When buying jerseys, we often tread between hypocrisy and sincerity. Is it to pursue the temptation of price, or to inject true support and love for the team?
On the afternoon of January 5, In the biting winds of Stanley Park, a 24-year-old freelance photographer Philip Alexander adjusted his £15 counterfeit “Nike Liverpool training jacket” he bought from Thailand.
Many fans wearing similar jerseys around him surged toward Anfield Stadium. The pirated fabric shimmered under streetlights, its imitation stripes faintly wrinkled—a stark contrast to the £110 authentic version sitting in his online cart, priced at two home tickets.
Philip’s finger paused on the “Buy Now” button, hesitating. Finally, he moved his hand to the lining of the jersey and gently rubbed the fabric.
The label read in Thai: “If asked, it can be called a cultural souvenir.” This sentence made his heart tremble as if he understood something in an instant.
The noise around him gradually faded away, and only the words on the label echoed in his mind. The inner struggle made him waver but also made him realize that this was not just about the jersey itself, but a hidden transaction, along with a complex moral dilemma.
Nearby, a man argued in Polish on his phone, while teenagers debated TikTok’s latest counterfeit styling hacks.
The scene mirrored a broader crisis: 2.3 million pirated jerseys flood the U.K. annually, with 17% concentrated in Merseyside near Liverpool , per the International Anti-Counterfeiting Coalition.
As Philip passed through security, scanners illuminated his jersey’s hem—where an anti-theft chip should’ve been there. However, only loose threads remained.
This missing detail, like the £85 price gap, marked an invisible divide between devotion and necessity. Overhead, You’ll Never Walk Alone was played. The home team’s anthem echoed ironically through a crowd clad in split loyalties.
He never thought one day he would have bought fake shirts during a leisure travel in Thailand just a few months ago and more than one!
He has always believed that as a football fan, he should support genuine products, especially as a photographer, he pays more attention to the details and quality of the real thing.
Unexpectedly, in front of the stalls in the tropical market, he was attracted by those seemingly perfect fakes and even bought one after another. Faced with such products that made people both happy and suspicious, he was struggling in his heart.
He recalled the moment he bought kits. The heat of Bangkok’s Chatuchak Market was wrapped in the scent of coconuts. Philip stood in front of stall No. 17 in Section 44, his fingers unconsciously stroking a Liverpool retro shirt.
“The stitching density… was even neater than the replica on the official store.
“I bought the Liverpool team jersey in a London store for 80 pounds, but the edges of the ventilation holes were all burrs.”
His fingertips brushed across the hem of the jersey where the anti-counterfeiting chip should have been, but now it is embroidered with Thai vine patterns.
The stall owner observed Philips’s expression and took out a UV torch to illuminate the collar label.
The passionate stall owner said: “Look, eight layers of anti-counterfeiting diffraction patterns, updated synchronously with the official. They just changed their supplier last week, and we followed up three days later.”
Three days ago, he still firmly believed wearing pirated goods is a blasphemy to the sport, but now he was defeated by quality of the fake kits in the shop.
Philips asked: “You reduced the polyester fibre ratio of Michael Owen’s model in 2004 from 82% to 77%, and added Tencel cotton?
He looked at the warp and weft of the fabric under the light. “The official replica didn’t solve the problem of stuffiness back then,” he yelled in huge surprise.
He glanced at the Germany national team’s jersey at the corner and he noticed braille pattern on the lining of the clothes. Interested, he took out his phone to compare it with the photo of authentic version.
“Even the hidden slogan ‘Tribute to Klinsmann’ is restored! Do Nike designers know their ‘limited edition’ sells for 10 pounds in Bangkok?”
On the eve of the opening of the European Cup, Philip’s suitcase was stuffed with seven pirated jerseys.
He posted a picture of Croatia’s tie-dyed jersey on Instagram: “The authentic ones use cheap heat transfer and crack in three months.
“These ‘pirate dealers’ have found the traditional tie-dyeing process, I suggest Adidas come to Bangkok to study football history!”
Ratchada Market is one of the city’s tourist destinations, with bustling crowds shuttling through narrow aisles and stalls filled with various goods.
Songchai, 39, owns a fake kit stall in a corner of the market. With bright jerseys swaying overhead, red, blue, black, and club and national team badges from all over the world gleaming in the sun, his stall also features a bilingual sign in English and Thai: “Customisation is supported for any team.”
Songchai gently patted Manchester United’s third away jersey hanging next to him and smiled: “European tourists are most concerned about two issues: Is it authentic? Can I pass through customs without raising an eyebrow?”
He skillfully turned up the collar and pointed to the label inside, “I usually recommend they cut off the care label before catching their flights, just like how Zara handles tail goods.”
He is not an ordinary small vendor, but a serious professional who studied textile technology at Bangkok University of Technology.
The university graduate is proud of his jersey production process: “The genuine jersey uses seamless hot pressing technology, and the seams are hidden inside, which is more breathable and comfortable.
“We use the traditional sewing method of four needles and six threads. Although the breathability is slightly worse by 5%, the cost can be reduced from 8 pounds to 3.2 pounds.”
He turned over the jersey in his hand and touched the fabric: “The visual effect is almost the same, but you can still feel a little difference when you touch it.”
He looked calm and pointed to a family photo behind him about the moral issues of piracy, his son was wearing a blue jersey, standing on the court and smiling, with fresh mud on his shoes in the picture.
“My son is in the youth training team of Buriram United, and his training clothes are all genuine.” Songchai paused, with a glimmer of determination in his eyes.
“Of course, I support my child’s football dream, and I also hope fans will support their favourite clubs. But tourism consumption is another matter.”
A German tourist wearing a Bayern Munich jersey picked up a Barcelona home kit, frowned and was not sure whether he should take it home.
Songchai immediately went up to him and said with a smile: “Sir, do you want to customise the player’s name? We have a printing service here, and it can be done in 15 minutes!”
The boundary between genuine and pirated products becomes blurred in this grey area under the sun and Songchai is just one of the countless people who choose to make a living under it.
Despite the hefty price tag, there are still people who insist on not buying fake jerseys because of respect for football culture. They consider buying fake products is a violation of copyright
Standing outside Ibrox Stadium in Glasgow, 27-year-old civil servant Andrew Douglas tightened his brand new Rangers 24/25 season home jersey. The authentic heat-pressed badge glowed slightly under the sunshine.
He glanced at the fans wearing similar jerseys beside him, but he could tell which ones were authentic and which ones were imitations at a glance.
“This is not just a piece of clothing,” he says with a firm tone, “buying authentic jerseys is supporting your club and supporting the sport.”
As a loyal Rangers with the seasonal pass, Andrew buys the latest jersey every season. He understands the price of £75 is not cheap for many people, but in his opinion, it is a principle.
He wonders: “If you’re willing to spend hundreds of pounds on match tickets or even go to away games, why can’t you save some money for an authentic jersey?”
He does not deny the quality of pirated jerseys has improved and he even heard some fakes are more comfortable than the official version sold to fans.
But he remains unshakable. “Where do the profits of these fakes go? It’s not the club, and it won’t be returned to the youth training or players.”
At the door of the official merch store outside the stadium, he watched a teenager excitedly holding up the newly bought Tavernier No. 2 jersey with a smile on his face.
“I couldn’t afford a jersey when I was a child, but when I saved enough money to buy my first authentic one, that feeling… can’t be replaced.”
While it is illegal to purchase counterfeit goods in the UK, the law is also not strictly enforced.
Since the control is rather lenient, fans and consumers face complex choices concerning both product quality and loyalty to football and the club.