Oh yes, Europe. Now you see it. Now you understand why we’re harvesting your players, hoovering up your football culture, poaching your 27-year-old rollerblading hyper-nerd coaches. This is the spectacle we’re creating over here on our island of trade and innovation. Behold our Europa League final, our Wednesday night field of the cloth of gold. Look on our works and … well, maybe go out for a sandwich instead.
The all-English Europa League final has already taken some stick for not being a spectacle worthy of the occasion. Or at least, for looking like what it was: two muddled teams scrabbling for the last escape ladder. It would be normal at this stage to bring out the phrase about a pair of bald men fighting over a comb. But baldness at least has a pattern. Baldness is orderly. Baldness is noble. This was more like two men with bad, failing hair transplants fighting over an emergency toupée.
