and regret. Not “the party game for horrible people”, just a horrible game PERIOD.

And you’re barred from my table, my game nights, and my life. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.

Bring back real games. Trivial Pursuit, Monopoly, Totopoly, Clue(do), Scrabble, Cribbage (if anyone still remembers how to score it), and Risk? Like most families, we only played Risk once. It’s meant to be the Cold War, but somehow it lasts longer.

Board games, not “I’m Bored” games

Scotland has qualified for the World Cup.
Let me say that again, slowly, because it still feels like a hallucination brought on by too many early‑morning kickoffs and too many decades of disappointment:
Scotland. Has. Qualified. For. The. World. Cup.
Here. In. North. America.
Where I live.
Where my son lives.
Where the dream was supposed to finally come true.

This should have been joy.
Pure, unfiltered, childhood‑level joy.
The kind of joy you bottle and keep forever.
The kind of joy you imagine the moment your son is born — one day, we’ll go to a World Cup together.
For twenty-two years, I’ve carried that dream.
Twenty‑two years of waiting, hoping, imagining the moment we’d stand together in a stadium, hearing “Flower of Scotland” at a World Cup.

Instead, FIFA — the most corrupt sporting organization in human history — has sucked the marrow out of it like a starving vampire with a loyalty card.

But before we get to the modern circus, let’s go back.
Because this isn’t just a rant.
This is a lifetime of hope, humiliation, and heartbreak.

1974 — Undefeated, Unrewarded, and Undone by Politics

My relationship with the World Cup didn’t begin with entitlement — it began with longing.
1974 should have been glorious. We were brilliant. Genuinely brilliant. Proper footballers.
Our first World Cup since the 1950s.
We went home undefeated — the only team in the entire tournament to do so — and still got knocked out.
Only Scotland could manage that.
But here’s the part the rest of the world never talks about:
We were undone by political machinations that had nothing to do with football and everything to do with corruption.
Zaire — dragged to the tournament by Mobutu, a dictator who treated the national team like a personal vanity project — played their first match against Scotland, and we beat them 2–0.
They played normally.
They hadn’t yet realized their promised money wasn’t coming.
Then the truth hit them like a sledgehammer:
Their appearance fees had been stolen, their bonuses siphoned off, and the players were being used as political props.
So they went on strike.
They refused to train.
They refused to play.
They told their FA they would not take the field again unless they were paid.
Mobutu’s response was simple and terrifying:
Play, or don’t come home.
So they agreed to appear for the next match — but not to compete.
And that’s how we got the farce of:
Yugoslavia 9–0 Zaire.
Zaire took the field under duress, barely moved, and made their point.
Yugoslavia ran up the score like it was a training exercise.
That nine‑goal swing warped the entire group.
Then — furious at the humiliation — Mobutu finally released the money.
The players were paid.
The strike ended.
And in their final match, against Brazil, Zaire actually played again.
They lost 3–0, but they competed.
They fought.
They tried.
Which means the only match where Zaire didn’t try — the only match distorted by politics, corruption, and coercion — was the one that decided Scotland’s fate.
The Yugoslavian goal difference was insurmountable — and it had nothing to do with football.
It was the first time we learned the lesson we keep relearning:
Scotland doesn’t just have to beat the teams in front of us.
We have to beat geopolitics, corruption, dictators, and the universe itself.

1978 — Swagger, Tears, and the Summer of Humiliation

We were told we were brilliant, and that turned out to be the biggest hoax since the SNP. Tears, hopes, humiliation — the full Scottish emotional tasting menu.
There I was, resplendent in my Alan Rough perm, sitting in front of the telly in the summer heat, watching in absolute disbelief as Teófilo Cubillas dismantled the Ally MacLeod hyperbole machine in real time.
All that swagger, all that talk, all that “we’re going to win the thing”… evaporated in the Argentinian sun.
And I cried.
Real inconsolable tears.
The kind you only shed when you’re young enough to believe your country might actually be what the grown‑ups told you it was.
And because the World Cup is in summer and school was closed, I didn’t have to face my classmates the next day.
But humiliation has a way of finding you.
Even without the internet — no social media, no WhatsApp, no memes — my mates in London made it their mission to track me down.
They hunted me like bloodhounds on the scent of Scottish misery.
They made sure my humiliation was complete.
England hadn’t even qualified for Argentina, but that didn’t stop them from being smug arseholes about 1966 — the same mindset they still have today, 60 years later.
Still polishing that one trophy like Gollum stroking the One Ring.
And frankly, the statute of limitations has long since expired on that bloody thing — especially considering the World Cup was literally stolen, and the hero of the entire tournament wasn’t Bobby Charlton or Geoff Hurst…
It was Pickles the dog who found the trophy in a hedge while the English FA were still looking under the sofa cushions.
And let’s be honest:

