Spain couldn’t care less about the epic

Please excuse my satisfaction. After demonstrating to the world that they do not know how to win – celebrating in their opponents’ faces and stirring up ridiculous geopolitical controversies – the Argentinians have shown that they are incapable of losing, at the end of an embarrassing final that has made England’s cardinal sin in the semi-final all the more evident. Although the media narrative attempted to portray the “parking the bus” tactic in front of the goal as heroic resistance and the first attempt on goal in the 120th minute as confirmation of the Albiceleste’s great heart, Spain v Argentina goes down in history as a match that has finally revealed the true worth of Infantino’s favourite national team – the one most favoured by the referees: a side good only for storytelling about a difficult childhood in the suburbs of Buenos Aires or the football boots given by his dad, and for making Italian journalists believe that Lautaro Martínez could seriously win the Ballon d’Or – and that’s all. Not a single shot on goal in over two horrifying hours of play (the sluggish Cristiano Ronaldo had managed two on his own, just to give you an idea; in the end, the Spanish goalkeeper Unai Simon introduced himself as he bid farewell to the Argentines, given that they’d never even seen him in 120 minutes), and for the rest, nothing but shoving, kicks, fruitless taunts, brawls and an attempt at a foul that I had not witnessed since my nursery school days, courtesy of Messi.

The greatest player in the history of the Universe, from its creation to the end of time, having never even touched the ball, wanted Cucurella sent off for putting his hand in front of his mouth (the Spaniard was pointing to where his teammate on the ground had been injured; he wasn’t speaking). Spain played football, not giving a damn about the epic nature of the moment, about Maradona in heaven, or about the ebb and flow of history; not giving a damn even about the ‘coronation’ of Yamal – ‘christened’ by Leo quite by chance nineteen years ago – overcoming the eight red cards Paredes deserved but didn’t get, and even the disallowed goal for a non-existent stamp: De la Fuente’s team did not fall into the trap and reminded us that to win a World Cup, you first and foremost need to play football. The Argentines behaved like sulking children, throwing punches and shoving at the final whistle (though I saw fewer fingers raised than there were for Bellingham’s slap – who knows why), and turned their backs on the Spaniards as they lifted the trophy, with the much-lauded Messi leading the ‘protest’.

You continue to glorify them because they have some Ligurian great-grandfather or because of Maradona’s Neapolitan soul; I breathe a sigh of relief. We’ve been spared rivers of rhetoric, the shouts of an Adani who, I’m told, is sedated and in mourning. A dreadful match, but more credible than the France v England summer friendly, and certainly better than the indecent spectacle we were treated to at half-time, with Madonna in “Paola Ferrari” mode, accompanied in a dune buggy by a portly Ronaldo and a Ronaldinho looking even more uncomfortable than I do when I’m told the wine’s run out at dinner and we have to drink water, a Ted Lasso-style gag straight out of a holiday resort featuring Justin Bieber, and the usual feel-good nonsense that Chris Martin is so fond of, with children of all races chanting about love. If this is the sort of football we’re in for, with a 27-minute half-time break that has absolutely nothing to do with what’s happening on the pitch, you can keep it. In the meantime, I have informed them that I will return late and I am heading to the Falkland Islands. With all due respect to those who continue to call them by the wrong name. Cheers.