Nick Woltemade’s social media sulk is pathetic – modern footballers are digital drama queens
BRENT A GOB: This week, Harry Brent takes aim at Nick Woltemade and the growing trend of Gen Z footballers throwing online sulks – before turning his fire on Chelsea and the chaotic state of ‘project’
Our man Harry Brent is fuming in his latest column
Is there anything more grating than a disgruntled Gen Z footballer… besides listening to Steve McManaman on commentary, of course?
They’re big on cyber tantrums – a habit so pathetic it makes Liam Rosenior’s managerial career look like his playing career, and his playing career look like Paolo Maldini’s. They scrub their social media accounts whenever they feel a bit moody – like a bunch of Year 9 schoolgirls fishing for sympathy with all the class and subtlety of Mo Salah trying to win a penalty.
Nick Woltemade was at it this week, removing all mention of Newcastle from his various bios with the sanctimonious huffiness of Cristiano Ronaldo when a team-mate has the sheer gall to nick a back-post tap-in off his toes.
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What a completely pointless exercise – not unlike when Eddie Howe puts Woltemade in the starting line-up, frankly. What does it actually achieve? The answer is exactly the same as Woltemade’s Premier League goal tally in 2026: zilch.
It’s performative nonsense. A digital tantrum. The footballer’s equivalent of slamming a bedroom door and blasting My Chemical Romance.
These days, players are about as emotionally robust as Arsenal are in a title race. They need to grow the f*** up, put their phones the f*** down, and try hitting the back of the net instead of the “Delete” button for a change.
What the Chel are they doing?
What a total shambles Chelsea have become. FA Cup semi-final win aside, they’re the Brooklyn Beckham of football clubs – all that wealth, youth and unearned privilege, yet they still manage to be an unwatchable, talentless bin fire.
The clowns running the club have the business acumen of Britney Spears. They need a bloody conservatorship more than they need a No. 9 who actually scores goals.
It’s an ‘all the gear, no idea’ situation on an industrial scale. They’ve spent the last four years burning through cash while somehow making everything worse – you know, like the UK government does. Now, their precious project looks about as healthy as George Best’s liver.
Record losses – both on and off the pitch – have become about as common as a Wesley Fofana speeding ticket and the dressing room is a bloated mess of overrated, unlikeable, prima donnas who, like Jimmy Bullard on I’m a Celeb, give up the second they’re faced with a bit of mud.
The Liam Rosenior debacle is just the tip of the sh*teberg. Despite the fact he looked about as useful as Cole Palmer would be on University Challenge, they handed him a six-and-a-half year deal – then sacked him three months later. That’s the sort of abject cluelessness that even Gabby Agbonlahor wouldn’t entertain.
Chelsea are the biggest schmucks in London in a season where Tottenham are probably going to get relegated. That’s a level of failure so spectacular it might as well be sponsored by Gary Neville’s managerial career.
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