And so this week, this beguiling, bewildering week in football…
We had with dreams still flickering, the embers of a once-glorious season still warm to the touch. We stood, not yet broken, on the edge of belief — peering over the precipice of possibility.
And now? A few short days later… the dream is dissolving. Fading. Becoming nightmare.
Liverpool, with that ruthless inevitability, are champions again. Manchester City — their silver sheen undimmed — march to yet another Wembley final. We then fluffed our lines so disappointingly against PSG – and last night, Thursday, under the European lights, a curious parade: Tottenham Hotspur, Manchester United, and Chelsea, each striding towards continental conclusions. Not the Champions League, no — not the grand ballroom of Europe — but its younger siblings, the Europa League and the Conference League. The understudies. The curtain-raisers. And yet, trophies all the same.
And I sit here — head cocked, brow furrowed — and ask: how?
Tottenham, a season of turmoil. Manchester United, drenched in dysfunction.
Should it be Spurs versus United in the Europa League final — and it now surely will be — then behold the great footballing farce: two of England’s most chaotic clubs, offered redemption in the unlikeliest of theatres.
Meanwhile, we? We stare at the mountains ahead. Paris Saint-Germain wait. The Champions League dream flickers, but falters. And should that flame be extinguished next week, there will be sorrow. Deep, undeniable sorrow. Not failure, perhaps, but something that tastes quite like it.
Because silverware — real silverware — is being scooped up elsewhere.
Chelsea will surely lift the Conference League, whether they cherish it or not. And as laughable as it seems, either Tottenham or United will clutch the Europa League and, with it, a golden ticket back to the big time.
And yet — and yet — ask me if I’d swap? Would I trade our chaos for theirs? Our nearly for their mess wrapped in medals?
No.
Not for Tottenham’s gritted grimace. Not for United’s accidental redemption. Not for Chelsea’s consolation conquest.
City and Liverpool — yes — they are the standard. The league and the Cup — the heartbeat and the history. Those are the ones that make a soul soar. And the European Cup — that great unscaled peak — remains the one that I crave. The one we all crave.
And while we dream, we endure. Because football always gives us another week. Another chance. Another night beneath the lights.
And let it be said — this is no sleight on the winners. Not on the inevitable machine of Manchester City, who do in cups what Manchester City always do. Not on Chelsea, whose sheer depth was always destined to dwarf the minnows of the Conference League. And not even on Liverpool, who arrived like a surprise guest at a familiar party — uninvited, perhaps, but entirely deserving.
But I find myself fixated — utterly perplexed — by the conundrum that is Tottenham Hotspur and Manchester United.
Two sides, limp and listless for much of the campaign. Bereft of rhythm. Starved of structure. Joyously poor, if you were watching through rivalrous eyes. And yet — somehow — they are to walk out in May, shoulder to shoulder, beneath the glittering arch of the Europa League final.
One game from Champions League redemption. One flourish from re-writing what has been a season of consistent mediocrity.
How?
How can two clubs so catastrophically incoherent at home — clubs that may well finish in the bottom half of their own domestic table — find themselves 90 minutes from Europe’s top table?
Is this a testament to the strength of the Premier League? That even our stragglers can conquer the continent? Or is it, rather more troublingly, an indictment of what the Europa League has become?
Look at the last eight. Glance at the semi-final draw. There were no great European pillars, no vaunted names to fear. No cauldrons, no mystique. Just plucky projects and fairytales who’d outlasted the odds. Bodo/Glimt, bless them, have written their own story. But they are not supposed to be the headline act in Europe’s second competition.
And don’t even get me started on the Conference League.
Chelsea, navigating it with the poise of a disinterested substitute teacher, fielding their third-string in stadia that seat barely more than a bus queue. They played a side whose average attendance was just over 250 — fewer than a London pub on derby day. This is Europe now?
Yes, this is Chelsea’s penance — their consequence for a calamitous campaign last season. And yes, they’re playing the hand they were dealt. But the disparity in quality, in purpose, is so vast, so blatant, it feels almost cruel. Not competition — exhibition.
The Europa and Conference Leagues were supposed to offer European nights to the masses. But somewhere in the haze of expansion and dilution, they’ve started to feel like pre-season tours with prizes attached.
And yet, bizarrely, the stakes remain colossal.
Tottenham and United — two clubs in pieces — are now a single victory from salvation. From the anthem. From the big dance.
Football, you are mad.
And so here we are. The curtain nears its fall, and I’m left grasping at the stupidity of it all. This was never meant to be an article — more a release, a lament, a love letter to football in all its beautiful lunacy.
Because the truth, however sour the grapes may taste, is this: Chelsea and one of Manchester United or Tottenham — yes, Tottenham — will finish this season hoisting silver. It’s preposterous. It’s perfectly UEFA. It’s football.
And yet, beneath the absurdity lies something deeper — a symptom of a changing continent. The Champions League, swollen by expansion — more teams, more games, more names — has siphoned quality from its younger sibling. Once a proud battleground for the bruised and the bold, the Europa League now feels like a halfway house — a holding pen for the fallen elite. A place where rhythm means little, and reputation carries you further than merit. Where Manchester United and Spurs — despite all evidence to the contrary — now find themselves favourites.
Once upon a time, we were in it. Arsenal. Against Napoli. Against Valencia. Against Sporting Lisbon. We were tested. We were bloodied. And yes, we fell. To Sporting. To Villareal. To Unai Emery — because of course it was Emery. In that tournament, he is not a coach; he is a religion.
But now? Look at the path United and Spurs have trodden. Look at the opponents — names you’d skip past in a friendly fixture list. This is not some bitter cry — though bitterness brews. It is bemusement. It is the madness of May.
So yes, best of luck to them all. But not really. Not with any sincerity.
Because what a farce it would be — Spurs versus United in the Europa League final. One last insult to this most unpredictable of seasons. And you’ll forgive me if I can’t bring myself to watch.
Quickly away from Europe then…
Elsewhere, Nottingham Forest’s fairy tale fades. Their Champions League dream undone by the hangover of Wembley and the sting of Brentford. A shame, perhaps — but no surprise.
We will finish second. Should finish second. Newcastle breathe down our necks, but they are running out of road. The fight moves to Paris now. A different kind of theatre awaits. We must be ready. Bournemouth first — business still to tend.
But tonight? Tonight was for wondering.
For shaking my head in disbelief at a sport that never stops spinning. A sport that mocks form and logic. A sport that dares us to make sense of it.
This wasn’t a plan. This was a purge.
Because, my word — what a strange, mad week it has been.
Victoria Concordia Crescit