Kevin-Prince Boateng, Ghanaian international playing for AC Milan in a friendly against a little local team at their crummy little ground, makes to kick the ball into the small crowd. But it’s not quite high enough – hits a hoarding, bounces back towards the pitch. Boateng strides over to the group making the noise – half-mooing, half-monkey. Blood up, jutting chin, leaning forward as if about to dive into them; though they are fenced off and standing high above the astroturf on a kind of concrete flyover. Whistles and catcalls in response. Meanwhile, the ref has a word in his shell-like; ditto a succession of players from both teams. They’re remonstrating with him. Not exactly restraining him, but hand on arm, shoulder, wrist, elbow; asking him to hold on. When he turns his back on the group of fans that goaded him, the other footballers fall away, letting him go, assuming normal game play will be resuming shortly. Having broken away, however, he ain’t coming back. Spits on the ground, waggles a finger at the offending section of the crowd, and walks further way. Still further, and only now is it clear he’s walking off the pitch. The Milan Channel commentator keeps saying ‘incredibile’. Boateng takes his shirt off to confirm he’s finished. Praying his career isn’t. But already some spectators are starting to applaud; meanwhile the monkey contingent is left mooing around, listless. Another Milan player, previously uninvolved, crosses the pitch to fall in behind him. A few moments ago, the loneliest walk (no matter what the song says). Now a whole world of officialdom wants to walk alongside him: we salute you, Prince among men. But as their world turns to take him in, it commandeers Boateng’s defiant gesture and turns it into a vindication of snobbery: superior cappuccino culture, complete with expensive haircuts and metrosexual little beards, versus puffa jackets, shaved heads and beanies; my god, you’d think they were from Eastern Europe not the Mediterranean. And the name of the small town club where it happened, Pro Patria, feeds right into this part-fantasy of football terraces versus the vineyard.