26/05/2026
A special thanks to the brave men and women who week in week out run our lines with dignity and grace...
Oh linesman, noble wanderer of the far side,
Keeper of the sacred flag,
Guardian of the Offside Realm —
we salute you.
We watch the ritual with bated breath,
as the coach begins the "Stroll of Doom."
Head down, eyes scanning the crowd,
a flag concealed behind the back like a shameful secret,
hunting for an unsuspecting soul,
a victim who dared to make eye contact,
or worse—arrived five minutes early.
Some teams are blessed with the Enthusiast —
the warrior who sprints the line like they’re auditioning for the Premier League,
flag raised with the confidence of a Greek oracle
and the accuracy of a man who’s watched Match of the Day since 1987.
Other teams…
well…
they get Dave.
Dave, who hides behind three mums and a gazebo until two minutes after kick‑off,
emerging only when guilt, eye contact, or his own child drags him out.
There are the Lions Who Have a Clue —
steady, honest, brave,
navigating the offside minefield like seasoned bomb‑disposal experts.
Then there are the Lions Who Know Too Much —
the ones who flag for offside at throw‑ins, no
explain Law 11 to the referee mid‑game,
and somehow manage to give offside
from a goal kick.
And then, there are those who take their craft to the theatre of the absurd—
the ones who signal for offside with the frantic, windmilling intensity
of a man waving in the winner of the Monaco Grand Prix,
flag whipping through the air as if they are directing traffic
for an incoming jet at Heathrow,
ensuring that even if the offside is questionable,
the spectacle is absolutely undeniable.
You face the eternal questions:
“Did it come off him?”
“Was he interfering?”
“Are you sure?”
Questions philosophers have wrestled with for centuries,
yet you answer them with a shrug, a flag,
and the weary dignity of a parent who didn’t sign up for this.
You are rain‑soaked, wind‑battered,
accused by both teams,
ignored by most,
and thanked by absolutely no one
except the coach who shouts,
“Cheers mate!”
with the sincerity of a man who knows
he’d rather eat his own clipboard
than run that line himself.
And still you march.
Up. Down. Up. Down.
A lonely sentinel on the touchline frontier.
So here’s to you —
the flag‑bearers, the brave, the baffled, the blessed,
the ones who step up,
the ones who step in,
and the ones who step out of hiding
just in time to miss the first offside of the match.
Grassroots football doesn’t work without you.
You are the heartbeat of the sideline.
The silent heroes.
The forgotten few.
The legends with a flag.
We see you.
We appreciate you.
We absolutely blame you —
but we appreciate you.
