Lockdown football is the strangest of beasts.
One minute, you think: what would we have done without it? The next, you find yourself wondering: what can we do with it? All of it, all of the time, to paraphrase Mitchell and Webb.
More games stuffed into an already over-packed schedule, all of it televised, all of it soundtracked by a choice between horrendous virtual crowd noise or deathly silence occasionally interrupted by grumpy assistant coaches screaming profanities at under-performing full-backs.
It is recognisably football, and like we said, what would we have done without it? But as a television spectacle, it has been zombified, sucked of the life that makes it so special by forces outside our control.
There is a man who can help though. A man who can cut through the ceaseless inanity and repeated cliches from pundits, through the endless procession of perfunctory matches, whose artistry is still enough to make us forget for a second just what we’ve been missing.
His name is Kevin de Bruyne and he is on an inexorable solo mission to inject pure brilliance into our living rooms every Saturday. And Wednesday… and Sunday and Tuesday and Monday and Friday and Thursday and well, yeah; football never stops. Fortunately, neither does De Bruyne.
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