Liverpool’s ticketing system has turned into a digital scramble and the next generation is at risk of being shut out of Anfield, writes Peter Bolster.Football clubs weren’t simply created to fill time on a Saturday afternoon. They sprang up in churches, workplaces, and cricket clubs—part moral project, part social lifeline, part declaration of belonging.Over time, they became the beating hearts of working-class towns, places where you showed up week after week to stand shoulder to shoulder with your neighbours and feel like you mattered.Matchday wasn’t supposed to feel like a digital scramble or an exercise in brand loyalty. You didn’t need an app to prove you cared. You went because it was yours — because it was the most human thing in the world.For generations, that sense of belonging was passed down: dads taking their kids, mates sharing spares, young fans getting their first ticket because someone trusted them to carry it on.Now, that inheritance is being lost. Rules and systems have made it almost impossible to share what you love, and the game that once thrived on community has been hollowed out by algorithms, loyalty thresholds, and corporate suspicion, until supporters are treated less like people and more like accounts to be managed.My personal experienceMy experience is a perfect symbol of how clinical the club has become. I was grieving the death of my sister, 28 days in intensive care before we lost her in April 2024.During that time, in my fog of grief, I forwarded a couple of tickets I couldn’t face attending to my son. And in that state, I made a mistake and forwarded one too many. One of the games I actually did attend (Nottingham Forest) ended up being credited to my son, whose ticket was on my phone.An easy mistake, you might say.I explained the situation to the club, offered proof, and even said I would provide a death certificate if necessary. All I received was a cold email with no condolences, not even an acknowledgement. Just another request for more evidence.That’s what this system has become — heartless, inflexible, dehumanising. The club asked me to prove I was there, share a bank transaction, and explain exactly how I accessed the stadium.Eventually, after weeks of pushing, I had my 13+ status reinstated. But why did I have to fight so hard during a family tragedy? How many fans in similar situations would simply give up? A system that breaks its own rulesWhen the club decided that credits would follow the attendee, not just the purchaser, many fans accepted it. It was a reasonable move to clamp down on touting, but with a caveat.Supporters asked for allowances to remain in place for life events: the ability to distribute tickets a couple of times a season, or to deal with late fixture changes. Those safeguards have now been stripped out.The ‘Friends & Family’ cap of 18? Another example of punishing loyal supporters for the club’s own technological failings. People have been raising this issue with the club since before COVID.But instead of investing in IT systems or nuanced checks, they’ve gone with the sledgehammer again. Long-time members who buy tickets on behalf of elderly parents, children, or mates in recovery are now facing an ultimatum: adapt or get locked out.Liverpool FC making decisions for match-going supporters is like think tanks setting policies for people in council estates: no understanding of the reality, no empathy for what it actually means.This isn’t stopping touts — it’s driving regular fans underground, using burner phones and second accounts just to keep up. It’s happening already, and these changes will only accelerate it. Meanwhile, organised touts with resources will continue to thrive — they always find a way. Loyalty without compassion