• There were only 16 teams in that tournament, and you cheated Germany to win
• And Scotland played you off the park in 1967
• Unofficial World Champions, with Jim Baxter taking the absolute piss

Humiliation.
Heartache.
And the kind of emotional scarring only Scotland can deliver with such consistency.

1982 — The Toe‑Poke Heard Round the World

After 1978, we didn’t vanish.
We qualified for 1982, 1986, 1990, and 1998.
We just… achieved nothing.
Except one moment.
One glorious, stupid, fleeting moment – 1982. Brazil.
David Narey unleashes a screamer so outrageous the Brazilian press called it a “toe‑poke” out of sheer embarrassment.
For a few seconds, we dared to dream.
And then Brazil punished our audacity the way my headmaster used the strap to flay my hand — swiftly, brutally, and with a faint air of disappointment.
After 1998?
Oblivion.
A void.
A vacuum.
Or is that avoid?
The SFA staring into the abyss, and the abyss wearing an SFA blazer staring back.

The Manager Who Never Could

Fast‑forward to the present.
And unbelievably, despite the results, despite the performances, despite the tactical war crimes… Steve Clarke is still the manager.
And he turns out to be, in my humble but accurate opinion, the worst Scottish manager in living memory.
A man whose win record looks like a misprint.
A man who picks squads based on regional bias and personal favorites, not talent.
And yet — somehow — we qualified.
Those last minutes against Denmark?
Decades of conceding late goals, throwing away leads, and inventing new ways to lose… undone in a single moment of cosmic mercy.
He got lucky.
We qualified not because of him, but in spite of him — carried by four near‑world‑class players he had absolutely nothing to do with, and three moments straight out of the Roy of the Rovers playbook.
But we got there.
And that’s all that matters.
Or it should have been.

The Draw: Haiti, Morocco, and… Brazil. Of Course.

Haiti — fine.
Morocco — tricky.
Brazil — to paraphrase Indiana Jones:
Brazil. Why did it have to be Brazil?
But here’s the thing:
History tells me we’ll probably be out before we even get to Brazil.
Then we’ll beat them.
Then they’ll reach the final.
This is the Scotland Way™.
We don’t do normal.

Enter FIFA: The Joy Vacuum

And then… FIFA arrived.
The most corrupt sporting organization in human history — and that’s not hyperbole, that’s courtroom fact.
They’ve expanded the tournament so much that qualifying barely means anything anymore — which, ironically, is the only reason Scotland are here.
And if you think 2026 is bad, wait until 2030, which will be hosted in six countries across three continents.
A World Cup so geographically deranged it should come with a chiropractor and a carbon‑offset subscription.

The Ticketing Disaster: A Masterclass in Incompetence

This should have been simple.
It’s not.
Instead, we get:

• Staggered sales
• Playoff cash grabs
• Lotteries
• Virtual queues that put you in the wrong line for three hours
• No tickets offered
• The internet is telling you what FIFA won’t
• Six‑hour queues
• Tickets sold out
• Except in hospitality
• And through the various ticket tout agencies
• Prices that would make a Bond villain blush

From my own experience:
$600 for Haiti. $2,500 for Brazil.
Do the math: the numbers are obscene before you even add travel.
And when we drew Brazil in Miami?
We were ecstatic.
It was always a dream to go to a World Cup with my son — a dream I’ve held for 22 years. And to see us against the best in World History. Amazing. Once in a lifetime stuff.
An American‑born Scot who supports the same cursed teams I do.
This was supposed to be our moment.
Our reward for all the early mornings, all the tears, all the “maybe next times.”
Now crushed.
By FIFA.
Who makes the SFA look competent — and I can’t believe I just wrote that sentence.
By June, $7,500 might not even fill your gas tank.
And for three games without travel, I’d be looking at nearly $20,000 to follow the country that invented the sport… in the country I live in… where it costs me $20 to watch my local MLS team.
If I could even get the tickets.

