
Can’t Live With Them, Can’t Live Without Them
A night away to recharge my batteries? Absolutely. Leaving the kids before they've even woken up? Not quite so appealing.

A night away to recharge my batteries? Absolutely. Leaving the kids before they've even woken up? Not quite so appealing.

Another 1-0, another three points. Ødegaard plays the hero, Noni gets his moment, and VAR gives me a headache. Plus, a little Liverpool schadenfreude.

A childhood encounter with Chucky left me traumatised, terrified of dolls and occasionally threatening to piss on imaginary attackers. Thirty-five years later, my brother is still finding new ways to make my life miserable.

Fourteen years. FOURTEEN YEARS. We've finally won a league game at Anfield. It wasn't pretty. It wasn't comfortable. But who cares? Three points and top of the table.

With baby number three just weeks away, Mrs OddFather seems to be gaining energy by the day, while I’m struggling to get above 50%.

Arsenal’s set pieces are back, and Nicolas Jover clearly isn’t afraid to go the extra mile to get things moving again.

A crowded train, a territorial armrest and a situation so devastating it leaves me sobbing.

A little lucky, but three points are three points.

Why do we spend so much time wishing our kids would grow up, only to realise we’ll miss these very moments when they do? Welcome to the parenting paradox.

Arsenal win, City cruise, and the Premier League leaves me feeling more than a little disillusioned.

Seven years of memories, milestones, laughter and love. A little birthday tribute to my amazing OddDaughter.

This interlull has gone on long enough. I’m ready for real football to return – and there’s plenty to look forward to, from Gyökeres getting his Arsenal season properly started to Liverpool welcoming Manchester City to Anfield.