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Let me start with a simple phrase: I am the worst FIFA player that the world has known. As in, I have no understanding of the controls, the reflex ability of a comatose drum-set and the tactical fore-planning of a three year old. Actually, that is probably a lie. I once turned down a game against a three year old for fears of proving myself totally and honesty hopeless. Today’s article is both a confession for these sins and an apology to the finest FIFA player I have ever had the honour of knowing, Mr Malcolm Lee.

Yesterday, I decided to compete in three games of FIFA against him. I was feeling confident and thought that I could play to the best of my abilities. Good news, I did play to the best of my abilities. Bad news, it wasn’t good enough. I decided to invest my game on the statistically best team in the world, Barcelona. With Messi, Iniesta and Neymar, it is surely an impressive side of talented, bright young players at the top of their game. My opponent, Malcolm, humbly went for Manchester United, a side, sadly, not in the same league as Barcelona. He decided to give me a fighting chance and I spent this fighting chance, playing with finesse that amounted to the same finishing result, as picking up the controller and smacking it against my head multiple times. Malcolm took the mighty Robin Van Persie and used him to score not once, not twice, not… he scored five times. He won 5 – 0 with a single player. Barcelona were utterly defenceless, their fates sealed, when I picked up the controller. They tried their best, with the goalkeeper stopping the result from being much more critical. However, when their player had the wit of a bumbling squid on crystal meth, there was little that could be done. Thus, they stood back and watched with tears in their eyes, as Van Persie took the ball from them and sank it into the back of the net five times. With relative ease.

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Malcolm, the taste of victory now in his mouth, demanded another game. Me, despite being beaten to the point where my self-esteem was borderline suicidal, decided that I had already hit rock bottom. There couldn’t be a point any worse than this, could there? Malcolm decided to play his personal favourite team when it came to FIFA: Bayern Munich. Me, not content on ruining the pride of one Spanish team, switched to Real Madrid. Their speed was slightly more impressive and I felt that I could use this to get a victory past Malcolm, once and for all. As the game carried out, my hopes were relatively lifted. I was much more compatible with Real. I was weaving in and out of his players with ease and I found myself getting into the box much more often. My shots were narrowly missing the post and a fair few times, Malcolm found himself saved by his goalkeeper. The roles were almost completely reversed. Malcolm did manage to get one past me, but it was clear that his edge was lost. As the first half ended, I smugly nodded to myself. I think I had this one in the bag.

The second half ended ten minutes with Malcolm winning 5 – 0.

I was distraught. It had been going so well. I demanded a rematch. Malcolm looked at the clock, nervously. The hour was late and we had gone a whole three hours without drinking any alcohol. Such a thing was never heard of on an early Monday afternoon. However, he looked at me, and saw the passion in my eyes. He understood that I needed to prove myself and take a victory back. Malcolm had to give me the dignity of trying to earn back a few goals. He sighed and selected the rematch button.

I lost 8 – 0.

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I won’t bore you with the details. All you need to know is that I have never played this poorly in my entire life. It was the most abysmal football anyone has ever had the audacity to call ‘sport’. Goals after goals soared through my hapless defenders. At one point, two of my defenders chased after a striker and tripped over each other, their skulls smashing into each other, as Malcolm drove yet another goal into the net. At one point, Malcolm’s goalkeeper left the box and gave away the ball (a rare mistake from the ever-masterful Malcolm). My player ran towards it with all the excitement of a young puppy, eager to bring some dignity to my side and take one back against the mighty Bayern Munich. His foot connected with the ball… and it went in the complete wrong direction, soaring into the audience and granting Malcolm a throw-in.

And this is why I am here today. Malcolm, bored with the endless Facebook apologies, hand-written certificates (framed, I might add), and other punishments I have suffered over the years of my terrible FIFA-playing, demanded something new. Therefore I shall dedicate this blog post to act as a symbol for every open goal missed, every slide tackle in the wrong direction and every shockingly poor result. This blog post is a testament to my lack of any hand-to-eye coordination, my utter and total inability to play any sort of video game or sport ever created. I apologise, truly, completely, endlessly, for ever daring to pretend I had a chance in hell of getting a single goal past the great FIFA player that is Malcolm Lee.

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