The VICE Alternative Premier League Preview 2017-18

Some would say that football is the opium of the masses, but this is to underestimate its power. If anything, it is more like the MDMA of the masses, mixed up with the ketamine of the masses, in that it keeps you wired all weekend and also makes you want to sit in a chair for a very long time.

With the football restarting in earnest this week, and the Premier League kicking off once more, the cultural touchstones of this summer – Love Island, the RyanAir sex strangers, road-rage dad – will soon be faded memories. Meanwhile, the beautiful game will course violently through your veins, into your synapses, across your frazzled neurotransmitters.

On to the football, on to what matters, as Love Island dissolves into the mists of time.

Wayne Rooney's career can end one of two ways, now that he's back at Everton. Either way, it will be his apotheosis, the culmination of his personal legend.

In the first instance, his season will go something like this: scores on his debut; cheered by nostalgic Evertonians; plodding around the pitch by Christmas; papped chaining menthol fags outside a nightclub; visibly drunk on The Sun's front page four weeks running; booed by all the Everton fans who remember that they actively hated him for a decade; offering himself out on Twitter by May; ends up looking like Alan Brazil.

In the second instance, Rooney has a late-career renaissance, supported by a raft of ambitious signings at Goodison including Davy Klaassen, Sandro Ramirez and, well, Michael Keane. He inspires the Toffees to a top-four finish or – who knows? – something higher. We've had one cans-and-tabs folk hero in the form of Jamie Vardy as recently as 2015-16, but if God really is an Englishman he'll give us another.

Everton win the league just in time for Rooney to be included in England's World Cup squad. Southgate – you mug, you idiot – why isn't Rooney starting? Southgate – you mug, you bloody mug – why hasn't Rooney got the captain's armband?

Have some bloody respect, Southgate. Football's coming home, and our Wayne with it.

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"YOU USELESS OLD MAN, WENGER" shouts a man just behind the Emirates dugout. "YOU WORTHLESS OLD RELIC!" he shouts, impotently. It is February, Arsenal are on a two-game losing streak and the great schism in the club's fanbase has reopened with a roar of anguish. "GET OUT OF MY BLOODY CLUB, WENGER!" shouts the man, pointedly pronouncing his name either "VEN-GA" or "WENG-ER". "I'LL DRIVE YOU TO THE AIRPORT MYSELF!" he screams, ignoring the fact that Arsene Wenger has lived in suburban north London – as opposed to foreign bloody France – for over 20 years.

What this raging fan is forgetting is that Arsene Wenger is eternal. Under the chic vest which covers his impossibly long and slender body, there is not a human chest but instead an antiquated clock face, ticking ever onwards towards the end of all things. Arsene Wenger is not going to be sacked this season, he is not leaving, so you may as well sit back, relax and enjoy a bit of Europa League football. Maybe reconnect with that mate on the other side of the Wenger In/Out divide; go to the pub with them; reminisce about Patrick Vieira and have a good laugh about Igors Stepanovs. Arsenal fans, set aside your differences, safe in the knowledge that Arsene Wenger will still be manager long after you are all deceased.

What is a football hipster? According to the same sort of person who screams vicious abuse at Arsene Wenger, most likely anyone who – in the immortal words of Mike Bassett – denies the tactical superiority of "FOUR-FOUR-FUCKING-TWO". That said, there's bound to be a football shirt which is championed ironically by next summer's festival lads, with my tip going to any one of the four Fiorentina away strips. Either that, or it'll just be that late-80s West Germany shirt again.

As for the Premier League team most likely to find favour among the supposed hipsters, I'm going for Huddersfield. Managed by a German named David Wagner, they automatically have a certain amount of cultural cachet; the fact that he managed Borussia Dortmund's reserves under Jurgen Klopp only strengthens his hip credentials. He's been known to play a 4-2-3-1 formation, which is pretty revolutionary if you ask me, and his name is sometimes even said in the same sentence as the term gegenpressing. If that's not enough to make yer da do a Garry Monk, I don't know what is.

In the final assessment of how low English football has sunk since Brian Clough got relegated with Nottingham Forest and was still hailed as a living deity, we must decide who this season's "fraud" will be. For those not familiar with the use of this terminology in football, the "fraud" label is attached to anyone who fails to meet expectations over the course of a campaign, especially if they have spent years building their reputation, and command – often through no fault of their own – a very high fee. In the managerial stakes, anything less than the quadruple could see Pep Guardiola labelled a fraud on Radio 5 Live and talkSPORT, while Jose Mourinho will also need to improve on last season's showing. The nice thing about being a good, solid English manager is that you can never be fraudulent. Sean Dyche could get zero points all season with Burnley and would still be considered as honest as could be.

As for players, Paul Pogba could be a solid shout for "fraud" status if he fails to score more than last season's nine in all competitions, as could Romelu Lukaku if he struggles for form at Man United. Alvaro Morata will need to hit the ground running at Chelsea, as will Benjamin Mendy at Man City. What these players have in common is that they cost around £89 million, £75 million, £58 million and £52 million respectively, and the rest of us are struggling to comprehend just how ruinously opulent football has become. They are not actually frauds. They, like the rest of us, are just meat being chewed up and spat out by the machine.

Enjoy the season, everyone! Can't wait for Match of the Day to come back on!

@W_F_Magee