The World Cup in Qatar reminds us that fairy tales count for nothing

In the end, the World Cup of surprises will have the most obvious final, apart from perhaps Brazil-France, and obviously the one that would have excited all the erotomaniacs of football geopolitics, Argentina-England, on which essays would have been written, law degree courses instituted international sportsman and for which they would have sliced ​​him up until Sunday with the goal of the century from the cosmic kite. It will therefore be France-Argentina, with the prequel to the third-fourth place final, the least interesting in the history of football, the one between the already finished fairy tale of Morocco and Croatia who, like the Netherlands, understood perfectly that before their legitimate dreams of glory there was an outstanding score to settle with Qatar which pays the salary of the two protagonists on the pitch on Sunday, Messi and Mbappé. Everything is ready, and you will see, indeed you can already see it, what a hubbub of articles on yesterday’s strongest in the world against tomorrow’s strongest in the world (with the French who, however, has entrusted his sentence to social media – this is how it is done today : the GOAT emoticon, the strongest ever, under Cristiano Ronaldo’s farewell post to the World Cup). Stuff to immediately flee to another planet, in short, with us English watching helplessly the usurpation of the title of world champion in the sport that we invented (as has been happening for sixty years).

Like Morocco, who tried as the provincials try when they face the big, heart-bad luck-regrets, in a semifinal that certified the mediocrity of a World Cup that will only get worse from the next round, when so many will be at stake that it will be quicker to say who is missing, obviously in America.

Long gone are the controversies about rights, which lasted for the time of a champagne burp in the editorial offices of progressive newspapers, so crushed by Western guilt feelings that they exalted the victories of the national team of a country where homosexuality is illegal (you read it somewhere ? No? Incredible, isn’t it?) and in which women don’t really have all the rights that we like – but what a thrill to see mothers with veils dancing on the sidelines with the players, huh?

The idea that one between Messi and Macron can enjoy Sunday evening kills me, I confess, but this is football and we might as well celebrate football, at least I always do it, not with alternating current as you like to do. After the blonde I went to the Cremant on Wednesday evening, watching the frog eaters do what they’ve always managed to do best since the days of Carlo Martello (do you want historical geopolitics? Here it is), stop the infidels before the decisive conquest. Obviously, today it’s all about the exaltation of the French multi-ethnic national team, soporific stuff already in 1998, so much so as to make messianic rhetoric (in the sense of Lionel Messi) more fearsome.

The World Cup in Qatar reminds us that fairy tales don’t count for shit. like women in Morocco and like appeals for rights and against corruption in Europe (by the way, are you still so convinced that we English were wrong to leave that brothel that is the European Union?). Mbappé will be Messi, as the emir of Qatar and the emir of Fifa Gianni Infantino likes, who has already forgotten that a month ago he was gay and a migrant, and the other night he was pimping next to Macron, another good man, with freshly cleaned white shoes. I’ve almost finished my stash of brandy, I’ve booked a flight to the Falklands where I’ll spend the hours that divide us from the end of the world with my blonde in my arms. Already ready to win the next Champions League, the next European Championship and of course the next World Cup in the American colony. Cheers.