Who cares about the Super Cup, the Premier League is back?

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The European Super Cup is a useless trophy, I'd said so long ago, let alone a Super Cup played in Italy, in Udine (but credit to the Friulians, rightfully pissed off about the ban on alcohol sales before and during the match). Nonetheless, seeing the French slobs win by luck against Tottenham made me reach for the bottle with particular piss. The truth is, Spurs had already tempted fate too much by winning a trophy after a millennium; they really couldn't think of lifting a second one a few months later. Paris Saint-Germain was lucky, even their quarrelsome coach admitted it. I console myself with the thought that the wait is over; we just have to get over the usual Nietzschean eternal recurrence of the same, which finds its highest psychological sublimation in the summer transfer window, especially in the days leading up to the start of the championships . The Premier League restarts today – and that's news to be celebrated, just like the end of the Women's European Championship, the birth of Jesus Christ, and the return of the blonde to our favorite pub after days of being banned from drinking. Next weekend, Serie A restarts, a championship more unsuccessful than Hamilton and DiCaprio's vegan burger chain, and I will observe a day of mourning.

The return of the same old story consists of the usual pantomime of coaches and scouts pointing out that their teams, after just a month and a half of transfer window, are still not ready, are "work in progress," in need of tactical improvements and, above all, new signings. New signings (and sales) will obviously arrive right up to the last available second , after championships have begun with agents ready to pop bottles to have sold their own flop at the highest possible price and presidents deluded into thinking they can buy the surplus players from other clubs they've had their eye on for two years. This will be followed by the usual protests from the same coaches, who now complain about having incomplete squads, who will argue that they can't start playing with a group that then changes after two matchdays, thus the Federations' commitment to bring forward the closing of transfers to mid-August, and then everything will be the same again next year.

It's all more predictable than the summer controversies about empty beaches and the jokes about footballers arriving at training camp overweight. I know that sports journalists, who have now exhausted their entire drawer of interviews with former players who always come up with the same old anecdotes, wouldn't know what the hell to talk about for the next fortnight, but since the best ideas come when you're bored, we could try to see what effect it has, and perhaps discover that there are other topics to talk about besides Lookman's escapes, Donnarumma's upsets, or interviews with complacent sporting directors in the regime's newspapers. Luckily, we're back on the pitch, the most beautiful championship in the world, the one you'd like to imitate, but which you can only watch. From afar, of course .

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