Vampirism meets overspending to turn late capitalism into a football of death | Premier League

Well, something definitely happened. But what exactly? There's an affectionate joke about good, expressive Australian sports writing that's essentially about speaking Here's the thing, rightThen spell out exactly what The Thing is in 800 brutally blunt words, beat The Thing into submission, shake The Thing's hand, and then, ideally, quickly go for a drink with The Thing.

What was that thing here? Trapped energy. Drift. Boredom. A good goal from Moisés Caicedo. The football of death of late capitalism. Casemiro lies a lot, often with a surprisingly good defensive effect.

Manchester United and Chelsea produced at least something recognizable over the course of this 1-1 draw, namely a game with two halves, one of which was muddled and almost surreally dull; the other was confused and blessed with a 10 minute spell in which things actually happened.

The first half in particular was an extraordinary spectacle simply because of its lack of enthusiasm. It started off quite well. There is always a Christmassy feeling at Old Trafford at kick-off. No matter what the weather, the team always has energy on the ground, and there was a familiar sense of determination from the stands early on. Here, Manchester United is still a ten-story love song.

At this point: Nothing happened. It's hard to remember a half of top-flight football where the same feeling of pointless waste of time prevailed. Football is a sport that consists of boring and forgettable games. Boredom is an essential part of sport and part of its beauty. Even Jorge Valdano's “shit on a stick” description of English football was something of a compliment. These people will cheer for anything as long as it has energy. English football has long been criticized for having energy without craft, too much drive and too much desire.

What was that in this context? Light and warmth without content. Football as something empty and frictionless, people in colored shirts waiting for life to happen, JG Ballard-Ball. At one point there was a three-minute build-up to a Bruno Fernandes free-kick that was fired into the nearest part of the wall, and you were grateful for the howls and frustration because, well, it's just good to feel something.

Cole Palmer flickered at the edges. Caicedo and Roméo Lavia controlled the middle of the pitch. Lavia is a really good midfielder who receives the ball in any space, always points his body forward and is fearless in his energy. Although in the end the main function of Chelsea's competent central goalkeeper was to show how obvious it is that Casemiro really has no place at this level. It was like watching a middle-aged man try to play tennis with someone twenty years younger. At one point, to huge celebrations, Casemiro won the ball with a dramatic full-body attack, but even that was one of those terrible moments, like the aging fast bowler's doomed dive in the middle, whose sole purpose is not to kill him but has to turn and chase the ball to the boundary.

In the second half, United started to move. Wesley Fofana failed to score the opening goal. Robert Sánchez slapped Rasmus Højlund's boot with his hand as he passed. Fernandes converted the penalty. It was nice to see Ruud van Nistelrooy jumping and punching the air in a turtleneck and coat. Van Nistelrooy clearly has no role in United's future. The summer move, with the promise of an extension to Ten Hag's tenure, was a disaster for his own career. That was a good moment for him.

Caicedo equalized in the 74th minute, a beautiful volley made only better by the sight of Enzo Maresca, still fuming over his team's deficit, strangely standing on the touchline half-celebratory, with a face that was still indicated that someone had just crashed their Skoda Superb into a small roundabout.

And that was pretty much it, apart from some noise towards the end, noise and fury with no edge. The end result seemed appropriate. A point takes Chelsea back to fourth place. On the other hand, they could also expect to beat the 13th best team in the country.

The keynote will remain the fundamental curiosity of the occasion. This was essentially a collision of two forms of American ownership: successful vampirism and a mania for unsustainable overspending. Chelsea's team included nine players who were signed for a total of around half a billion in the current Wow Ball era. At United it was the usual collection of random footballers, half-thought-out ideas, substitutes, dates, Mr Wrongs.

What will happen to these transfers, all these big contract players who have apparently been at the club for decades and are being passed from regime to regime like a broken porcelain tea set? No wonder this team has no pattern. Here United had a player on the bench simply called “Amass”. Next week: an idea. A thought. A seat.

For now, the wheels keep turning, the content machine keeps turning. What exactly is being sold here? A mediocre team in red shirts. Brand awareness, aura, free-floating energy. A point from a draw is at least a gift for the new manager while United are in standby mode waiting for the next leap forward; A club that has never so obviously needed anything.