For all its grandiosity and inordinate riches, the Champions League can be quite a savage place. So disturbingly barbaric at times that as neutrals, you manage to develop an unfamiliar surge of sympathy for certain teams and their managers — sometimes, feeling sorry is all you can do.
Along with emphatically dispelling one of those amplified modern-day football myths — that English football is the gold standard of the European game — the Champions League this week retold a more routine tale, one that comprised vapidity, implosion and spinelessness. A story so calamitous for Arsenal fans that it should — ideally,
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