FESTIVAL B UNPLUGGED: Football is back, thank Heavens!

By Siphesihle Dlamini – Umgcilati Magama

Beloved reader, our long-lost love, our weekly religion, our emotionally abusive partner who keeps leaving and crawling back, you’re finally home. And not a moment too soon!

I speak not only for myself, but for the billions of us who’ve been wandering through the desert of preseason with nothing but transfer rumours, half-baked line-ups, and glorified fitness sessions to keep us sane. Preseason is a lie. A smiling, photoshopped version of real football.

It’s like sipping lukewarm water when you know ice-cold juice is waiting in the fridge, just not yet. It’s the salad before the steak, the teaser trailer before the real movie. It exists, sure. It keeps the players loose, the fans guessing, and the social media managers employed. But let’s be honest, no one’s waking up at 3 am to watch Manchester City vs Yokohama F. Marinos.

We’ve endured weeks of “tactical rotations” and “fitness management” and “youngsters getting a run” when all we wanted was 90 minutes of screaming at our screens, shouting “why did he pass that?!” or “VAR again?!” and lying to ourselves that this season we’ll understand the offside rule.

Club World Cup

And yet, amidst the barren plains of this footballing famine, a strange oasis appeared, the FIFA Club World Cup. The expanded format, the mini–World Cup feel, and the sheer joy of seeing unfamiliar clubs crash into familiar giants – it was football’s version of a surprise party. Still, as “lovely” as the Club World Cup was, it was like being given an appetiser in a five-star restaurant, you enjoy it, but you’re sitting there tapping your knife on the table wondering when the main course is coming.

Well, folks…get your napkins ready. Because the 2025/2026 football season kicks off next week, I can barely keep my emotions from doing the Macarena.

The smell of fresh kits, the sound of stadium roars returning in full force, the sight of overpaid managers having mental breakdowns in week two, chef’s kiss! The tension, the drama, the goals that defy gravity, and the losses that defy logic. I, for one, have spent the past few weeks pretending to be productive, pretending to enjoy “normal” life, going out, talking to people, reading books, but now that football is returning, I can return to my true self: the emotionally unstable, fixture-obsessed, referee-slandering, stat-checking maniac I was born to be.

READ MORE: Former Arsenal player Partey granted bail on rape charges

From the English Premier League to the Bundesliga, La Liga to the PSL, Serie A to the Betway Premiership, our sanity is restored. Our routines are back. Our sacred weekends are safe again. Our phones will once again buzz with “GOAL!” notifications and group chats will be war zones of gifs, jokes, and pure banter. It’s not just a game. It’s a way of life.

The Premier League is back. Oh God! That annual reality show disguised as a football competition. The global circus. The theatre of dreams (not the one from Manchester), delusions, drama, and the occasional dazzling backheel. The most-watched, most-argued-about, most-slam-your-remote-on-the-floor sports league on Earth is just five days away. I’ve missed it. The late goals. The early goals. There are no goals, but still excellent drama. Twitter meltdowns. The manager’s press conferences sound like therapy sessions. The glorious unpredictability where predictions are just suggestions whispered into a tornado.

Previews 

Glorious, useless, beautiful previews. The part of the season where we lie to ourselves with spreadsheets and tactical diagrams, pretending we’ve got it all figured out. A year ago, who predicted Liverpool would win the league? Who thought Manchester United and Tottenham Hotspur would finish somewhere between mid-table and mild disgrace? If you claim you saw it coming, kindly check yourself into the nearest lie detector clinic.

Let’s start with the reigning kings of England, Liverpool, who begin their title defence at home against Bournemouth. Talk about poetic symmetry. It was this exact fixture last season that sparked their relentless title charge. Now, they’ve returned with vengeance, vigour, and a shopping spree worth £300 million, which is not so much a “rebuild” as it is an Avengers-level reassembly.

