The plan for more games between bigger clubs is dull and loses context while making a few people rich
A few years back I walked out of my front door very early in the morning to go to work and watched sleepily as a large car endlessly reversed, went forward, reversed, then went forward, trying to escape a wrong turn down the driveway.
It was an engrossing spectacle: urgently and skilfully done, but also expressive of some kind of epic, cinematic impatience. Eventually I went to squeeze past. At which point a striking image loomed against the steamed-up window: a face, instantly recognisable as belonging to the celebrity chef Gordon Ramsay, shouting what was clearly the word “Fuck”, caught in the glow of the streetlights at 5.30am in the privacy of his own car.
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