Football debate has been a game of two halves this week, with man of the match Marcus Rashford scoring for the have-nots and social media kicking up about a sports shirt.
So. Feeding children, or the new Linfield away strip - which would strike you as a priority for discussion?
The young England player Rashford had been campaigning fervently, for some time now, for a summer extension to the voucher scheme which enables underprivileged families to claim a few quid every week to feed their school-age children.
After some dribbling around the matter by Team Boris and a weak attempt at defensive action, Rashford won, Government capitulated.
It's an interesting new constitutional development. Political policy dictated by a footballer's Twitter account.
I'm never been a fan of 'stars' latching on to issues on social media in order to up their own sense of self-importance and gild themselves in virtue.
But this was different.
This came from a lad who'd himself been brought up in a poor household where the family had relied on free school meals to get by. This came from the heart.
Those of us who grew up in similarly disadvantaged circumstances know why Marcus Rashford would understand the need for further help for families, particularly in these desperate days.
Odd that the Government didn't. Odd that it took a 22-year-old footballer to point it out to them.
In Northern Ireland, too, politicians came late to the game.
Sure, they're now all tripping over themselves to see the scheme extended here as well.
It took them a while.
Possibly because there's been that other important football-related debate to command their attention this week.
The Linfield away shirt, a garment of such garish colour clash that when I first saw it, I assumed it had been designed by Ronald McDonald.
Not for a second did it occur to me that some might construe the colour choice as a sort of sly tribute to the drug-dealing band of scumbag criminals who call themselves the UVF.
Not for a second do I think that Linfield intended or even countenanced such a connection.
Linfield, like many sports teams right across the board in Northern Ireland, have been magnificent in the work they do to promote good community relations.
My gripe with the new shirt (and others like it) is the frequency with which such costly replica kit is churned out - putting pressure on parents to fork out mad sums.
Football clubs tend to be more focused on the colour of money than the colour of shirts. That's primarily what dictates their ever-changing and often downright weird design choices.
If you really want to get offended about potential colour symbolism in sports kit, there's a very wide field out there to work your way through.
Yet to a couple of local politicians, the Linfield shirt issue was too important to pass without a call for it to be binned.
One was Alliance MP and deputy party leader Stephen Farry.
I admire Stephen Farry. I think he's an able, committed and forward-looking politician.
But at a time when it sometimes feels as if the world is coming down around our ears, I also think he and other local politicians might have more pressing issues to concentrate on than a football strip.
I could suggest one.
What I remember from my own childhood is not just what's it's like to be poor - but the shame of being poor.
There's not just that perilously thin line between getting by and desperation, but the stigma attached to asking for, and being given, help.
Let's not kid ourselves that in 2020 there's no longer that notion of the undeserving poor.
Desperate times lie ahead - not just for families already on their uppers but for many, many others who are now suddenly finding themselves in dire financial straits as a result of Covid chaos.
People need help. They should get that help and they shouldn't be made to feel ashamed of asking for it.
This week Marcus Rashford focused politicians' minds on what really matters.
Griping about football shirt design is minor league.
It isn't going to put food on the table.
They said of Winston Churchill that he mobilised the English language and sent it to war.
Dame Vera Lynn, who died this week at the impressive age of 103, did something similar - but with added melody and solace.
Travelling to the front line - no small heroism needed there in those perilous days of the Second World War - she brought light and respite into the lives of tens of thousands of soldiers.
To young men far from home, facing the thought of death and never seeing those they loved again, hers was a haunting, eternally enduring message of hope.
We'll meet again.
That this grand old lady lived so long when so very many of those she sang to died so young makes her story all the more moving.
It was as if, carrying the baton for them, she could remind further generations of the monumental human cost of war.
And to carry forward that same message of hope which has resonated during our latest, very different battle.
Close to home, coincidentally, on the day that she died, there was another poignant reminder of the sacrifice of those who put on a uniform to go out and serve and defend their community.
In Castlerea, Co Roscommon, Detective Garda Colm Horkan was gunned down with his own weapon as he answered a call about a traffic offence.
The brutally random, senseless nature of his death makes it all the more heart-rending.
One old lady. One young man. Heroes both.
Two metres or not two metres? Depending on where you stand - in this case literally - the two metre social distancing rule is either essential for stopping the spread of Covid or a death knell for millions of jobs.
Which way should we jump?
Relaxing the rule to a metre apart sounds reasonable. But caution is urged by those who argue that people already underestimate the proscribed two metre distance.
Downsizing to one will lead to even further miscalculation on how close we should be. To sum up, it's a "give them a foot and they'll take an inch" argument.
Questions have been raised about Donald Trump's health after he was filmed this week cautiously tottering down a ramp after one of his marathon speeches.
Mr Trump, always prickly about any suggestion he might be showing weakness, maintains that he's a fit as a fiddle. The ramp he says, was slippery and had no handrail. Indeed, he says, he ran down the last ten yards. "Momentum!" he cries.
Nothing new there, then, for a man who frequently loses the run of himself.