Hunger Pains
Hunger is a funny thing.
Sometimes it’s physical — the rumble in your stomach when you realise it’s been twenty four hours since your last meal.
Sometimes it’s competitive — the kind that drives footballers to chase glory long after their legs have given up.
And sometimes it’s social — the darker appetite that feeds on anger, division and ignorance.
This week I’ve been thinking about hunger in all its forms.
Which is slightly unfortunate considering I’ve also been fasting.
Finish Your Dinner
There’s nothing worse than watching someone waste food.
Chelsea did exactly that last weekend.
Arsenal beat them 2–1 in a fiercely contested London derby that had all the ingredients of a proper title-run match — tension, drama and the constant fear that one small mistake could ruin everything.
Both Arsenal goals came from set pieces, which of course triggered the usual chorus of complaints from rival fans.
Apparently we’re now “Set Piece FC.”
Apparently this style of football is boring.
Apparently Arsenal aren’t deserving of a team that should win the league.
And yet, strangely, none of the teams complaining (barring Manchester City) seem capable of doing any better.
Chelsea?
They bottled their momentum back in November.
Aston Villa?
Bless them — they never even claimed to be in the race.
Liverpool?
Defending champions who appear to have vanished somewhere between December and February.
Tottenham?
Ah yes.
Tottenham.
But before we get to them, Chelsea had chances in that match.
Real chances.
The type that flash across the penalty box and make your heart temporarily leave your body.
But they didn’t take them.
They left their dinner on the plate.
To make matters worse they lost their discipline too, going down to ten men after a crude foul that turned the game further in Arsenal’s favour.
Then came the midweek trip to Brighton.
This had banana skin written all over it.
Brighton are the kind of team who enjoy turning big clubs into philosophical debates about why football is unfair.
But Arsenal did what title-winning teams are supposed to do.
They ground out a 1–0 win.
Not glamorous.
Not poetic.
But absolutely necessary.
Brighton threatened a few times and the nerves were definitely there, but the defence held firm.
Special mention must go to Big Gabi, who marshalled the back line like a nightclub bouncer refusing entry to anyone not wearing the right shoes.
Then came Tottenham’s match the following day.
They lost 3–1 to Crystal Palace.
Which brings us to a truly beautiful hypothetical.
Imagine Arsenal winning the league in the same season Tottenham get relegated.
It would be footballing poetry.
A Shakespearean comedy.
The kind of historical event that Spurs fans would spend the next fifty years pretending never happened.
But hunger works both ways.
Arsenal are hungry for glory.
Tottenham, meanwhile, might soon be hungry just to stay in the league.
A Peace Of Cake
While Arsenal chase a title, I’ve been chasing something slightly different.
Food.
Or rather — the absence of it.
This week I’ve continued observing Ramadan.
Now before anyone gets confused, I’m not Muslim.
I don’t formally subscribe to any religion.
But last year I decided to observe Ramadan in solidarity with my Muslim colleagues at Maximus in Redbridge, and this year I’ve decided to do it again.
Ramadan allows two eating periods:
Sahur — before sunrise.
Iftar — after sunset.
Most people eat during both.
Not me.
Partly because I’m never hungry at sunrise, but mostly because my stubbornness exceeds that of a normal human being.
So I’ve been doing a full 24-hour fast each day.
One meal at Iftar.
And that’s it.
Of course the real challenge isn’t the fasting itself.
It’s the environment.
Take lunchtime at work.
My colleague Moksy sits down with what can only be described as a mash-up of chicken and fish leftovers with rice, the sort of chaotic culinary combination that shouldn’t work but somehow does.
Meanwhile across the desk Maryam has a chocolate cake sitting there like a silent test of character.
The smell alone could bring a grown man to tears.
But my will remains intact.
For now.
Of course Ramadan conversations at work tend to drift into interesting territory.
One particularly fascinating discussion was about whether sex is permitted during Ramadan.
Technically the answer is yes — but only outside the fasting hours and most importantly, only within marriage.
Which raises another philosophical problem.
If intrusive thoughts are considered sinful…
then fasting suddenly becomes a lot more complicated than simply avoiding food.
But here’s where my own internal conflict begins.
Ramadan is supposed to represent abstinence, sacrifice and reflection.
Yet sometimes what I witness after Iftar looks more like a culinary arms race.
Plates stacked high.
Food everywhere.
An abundance that feels strangely at odds with the idea of restraint.
Whenever I raise this observation with my Muslim friends I usually hear the same responses.
“Well I don’t do that.”
or
“You’re right, it shouldn’t be like that.”
And I believe them.
But Ramadan lasts one month.
Thirty days.
In the grand scheme of life that should be — forgive the pun — a piece of cake.
The real lesson of Ramadan isn’t just surviving those thirty days.
It’s carrying the discipline into the rest of the year.
But as usual we run into the same problem that humanity always faces.
We are spiritually ambitious…
but materially very attached to the buffet table.
What in the Long Eaten
Just when you think society might be progressing, something reminds you that certain appetites never really disappear.
This week I came across videos circulating online showing a group referred to as the “Long Eaten Flag Men” causing disturbances in the city of Manchester.
In one clip a group of men holding Union Jack and St George flags repeatedly kick a Muslim man in the street.
Police then arrest the man who had just been attacked.
In another clip a crowd chants:
“Allah, Allah, who the f*** is Allah?”
Which is about as subtle as racism gets.
Watching it feels like stepping backwards in time.
We often like to pretend that racism is something that existed in black-and-white photographs.
But the truth is it simply adapts.
Sometimes it wears suits.
Sometimes it hides behind patriotism.
Sometimes it shouts in the street.
Political leaders are rarely innocent in this climate.
Figures like Boris Johnson and Donald Trump have both made controversial remarks about minorities over the years — remarks that somehow manage to float through public discourse without serious consequences.
And then there’s the police.
An institution that has repeatedly been labelled institutionally racist.
Trust between police and minority communities doesn’t appear overnight.
It has to be built.
And too often it hasn’t been.
The contradictions are everywhere.
The nation unites for the England football team.
Everyone sings the same anthem.
Everyone waves the same flags.
But the moment a Black player misses a penalty, the same social media accounts suddenly rediscover their racism.
So the question becomes unavoidable.
Are these divisions simply human nature?
Or are we being deliberately nudged toward conflict?
Because conflict has always been profitable.
Wars generate money.
Division generates political power.
And outrage generates clicks.
Maybe the real hunger in society isn’t food or football glory.
Maybe it’s something much darker.
A hunger for hate.
Closing Thoughts
This week hunger has appeared in many different forms.
Arsenal chasing a title with relentless appetite.
Tottenham desperately scrambling just to survive.
My own stomach growling through another day of fasting.
And a society that still hasn’t quite learned how to control its ugliest impulses.
Some hunger builds things.
Ambition.
Discipline.
Glory.
But some hunger destroys them.
Hatred.
Division.
Violence.
The challenge for all of us — whether we’re chasing trophies, spiritual growth or simply our next meal — is deciding which hunger we’re feeding.
Because eventually…
everything we consume ends up shaping what we become.
