There are times when the modern global obsession with football feels exhausting. Why do so many people from so many places care so much? What is it that drives the endless banter, the Ronaldo fundamentalists, the conspiracy theories over the preponderance of referees from the north-west? Why is this the focus rather than the apparently more pressing concerns of a mounting energy crisis, soaring inflation and a worrying new prime minister? Why are we more bothered by Erik ten Hag compromising his Ajax principles than by the tactics of the Ukrainian counteroffensive?
And then you get weeks like this when you realise that the Premier League is the greatest drama ever written. And like the best literature, it contains multitudes. On the one hand, there is the warning. Poor Brighton. You’re one of the very few clubs not owned by a hedge fund, a public investment fund, a sheikh, an oligarch or a tax exile. You’re owned by a local boy made good, a childhood fan. You graft for years. You put plans in place. You establish an astute recruitment department. You find an innovative and understated manager who fits your model. You impress but for one thing: you don’t convert your chances.
