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There’s a certain smell to a Saturday morning that only makes sense if you grew up around local sports: damp grass, cheap instant coffee in a paper cup, and that faint whiff of Deep Heat drifting out from the changing rooms.
Last weekend, I was standing on the sidelines at our local pitch, watching a group of teenagers play. The weather was awful—the kind of rain that comes in sideways and cuts straight through your jacket. But no one seemed to mind. Parents were huddled under a forest of umbrellas, shouting encouragement, and the coach was pacing the touchline, absolutely drenched but fully invested.
In a world that often feels digital, commercialized, and locked behind paywalls, these local games feel like one of the last real pieces of ground left. There are no multimillion-dollar contracts or corporate sponsors here—just people showing up for the love of the badge and the community behind it.
We talk a lot about the big leagues, but this is where the real heart of the game lives. It’s built by volunteers setting up goals at 7 a.m. and by the people keeping these clubs going on nothing but grit and determination. It’s a good reminder that the best parts of sports are often the ones closest to home.

Only a short story, but perhaps my most controversial ever. A dystopian future where sexuality is monitored and controlled, and where paedophiles can watch CGI pornography, but with strict safeguards, and a police force watching their every move.
This story has been out for some time, but here, on "Written", you can read an interview with me all about how "Do CGI Girls Cry?" came about, and how it now stands up to the test of time.