READ MORE: Highlanders MD Ally Kgomongwe eligible to stand for PLE Chairmanship election

Florian Wirtz, Germany’s answer to “what if Mesut Özil wasn’t sad all the time”, has arrived. Hugo Ekitike, Jeremie Frimpong, and Milos Kerkez have brought flair, fire and that thing called potential that either blossoms or blows up spectacularly in this league. There’s still some defensive patchwork to do, and let’s not sugar-coat it, the tragic death of Diogo Jota has cast a long, emotional shadow over the club. You can’t quantify grief on a stat sheet. But if anyone knows how to rise from heartbreak, it’s this club. Ask Istanbul.

If football were a telenovela, Arsenal would be the attractive lead character whose wedding keeps getting postponed by ridiculous plot twists. As if they’re Netflix, they are always waiting for the next season. They’ve finished at second place for three seasons in a row. That’s not failure, that’s masochistic consistency. They’ve built the league’s best defence (only 34 goals conceded), and now they’ve gone out and purchased a Viking goal machine in Viktor Gyökeres, who spent last season scoring for fun in Portugal.

But can he do it on a cold, rainy night in Sheffield? Can he survive Gabriel Jesus’ injury curse? Can Noni Madueke, freshly poached from Chelsea, finally stop being “exciting young talent” and just be… exciting and effective? Time will tell. This is Arsenal’s best shot at ending the drought.

Title Conversation 

The fans believe. Arteta believes. The team believes. And honestly, I kind of believe too, which probably means they’ll lose to Brentford in October.

For a team that used to spend like a teenager with stolen credit card details, Chelsea is suddenly looking… mature? What is happening? Is this the same club? Have they gone to therapy? Fresh from their triumph at the Club World Cup (which finally gave them a trophy their fans can’t call “plastic”), they’ve returned with a quiet confidence. Cole Palmer is growing into the midfield magician England always hoped Phil Foden would become. Moisés Caicedo is still a brick wall with legs. João Pedro, Liam Delap, Jamie Gittens and Jorrel Hato are names that sound like a boy band but play like a bouncer squad.

Unless jetlag from their global tour of victory selfies kicks in, Chelsea will be in the title conversation. They’ve got depth. They’ve got a spine. And for the first time in a while, they’ve got a direction that doesn’t involve panic-buying midfielders on deadline day.

READ MORE: PSL DC makes ruling on Gallants, Mphambaniso matter

A Manchester City team not winning the league? That still feels like a typo. Last season’s “blip” (which still saw them win more than most teams dream of) left Pep Guardiola with a rare itch. And if there’s one thing scarier than an angry Pep, it’s a quiet Pep. He’s not saying much. He’s just signing players. Tijjani Reijnders, Rayan Aït-Nouri, Rayan Cherki, not the flashiest signings, but players that scream, “I will dominate you without making headlines.” Plus, Rodri is back. The man who redefined the role of the “defensive midfielder who scores screamers.” But there’s something… twitchy about City.

Like a snake that’s recently shed its skin and is still figuring out how to move again. This squad has been “refreshed,” which is a lovely PR way of saying it’s still baking. If they click, the league is in trouble. If they don’t, they’ll be everyone’s favourite meme generator.

Transition

Every season, Manchester United claims they’re “in transition.” At this point, transition is just their permanent state. They’ve hired Ruben Amorim, a manager so stylish and cerebral, he makes Erik ten Hag look like a school principal. Amorim believes in a 3-4-2-1 that’ll either win fans or win post-match excuses. Bryan Mbeumo and Matheus Cunha are solid boys, 35 league goals between them last season.

They’ll provide pace, goals, and moments of “ooh, we might be decent again.” But there’s still a gaping midfield hole that even Casemiro’s Instagram motivation can’t fix. There’s still a club culture that needs a priest, not a performance coach. A top six finish? That’s the minimum. Anything lower and the Old Trafford banners will start coming out faster than you can say “#AmorimOut”.

Football is back. And so are we. God, I love this game. Let the games begin. With those words, I rest my case.

…Until my ink paints the next edition. I am Festival B, umgcilati magama since day one. See you in the next print!