The quiet light of the Parc

I almost didn't believe it until I saw both PSG and Liverpool post on their accounts. So much back and forth bs that we know our favourite noncha dreadhead did not enjoy
Hope the Reds look after you in the way you deserve for what you did for Paris <3 if it wasn't for you in that UCL game vs city... there would be no back to back.

Centre de Dembele au deuxieme… Joao Neves… Barcola… la reprise de Barcola. Doue… Doue sur son pied droite… la bar… et Barcola… Barcola ensuite, pour le reveil Parisien. Il faut accelerer maintenent… nobody had to tell you twice. Forever engrained in the heads of the thousands of people who adored seeing you in a PSG jersey.

I wish you'd been a starter for your Paris career. I will possibly forever? Rewatch those matches where you got to play with Doue and Dembele…how happy you were as a trio. How happy YOU were, and the joy you gave to the fans. That you never complained about being used as a sub for Kvara even though you deserved to be a starter. The quiet light of Paris, came in quietly, left with everybody’s hearts. You just didn’t complain, you silently lit up nights at the Parc from the bench. It will forever break my heart that when you asked if you mattered, they said no. They say you choose your favourite footballers on seeing yourself in them… believe me pookie, you are seen.

I love PSG but I wish they'd tried harder to keep you. To understand what you meant to the fanbase and I think to your teammates. Not sure I'll ever understand what really happened there. PSG fans are still all rooting for you to go on to do amazing things. you can absolutely be a top 10 winger oat, now you go do it in the PL. We all saw you in that game vs Ipswich, they had no idea what they were dealing with. We know you you’re leaving to look for a place to be the first choice, considered indispensable. Just know that in Paris, you really were both.

Liverpool is lucky to have you, the PL isn't ready for you to bring the Paname to them
Always Paris's number 29. Where you go, I go. I guess Liverpool will now get a lot of my time and energy.

Merci Bradley <3

I hope you and Des stay friends, you were his favourite nonchalant before any one else. No duo will ever compete. Now go fly on the wings you grew in Paris, notre numero 29 <3

in the garden of forking paths | Wales

It was a garden of forking paths. One of grey and humid; concrete melting, the Underground sizzling; snarling urban rails boiling under another week of relentless heat. London in a heatwave, in a World Cup summer, set up like some sort of test of modern survival. The other fork led west. Mile by mile the colour returned. The hedgerows thickened first, then the trees, until whole hillsides dissolved into moss, myrtle, bottle green and racing green; so many shades that it became difficult to believe the same summer had produced both landscapes.

Crossing the Brecon Beacons felt like crossing into another season. Fog drifted low across the single track road while rain spiralled from cloud in cool silver sheets. Cattle wandered over saturated hillsides; porcelain white from shoulder to knee, their lower legs lacquered in ochre mud. Somewhere beyond the mountains the Atlantic waited. In Cardigan the road disappeared into a tumbling country of wooded valleys, foreboding grey crags and enormous skies, where the landscape seemed forever caught between softness and stone.

The villages appeared almost by accident around bends in the road; clusters of cottages stitched together from slate-grey stone, softened by climbing roses, magenta foxgloves, honeysuckle and ferns spilling over old walls. Everything seemed gently blurred by moisture, as though dew had polished every leaf and every windowpane. Pubs bore names that sounded like they were borrowed from King Arthur's legends. Among the mist, the mountains and the sudden clearings of emerald pasture, it did not feel entirely impossible that a knight might emerge around the next bend, chasing a dragon into the clouds; soft and wispy; the beard of a wizard; the mane of a royal horse. 

The Cambrian Mountains presided over everything. Slate-grey shoulders, weathered to pewter and charcoal, rose into a sky the colour of a dove's wing, their ridges softened only by blanketing fields of sap green, malachite and fern. Sheep rested on the slopes like scattered popcorn, impossibly small against so much ancient stone. Wind swept over the heights and disappeared into a pine forest deep within the national reserve, where a smoky woodland track wound towards an inky reservoir. If the Loch Ness Monster had ever grown tired of Scotland, she could have slipped unnoticed into these waters instead; a cloud-dark lake fiercely guarded by ranks of pine and silent stone. Waterfalls ribboned vertically from the cliffs, crystalline streams stitched together meadows and valleys below, weaving the countryside into a patchwork of pasture, woodland and rushing water. The verdance and abundance of European summer, without the lights; fumes or crowds.

