The Ball is Flat ladies and gentlemen. “There is no there there”, as Gertrude Stein once said. What we are seeing is smoke and mirrors, the left-over burp-smell from a really good meal. Football est kaput.
It doesn’t mean we shouldn’t cover it or that it isn’t in the slightest bit interesting, rather it seems actually far more interesting the more dysfunctional it gets.
I love Sepp Blatter. Michel Platini is great. They’re like two castoffs from the new Hobbitt movie that Peter Jackson is filming. They’re cute and they’re cuddly and they’re ready to please. Who needs wags even. The proof is in the players. Call a guy by his initials and his uniform number, god what a striking development, how cool is being known as CR7 for the rest of your life? Until you leave for a new club, whose number 7 is a club legend, and now you’re CR9. For a year at least. Hit the organ for better sadness effects. Then you revert because your marketing engine requires it.
The Ball is flat. It’s better that way.
