Breakthrough along the edge

Shropygin was taken and expelled. Schipper in secret paths returned to France. Schopygin was detained again. Shropin released. News from the life of the President of the All -Russian Association of Fans over the past few days almost overshadowed the lead from the fields of Marseille, Lille and Toulouse, and it was no longer clear what was more impressive: this is our football or this Shoplygin.

At times, it even seemed that they were inseparable from each other. Athletes and functionaries. Dribbling and face. Football and near -football. For the triumphant performance of the national team symbolized the entire power of Russian foreign policy, and the indicated Shipper served as a live symbol of unbending and endless victories.

In part, it was, and it was. It is known that football is a surrogate of war in peacetime, and a fan battle to this clear evidence. And if the Cold War is in the yard, then the similarity is noticeably intensifying in the speeches of politicians, diplomats, deputies, and security forces are reflected by front -line everyday life. Say, a spokeswoman for the Investigative Committee praises "normal men" who beat British fans. When the men are caught and arrested, they call the French ambassador to the carpet in the Russian Foreign Ministry. The President fails, speaking dialectically. On the one hand, he says, the fights of ultras is a complete disgrace. On the other hand, the National Leader does not understand how this two hundred of our two thousand British screamed, and the audience gets bitten, and a crafty light flickers in the good eyes of the guarantor.

This should not surprise and this does not surprise: war. True, the game is still on the gate, and here a number of situations arise that I want to call paradoxical. For example, the Russian state is loading its near -football fighters, led by Shoplygin, loads the Russian state into a charter flight and is lucky to France at the expense of the budget, and no one else does that. They are ashamed of their scumbags in the West, and they are proud of them. There, football and other athletics are more or less separated from the state, and here they are equated with historical battles like Kulikovskaya, if not Stalingrad. In Paris and Berlin, among those who think aloud about the sports achievements and the greatness of the Motherland, the descendants of Talleyrand or Ribbentrop were practically not seen, and in Moscow, the grandson of Molotov, who recalls a difficult in a minute of life about how grandfathers fought, is already in the order of things .

Therefore, it must be so in demand, and his glorious past , and the heroic present, sanctified by the vigilant names of Putin and Mutko, and prison ordeals - all causes interest. Against the background of the hybrid war that Russia wages in Ukraine and Syria. Against the background of the war of propaganda, which is total in nature. Against the background of economic sanctions. Against the backdrop of doping scandals that turned into the disqualification of Russian athletes. Against the backdrop of the scandals of near -football.

Even more interesting than all these wars will end: the war is cold, the war is hybrid, a fan war. That is, there is nothing to guess about Fanatskaya, it will never end, because it will never end, contrary to frivolous calculations of anthropologists, the process of turning the pithecanthropus into a rational person. That is, Pithecanthropes are also people, only in vain scientists call this species fossil. They themselves who want to bury. They live next to us, breed and multiply, charming in their own way, but too, or something, hot -tempered and constant in their addictions. They are essentially simple -minded, and this, you see, is an attractive feature.

It is another matter when they, violating their written and unwritten laws, enter the service of the state, like the same Shoplygin. As part of the war of the Cold, Hybrid war, football war. Then the usual criminality acquires the character of special measures, professionals penetrate into the ranks of the simple -hearted, and here the politics imperiously invades where the hand armed with a knife, a brand, reinforcement, a chair will reach. Then the football ends and something completely different begins that only pretends to be surrogate. But in fact, it is a continuation of the sporting event by other means, and the ziging Pithecanthropus dresses up in the costume, under the roof of the special services gains public weight and grandmas, gets acquired by European pre -trial detention centers and becomes the hero of news reports, overshadowing football. Summers of mysterious, when compared with sports.

In the game that replaces the war, everything is somehow simpler, more visual and honest. On the scoreboard, let's say, 3: 0, the Welsh are rejoiced, and the picture is clear to anyone, even the most persistent to a compatriot who can count up to three. All that could be failed. However, political showdowns on the whistle of the judges do not end, and twice the detainee returns home like with a victory, and the viewers are applauded, and there is no end to the widespread hybrid war. The match continues, and during its millions of people they were turned into fans of their state, no less fierce and much more dangerous than frostbitten fans of Spartak, Zenith or the National Team.

A whole country is sick, clearly abused by patriotic doping. The country is sleeping and raving, and it appears to her that she had given everyone. The country meets Shoplin, and it breaks to Europe.