The Absurd Spectacle: Mortality, Competition, and British Cultural Consciousness

The Silent Exit

In the end, we all face the same destination, though the journeys differ vastly. Ray Brooks, who entertained generations through the flickering screen, has made his final exit. His passing at 86 represents not merely the loss of an actor but the quiet fade of a cultural touchstone. What is striking is not the death itself, which is the natural conclusion to all our stories, but the manner in which his legacy is framed: “despite his fame, Brooks preferred a private life.” Here we find the quintessential absurdity of the human condition - to achieve recognition only to retreat from it, to build a public persona only to cherish private moments.

The actor who brought life to characters in EastEnders and Mr Benn ultimately found more meaning in his support of Fulham Football Club and his love for Brighton than in the artificial glow of celebrity. Is this not the perfect metaphor for our collective existence? We build monuments to ourselves, only to discover that meaning lies elsewhere, often in the simple devotion to a team that will never know our names, or a place that offers no glory but comfort.

The Beautiful Struggle

Meanwhile, Liverpool enters the arena with ambitions of conquest, prepared to spend £300 million to defend their title. Here we witness another manifestation of the absurd: men in shorts chasing a ball, observed by thousands who invest their emotions in this ritual combat. Yet within this apparent meaninglessness emerges something profound - a structured rebellion against the chaos of existence.

The team struggles defensively, concedes equalisers, loses in penalties. Their manager speaks of rotation to prevent fatigue. What is this if not the eternal struggle against entropy? We organize, we strategize, we fight against decline, all knowing that decline is inevitable. The football pitch becomes a canvas upon which we paint our Sisyphean struggles, finding purpose not in victory, which is always temporary, but in the struggle itself.

Is there not something beautifully defiant in Liverpool’s determination to strengthen their squad, to address weaknesses, to prevent fatigue? It is humanity’s refusal to accept limitations, our collective shout into the void: we may be destined to lose, but we will not go quietly.

The Technological Referee

Then there is VAR, the cold, mechanical arbiter of human contest. Technology now determines offside by millimeters, while panels analyze “sustained holding” and “serious foul play.” The human element of sport - its glorious imperfection - faces the clinical precision of Hawk-Eye and the Match Centre.

This technological intrusion mirrors our broader societal shift toward algorithmic governance. We increasingly defer to machines to settle our disputes, determine our boundaries, validate our experiences. The reported “decrease in VAR errors” suggests progress, but what are we progressing toward? A game stripped of human fallibility is no longer human at all.

Yet even technology cannot eliminate controversy or uncertainty. The “high threshold for VAR intervention” ensures that ambiguity persists. Alisson’s hamstring injury introduces an element that no technology can resolve - the fragility of the human body, the unpredictability of flesh and sinew.

The Cultural Ritual

What binds these seemingly disparate trends - an actor’s death, a football club’s transfer strategy, technological officiating - is their function as cultural rituals through which British society processes its values and anxieties. Ray Brooks represents a certain type of unpretentious British celebrity, valued not for glamour but for consistency and craft. Liverpool’s approach to competition reflects a national obsession with sport as metaphor for life’s struggles. The debate over VAR echoes broader concerns about technology’s role in mediating human experience.

These cultural rituals are neither trivial nor accidental. They are the mechanisms through which a society confronts its fears of mortality, failure, and obsolescence. They provide structure to the fundamentally unstructured experience of being alive.

As the Premier League season begins, as tributes to Ray Brooks fade from headlines, as VAR decisions provoke outrage or relief, remember that beneath these spectacles lies the human need to create meaning where none inherently exists. We live, we die, we cheer for men chasing balls, we debate the pixels that determine offside. In these actions, seemingly absurd when viewed from sufficient distance, we find our rebellion against meaninglessness.

The true victory is not Liverpool’s potential title defense but our collective refusal to surrender to nihilism. We create heroes, villains, rules, and competitions not because they matter in any cosmic sense, but because we have decided they matter. And in that decision lies our freedom, our dignity, and our revolt against the absurd.