Few things would be more apt for these strange times than England winning the tournament. Then the rest of us will be thrust into a vortex of tired, irrational, frenzied motifs and shit music for the rest of the summer. Grim as fuck
And it won’t fuck off either. On Bonfire Night mates will suggest rewatching the final, all that bored and glib nostalgia piling up like detritus, fading slowly as the years die
For the love of god Italy, smash these weird hatchling dreams of Saxon destiny back into the mud they rose from
(it’s the hope that kills you)