And What About Us? The Ones Who Built the Game Here?

And here’s the part FIFA will never understand, because they don’t care enough to even pretend:
What about the rank‑and‑file supporters in this country who actually built the football culture they’re now cashing in on?
Where was our ticket window?
Where was the acknowledgment that the game didn’t grow here because of FIFA, or CONCACAF, or the USSF, or whatever faceless committee of nobodies is allegedly running the sport this week?
It grew because of us.
Because of the people who bought season tickets to watch Sunday‑League hammer‑throwers masquerading as professionals.
Because of the people who endured plastic pitches, retirement‑tour superstars, and franchises with names that sound like they were generated by a malfunctioning marketing algorithm.
Because of the people who turned up anyway — week after week — inventing new ways to be passionate about a D‑list version of world football.
We did all this in a country that, for most of that time, didn’t even know what offside was.
Hell, I still get mad when Americans say “offsides.”
Plural.
Like it’s a bloody shopping list.
We watch enviously as the Premier League, LaLiga, Serie A beam into our living rooms every weekend — real football, real atmospheres, real stakes — while US Soccer, MLS, and the USL fight over who gets to run the footballing equivalent of the Harlem Globetrotters.
And the fans?
We’re the Washington Generals.
Perennial losers.
Turning up anyway.
Cheering anyway.
Carrying the sport anyway.
We built this.
We made this a viable football country.
We created the culture, the noise, the atmosphere, the demand.
And what do we get?
Nothing.
No priority window.
No recognition.
No “thank you for carrying the sport in a hostile landscape for 30 years.”
Just a shrug and a hospitality package.
Not everyone here cares about the USMNT.
Some of us have heritage, identity, bloodlines, stories, scars.
Some of us are more passionate about where we come from than the people still living there.
And FIFA looked at all of that — all of that passion, all of that loyalty, all of that cultural graft — and said:
“Nah. Give the tickets to the global supporters’ groups and the corporate boxes.”
An expansion opportunity so obvious even the SFA wouldn’t have missed it.
And yet here we are.

The People’s Game — Stolen

Football is the people’s game.
Working class.
Genuine.
A release from the grind of the week.
Not a revenue stream for gangsters in suits.
As John Lennon said at the Royal Variety Performance:
“Will the people in the cheaper seats clap your hands? And the rest of you, if you’d just rattle your jewellery.”
Well, FIFA has made sure there are no “cheaper seats” left.
Just rich people rattling their jewelry while the rest of us watch from home.
Football without real fans is nothing.
A vacuum.
A void.
Or is that avoid?
They may steal our money, but they’ll never take our FOOTBALL.
I think William Wallace said that.
(Factually as accurate as Mel Gibson’s movie.)

So What Does FIFA Stand For?

Let’s be honest:
FIFA doesn’t stand for Fédération Internationale de Football Association anymore.
It stands for:
Fuckers
In
Financial
Arrogance
And to them, from me, from every Scotland fan, from every supporter priced out of their own dream:
Shut. The. Fuck. Up.

And After All That…

Those tears from 1978 are back —
But they’re different now.
They’re not the tears of a boy watching Cubillas tear his country apart.
They’re not the tears of humiliation delivered by mates who hunted me down just to twist the knife.
These tears are something else entirely.
They are tears of frustration.
Tears of anger.
Tears for my beautiful game.

