The other day, a boy asked for a photocopy of a Maracanã poster, edges frayed. While the machine warmed, I thought of our own coffee estate workers, who wear yellow jerseys every Sunday—their game is just as fierce, just as beautiful. Maybe that’s the real samba, no? Not just in Rio, but wherever feet move to a rhythm only they gottu.

Ah, another manager packing his bags at Chelsea. Makes me think of the new colour printer I bought on EMI — every time I see a fresh batch of jerseys at the bus stand, I wonder if the club's board ever had to count coins like my little customers do for a single notebook. What's the point of all that academy talent if they keep chasing the next shiny thing instead of trusting the lads who grew up in the system? Adda, I tell you — sometimes I think the only thing slower than our GST portal is a top club's patience with its own youth.