(Support friends of VG247, People Make Games, on Patreon). We’ve got some details on the show’s content below (if you want to get a refresher before heading to the comments to make a wonderful, considered post or don’t want to listen but do want to know what games we picked), so if you want to avoid spoilers, don’t scroll past this fan-made creation of what Chris Bratt would look like if he was the ball in FIFA 23. Anyway, this podcast, which is why you're on this page, is essentially a 30-minute panel show where people (me and some others on VG247) decide on the best game in a specific category. ![]() “What is VG247’s Best Games Ever Podcast?” you ask while wondering if the intro story is what you think it is and if it really happened. Please do let us know what you think of the show – and if this is your first time listening, do go back to listen to the previous episodes. It's even on YouTube if that's your thing.Check out VG247's The Best Games Ever Podcast on Apple Podcasts and subscribe.To see this content please enable targeting cookies. Welcome to VG247's The Best Games Ever Podcast: Ep.19 - The Best Game With An Acronised Name Like 'FIFA' That Isn't FIFA. Whether that’s funding, enthusiasm, or taking the time to leave little five star reviews of your favourite gaming podcasts so the people involved can continue producing this wonderful content. And from that day to this, I’ve understood a fundamental principle of life: you only get out what you put in. “Piffle” said Keith, before an angry mob kicked his head in. “If yer don’t invest, you’ll never see a return!”. “It’s a universal principle, Keith! Football in, football 'aht!” added Manky Paul, the groundsman, by way of explanation. “FIFA doesn’t apply to amateurs, Terry!” screamed Keith back at them. The parents of my squad were furious at Keith for his reckless spendthriftery: for just 89 new pence, a brand new set of knee pads could have saved both my leg from breaking and our place in the junior league. Which, as it happens, did not impede the ball’s journey into the net. The ball soared toward the back of the net, and would have punched a hole through the stand and into the dry cleaners across the main road outside, were it not for my left knee. Mercifully, he booted the ball, rather than my skull, which was saved from his kinetic anger only by virtue of not being the object on the ground in front of him. The point is: he was three times my size, and his legs were pneumatic pistons that could boot my head clean off and barely notice. Why his academic progression was reflected by the local football league is and will remain a mystery, but you must accept it for the purposes of this narrative. ![]() A striker four years my senior, having been kept back several years in school on account of his behavioural issues. “Ain’t got the funds, lad” was the constant refrain from the manager, Keith, ever clad in his suede coat, gold chains, and cashmere polo neck: the standard uniform at the time of people who had large status in small towns. We’re playing an away match against the Under 9 Tigers, and I’m in goal, being the team’s only goalkeeper, and despite my repeated request for new kneepads being consistently denied.
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