Perhaps it was inevitable that somewhere so removed from everything would remind us just how far away we were. When we punctured a tyre there was no phone reception, only the wind moving over the hillside and through the open doors of the Mini. We waited outside a slate farmhouse with a weathered For Sale sign leaning into the verge. Ivy had claimed the windowpanes; grass reached almost to our knees; an old oak scattered khaki leaves across the greying roof. Whoever had once lived there had long since chosen another road, perhaps the other fork altogether, leaving behind only summer wind, wandering sheep and the slow work of moss and time.

In the silence and patience of the mountains, a mud-splattered pickup appeared over the rise. Driven by Aaron; south London by birth but unmistakably Welsh by circumstance now, two impatient dogs barking from the front seat.  There was an ease about him that belonged to these hills; practical, unhurried, entirely unbothered by punctures or passing time. Watching him disappear back along the empty road, I wondered whether, somewhere along the way, he had simply chosen the better fork. In this hugeness, as lonely as it was, the mountains were alive; swallows in the hedgerows; the lambs in the hills, sterlings singing from the eaves of the farmhouse. 

The summer sun did come out, even in the dewy Welsh countryside; casting a golden wash over the hedgerows frothing with cow parsley; the mysterious herds of shy black cows on the edge of a forest; the thickets spilling ivy and wild lilies; white like cotton. Probably one of the region's biggest pulls is New Quay, charming and colourful; balanced on a peninsula of slate rock,  reaching out into an Atlantic that shifted from china blue in the harbour to deep sapphire beyond the headlands. Kissed by the breezes of summer and glowing in July sun the houses in weather-softened blues, creams, sage greens and faded pinks, each seeming to borrow a little of the sea's light. Small shops sold windchimes made from shells, the porcelain melodic on the breeze. Fish and chip shops buzzed from lunch time's relative rush; lots of metro tile and hessian; ice cream striped like jockey jerseys lined the storefronts. 

We climbed a part of the Welsh coast path, led by Bes, over the slate rock, cutting through to the highest part of town for a view over the bay. The Atlantic shimmered and danced in front of us; the white corrugated roof of the fish packaging plant a reminder that, even in a postcard perfect like this, there were ties to the hardness of the North; the wildness of the Atlantic and Wales' working class heart. Back in town, the glorious buttery sands of New Quay beach spooled around in a crescent of pale barley, yachts bobbing benignly in the shallows, the Atlantic gentle and the cornflower blue of the sky. Small dogs darted in and out of the waves, kayakers drifted lazily beyond the harbour wall and, almost casually, a pair of bottlenose dolphins surfaced amongst the moored yachts. One arced through the water in polished pewter before disappearing beneath the tide, as though slipping between two worlds. They have become New Quay's quiet celebrities, returning each summer to a coastline still wild enough to welcome them home.It was difficult to believe that somewhere beyond the hills the motorway still hummed towards London. Here the roads simply unravelled into footpaths, the footpaths into cliffs, and the cliffs into the Atlantic itself; where dolphins surfaced between fishing boats as though this quiet little harbour had never been anything but theirs.

The sun ducked away again, summer breezes swirling against a wizard-beard grey sky. The road to Mwnt beach couldn't have been smaller, hemmed in by fields overflowing with the luxury of a summer harvest. We crossed cattle grids, herds hiding small tufty babies from the road as the graying Atlantic came into view. Steep cliffs rose and fell, waves rattling in needle-thin canyons along the rugged shoreline. The sound of the wind punctuated everything, the coastal flowers pulled back and forth in their rocky perches; sea birds fighting the gusts. Height all around us; views for miles along the coast, the now familiar patchwork of greenfields falling away to slate. A bone white church stood alone above the cliffs, impossibly small beneath so much sky; the sort of place that seemed to collect whispered stories as readily as Atlantic wind. A wedding group was leaving the church, bridesmaid dresses swirling in the Atlantic gusts, in sorbet pastels; confetti; the scattering petals of a bouquet. 

Mwnt beach itself was satisfyingly square, a bay hemmed in by three cliff faces where wild flowers brazenly grew out of the cracks; the rocks tumbling down to where the Atlantic yapped at its heels. The beach itself was sheltered so even on this blustery Saturday Welsh families decamped on the honey-oat shores with tents and umbrellas, the odd rugby ball, kites flying; dreams let loose; worries adrift. From the gray haze of the horizon, the dolphins appeared almost shyly, smooth arcs rising from the steel blue water before dissolving once more into the tide. They belonged to the weather as much as the sea itself; surfacing between gusts of wind and passing rain showers, carrying on lives entirely their own beneath the shifting Atlantic. Watching them, it felt as though the coastline was gently revealing another of its secrets, offered without ceremony to anyone patient enough to wait.

