I am the best me, according to me.
That is basically what the English Premier League just said about the current iteration of itself. So, yay! Good for them, being so great. Sure, this year’s version of the EPL has been pretty fun I guess, mainly because Manchester United might not win (/karate chops a Redwood) and mostly ever other team has been really terrible for multiple, significantly-long stretches.
(I’m writing this as a non-biased observer—all non-biased people hate Manchester United—but as a real person, I’d label this year’s version of the EPL as THE STUPIDEST SEASON IN THE WORLD’S HISTORY OF STUPID SEASONS BECAUSE I ROOT FOR A TEAM THAT HIT THE GOAL FRAME 33 TIMES AND MISSED FIVE OF THEIR SIX PENALTY KICKS BECAUSE SERIOUSLY GOD WHAT THE HELL MAN.)
Whether or not 11-12 is the BEST EPL SEASON EVER doesn’t really matter because it’s a stupid, meaningless distinction. It’s just that labeling this year as the best year fits in with the idea—the generally very true idea—that English soccer is best defined by not pace, power, blood, or MEN BEING MEN, but by a complete lack of self-awareness. And that is how you end up with Roy Hodgson managing your national team. I got fake-angry about this for Vice—”fake-angry” because I don’t care enough about English soccer to be legitimately mad. At least, that’s what I tell myself before I close my eyes each night.