The celebrations after the success in the Champions League are the synthesis of an unconventional player: “I only remember happiness”
un winner and lost but immensely happy man who offers us his body in the athletic splendor of 27 years and donates his liver to new theories for science. While waiting to know something about Jack Grealish’s colossal hangover we have to withhold some images, thoughts, evasions, tendernesses, absurdities: Jack’s last days recall stories of real life only through films, so inaccessible in its exaggeration (something between Jim Morrison and George Best – short stories, or posthumous films, or a second-hand Paul Gascoigne, who knows how to distinguish when and how much).