FPL manager? Here's what your weekends will look like now.

Congratulations, you've decided to become an FPL manager. Your family must be thrilled. Here's how you'll spend your weekends henceforth:

Saturday morning

- you wake up. Achey. Cold. Phone stuck to your cheek. Harry Kane's underlying stats glaring at you like a clingy girlfriend.

- deadline approaches. You login to twitter and see that Harry has posted a picture of him and his wife in front of an English buffet in Lanzarote. Cataclysmic news. Has he made it back in time or is he flying with Ryanair again?

- you end up transferring in Christian Benteke. You can't fathom why, but it's done. You Google "are transfers reversible in FPL?". They aren't.

- the lineups for the early kick-off are announced. Benteke is benched. Kane plays. He's got a great tan.

During the games

- Jeff Stelling screams out football scores. It doesn't matter. You're not here for the football anymore. There is no beautiful game. You don't even know who won the league last year: you just know that Salah scored the most FPL points.

- Michael Dawson yelps. Your heart yelps too. Goal. To someone. Dawson is meandering around the build-up play. "GET TO THE FUCKING POINT, DAWSON", you hear yourself shout. Your partner shoots you a look as if to say "you've changed". You shoot a look back: "get used to it, it's only Gameweek 1."

- it was a Jordan Ayew goal. Joachim Andersen assist. You check your mini-league to find that Stu from accounting - who proclaims to be "more of a rugby man" - has them both coming off the bench.

- final whistles blow across the country. You've accrued 37 points - 42 if Reece James is rested on Sunday. Deep down, you already know he'll play.

Evenings

- you can shrug it off. It's just a game, isn't it? "I think I'm going to go screen-free," you announce, very pleased with yourself. It lasts three minutes. Stu from accounting has messaged the group chat. "Not quite sure how the bench works. Do I get Ayew's points?"

- it's fine. You're fine. You offer to cook dinner. Lasagne. You force a smile. You don your fun apron.

- Nobody on Earth has ever chopped an onion more aggressively. You turn it into a pulp. You continue to bludgeon it until it has completely absorbed into the moulding contours of the chopping board. You're crying. Is it the onion or is it FPL?

- time for sleep. The glow of your FPL team fills the room with vomit green. Who needs a circadian rhythm anyway. Your partner rolls over and mutters "you still looking at your pretend team?". You contemplate sleeping in the spare room.

Monday morning

- your two hours of sleep was filled with visions of Benteke scoring a hat-trick. A brief respite, but reality quickly returns on the commute. Stu from accounting waves, his smile beaming and sincere. But to you it's shit-eating.

- work provides comfort until an email goes around: league update. Stu replies-to-all thanking the admin and shrugging off his league-leader status as pure luck. He's a nice guy. The total wanker.

- things start to get their colour again. You put the weekend to the back of your mind. "For a second there, it almost had me", you think. Maybe you even chuckle. You've got the whole week ahead of you to enjoy.

- You check next weekend's fixtures to prevent getting caught out. Tuesday, 19:45. Wolves vs Nottingham Forest. Neto yellow flagged, Sa still nursing a broken finger.

There is no escape.

There is only FPL.

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