FIFA BY THE NUMBERS (2026)

An epilogue in cold print, because sometimes the numbers hurt more than the words.
When the shouting stops and the anger settles, the numbers tell the real story.
This is the most expensive World Cup ever staged, and the financials aren’t just high — they’re obscene.
FIFA received over 508 million ticket requests, a global feeding frenzy created by scarcity, secrecy, and the illusion that ordinary supporters had a chance.
Their revenue projection for this tournament alone exceeds $10 billion, with the full four‑year cycle expected to hit $13 billion — a 72% increase over the previous cycle.
Official ticket prices — before FIFA’s mandatory fees — range from $140 to $8,680, with dynamic pricing pushing some matches up by 50% between sales windows.
A $2,790 final ticket quietly became $4,185.
Group‑stage matches involving host nations routinely sit between $355 and $2,735, and that’s before the 15% service fee FIFA adds at checkout.
Hospitality packages start in the five figures.
Secondary markets are already listing popular matches in the tens of thousands.
And the mythical $60 ticket FIFA loves to brag about?
It exists — but only in tiny allocations to national federations, never to the general public.
This isn’t a celebration of football.
It’s a revenue extraction model wearing a scarf.
And when you add it all up — the queues, the lotteries, the dynamic pricing, the corporate boxes, the gouging, the secrecy, the sheer financial violence of it all — the conclusion is simple:
FIFA didn’t just price out fans.
They priced out dreams.

And Finally… FAFO

There’s one more four‑letter abbreviation that begins with F.
FAFO.
And FIFA just did.
They’ve pushed supporters past the breaking point.
They’ve priced out families, dreams, and decades of loyalty.
They’ve turned the world’s game into a gated community for the wealthy and the well‑connected.
Hopefully, this will signal the beginning of the end for the most corrupt regime since Mobutu’s Zaire.
Because football fans have long memories, short tempers, and an unshakeable belief in what the game should be.

Those days are past now, and in the past they must remain — but it’s time for football fans to rise up and take back our game.

I want to be absolutely clear from the outset: I do not support violence against women, discrimination, or any attempt to minimize the seriousness of abuse. That is not who I am, and it is not who we are as a supporters club.
But the reaction to Roberto De Zerbi’s appointment has exposed something uncomfortable about modern football culture — and, frankly, about society. We’ve reached a point where people are so quick to condemn, to label, to divide, that any sense of proportion or consistency disappears. Everything becomes a purity test, and no one can pass it.
Let’s deal with the facts.
Marseille signed Greenwood — not Spurs.
De Zerbi didn’t sign him. The club he worked for made that decision. And we are not signing Greenwood now. Yet somehow De Zerbi is being treated as if he personally committed the offense.
As The Times put it:
“Nobody is defending Greenwood’s alleged actions, or downplaying the seriousness of the original accusation. De Zerbi, however, has committed no crime beyond remaining faithful to the idea of second chances.”
That’s the truth. And the outrage becomes even harder to take when some of the same people condemning De Zerbi are the ones who still idolize Gazza — a man with a documented history of domestic violence. Selective morality is still selective, even if he was a genius on the pitch.
Greenwood is, in my view, a contemptible individual. But he reconciled with his partner, they remain together, and they’ve built a family. You can acknowledge that reality without endorsing him. You can condemn the behavior while recognizing that life is more complicated than social‑media outrage allows.
Now, let me be clear about something else:
I don’t like the appointment of De Zerbi either — but for footballing reasons.
He feels like yet another underwhelming, uninspired choice in a long line of managers we seem to convince ourselves will be “the one.” My issue with him has nothing to do with Marseille, Greenwood, or moral grandstanding. It’s simply that he’s another disappointing nonentity we’ve talked ourselves into.
And here’s the real point I’m making:
You can support a country, a club, or an institution without supporting every individual associated with it.
America is, in my view, horrible because of Donald Trump — but it is still possible to support America without supporting him. The same principle applies here. You can support Spurs without agreeing with every decision the club makes. You can support the idea of second chances without excusing the original wrongdoing.
De Zerbi supported a second chance for a player. That is not a crime. That is loyalty to the organization he worked for. And loyalty is something we, as supporters, claim to value.
For once, can we just SHUT THE FUCK UP and get out of our own way and focus on keeping Premier League football at White Hart Lane — or whatever we’re calling it now.