There are generally five stages to a failed high-profile football transfer, those signings that are so grandly dysfunctional they become a kind of theatre in themselves, disaster-content, almost perversely, a success.
Finding the most rewarding ways to describe Romelu Lukaku’s return to Chelsea, essentiality a Belgian man walking around looking bemused while other people play football nearby, has provided more heat, light and work hours than a bog-standard success story. To the extent Lukaku himself seems somehow elevated by it, imbued with another layer of celebrity grace.
