Three souls have perished in Mexico’s World Cup revelry, a grim tally that would make a Roman satirist nod in weary recognition. The streets of Mexico City became a mosh pit of misplaced euphoria, where a monstrous version of football fandom collided with tequila and hubris. I am not one to moralise, but this is what happens when a society mistakes bacchanalia for patriotism.
The British Foreign Office, ever the anxious nanny, now warns our own citizens to ‘stay safe’. Stay safe from what, exactly? From the consequences of our own unbridled stupidity?
Perhaps we should consider that the Fall of Rome began not with barbarians at the gates, but with the roar of a coliseum crowd demanding bread and circuses. The World Cup is our coliseum – and we are the fools throwing ourselves to the lions. History does not repeat, but it certainly rhymes.
And this rhyme is a sordid limerick sung by drunkards around a plastic fire in a car park. The dead are three. The lesson is timeless: when the party turns to pyre, do not be surprised if you burn.