On a day of milky summer sun we drove to a nearby natural reserve; apparently one of the UK's largest peat marshes. Hundreds of dragonflies flitted through the ponds; floating and electric; hiding among water lilies and lilypads big enough to conceal a nymph. Meadows of wildflowers stretched around us, another playground for the dragonflies, buzzing like helicopters; small birds dashed hurriedly; the sky sparkled azure; scribbled with fluffy mare's tails. We had been stopped on the way to the reserve, asked if we could wait for sheep to pass us on the road. Moving the flock, they too hurried past, through the village, skirting the burgeoning hydrangeas and trees heavy with apples.

We packed the car, ready to leave the farmhouse in the early morning. Cardigan was a place with so much hidden beauty; just around the house; herds of wild cattle retreating into the shade of a spinny. Sheepdogs barking from the back of muddy pickups; spiderwebs like candyfloss in the eaves of barns, foxgloves spilling in excess out of the forest and into the field. In the garden of forking paths, the tumbling hedgerows, the porcelain lilies and wild calves, the slate cottages dissolving the ivy, is the finding that time and space are quietly mending. Not healing, exactly. More like stitching; fields to forests, forests to mountains, mountains to the Atlantic. We left for London early morning. The Cambrian Mountains are a dark sky reserve and we finally saw this Eurosummer light show - a million glowing stars, honey and oat clusters; the dewy night was alive. The stars would fill the rear view mirror back over the Brecons, chasing us into the sunrise of the M25, and fading like tail lights of cars.

"I took a long journey away from human tangles. I breathed space and order"

- Anais Nin 

so the wc is over now but i am still traumatised

some thoughts on the 2026 world cup because i have to work through a trauma

tjball this is not hahaa

-corrupt (obviously)

- the france nat team will always have a special place in my heart and to a lot of ppl. I don't think we'll ever have such a likeable group again

EDF mems:

- dictator mbappe, the mbappe special, what has he created ie. commander olise etc, the whole team swimming + rowing boats etc

- saliba proving to everyone he is the best defender in the PL and a top 5 itw rn well done to my elite ball knowledge bae <3

- barcola <3 <3 proved himself so much, amazing goals in his first wc, i hope he gets some of the recognition he deserves. Loved seeing him and des celebrate together so cute <3 i hope next wc des feels like he can play his own game but he still had a goal in his first ever wc and at only 21, well done to my favourite pookies oat

-thanks to Rabiot for trying even when it was hard and trying to take the younger ones with him

the many love triangles and ships of the EDF:

mbappe and olise - i hope they are still friends despite it all

mikey and doue - giving summer romance but i hope they stay friends

barco and des - never just casual

there was a vibe between mikey and barco as well, genuinely what des (and me) see in our dreams

the kone / olise / doue love triangle

did willo have a crush on mikey

the takeaway is that mikey and des are lowkey for everybody ha 

omg dembele and digne!!! the ogs getting together love to see it 

ps. be nice to digne </3

-haaland - song, mop, leek, new fear unlocked

- Jude + Haaland - never ever casual / canon legendary lovers <3 jude found someone who isn’t bothered by his ‘attitude problem’, so cute

- Jude: proved himself as future national captain i hope, well done bae <3

-brian brobbey, as they said messi and ronaldo never scored in the eredivisie, therefore... also summerville and van hecke

-kimmich and neuer giving legendary lovers, they deserve better than that team sorry ://////

-havertz cheating on odegaard w hincapie hmm i wonder whyyy 

- other ppl who deserve better: marqui, why is brazil so terrible / pacho / nuno mendes that’s half the psg back line lol

- the whole morocco nat team, esp bono he did amazing 

ps. free hakimi <3

-early haramball games, everybody wins ahh wc, random pairings of the early group stages was a whole vibe

- Ferran! Well done pookie <3 singlehandedly retired Messi and Ronaldo, such goat behaviour <3 well done Pau as well. Sorry lamine got all the screentime </3

also ferran and pedri missing from the circle at the end hmm i wonder where they were... 

also sorry joan that u didn't get to play next time bae

- sunset for dechamps, virgil, mo salah, bono, neuer, rabiot, modric, potentially marqui in the wc which is quite sad because this wc was very cooked but ppl i think will remember them in a different way from past seasons and wcs

lowkey game’s gone but the ships and FFF (flirty football association) made it kind of ok

back to club football now, as long as barco stays at psg we will be ok