Yes there have been goals so audacious they left you swooning and yes the exploits of Iceland and Wales have made us all glowy and warm inside.
But it’s fair to state that Euro 2016 has not been a classic.
Some blame the new bloated format while Sun readers blame Raheem Sterling. Neither is true.
Here are the seven reasons why France 2016 is destined to be forgotten as soon as the pre-season friendlies away to Kidderminster Harriers come calling…
Back to the cave we go
Ask anyone in the know – whether that be academics or Dave down the pub – and they’ll tell you the stain of hooliganism never really left football: It simply moved into the shadows.
Sadly on the sun-bleached streets of Marseille it re-emerged, wearing the same crap polo shirts and Stella-scowls and acting as if the Taylor Report and Gianfranco Zola and entire families going to games had never happened.
Yet as thoroughly depressing as it was to witness In-ger-land’s finest hurl their plastic chairs and sing about a war that ended seventy years ago, nothing could have quite prepared us for what came next.
The mouth-guards and martial arts gloves adorned by the Russians ramped up proceedings from pathetic to outright farcical: the use of a GoPro to film their prehistoric indulgences even more so.
We never saw any of that in Green Street.
Adios to an era
In truth Spain’s card has been marked for some time with their woeful World Cup two years ago strongly hinting that sides had finally cottoned on to this whole tiki-taka business.
Yet still there was hope that for this most golden of generations that was merely a glitch in the matrix. Nope.
What should concern the fanboys, nerds and hipsters is that this time out – unlike in 2014 – La Roja performed well with Iniesta sensationally good as the puppet-master supreme. Yet they still fell short.
“I don’t know why I’m here”
It was always going to take a memorable line to dislodge Ronaldo’s stroppy ‘small mentality’ jibe towards Iceland as the quote of the tournament. As England awoke to a national hangover following our exit to them we sure as hell got it.
Roy Hodgson had already announced his resignation immediately following the 2-1 loss but then swiftly scarpered like a man silently farting in a lift. Twenty four hours later the FA insisted he was called to account to the media and his petulant, arrogant remark at the beginning of the presser revealed the true nature of a man wrongly portrayed as a gentleman.
You were there Roy because you owed the nation an explanation for overseeing a moribund series of non-performances from a squad jam-packed with internationals and the promise of youth.
You were there because in that particular week we had already grown sick and tired of puffed-up, pompous, incompetent individuals screwing this country over then legging it scot-free to the nearest exit.
Fourth official
If the Hodge was unsure what purpose he was serving being questioned on England’s failures then we can times that confusion by several million to the point of the fourth officials who stand rooted and robotic on the Euro goal-lines.
As effective as a diet book on Eamonn Holmes’ kitchen shelf their existence remains a mystery so baffling it would reduce Sherlock Holmes to a gibbering wreck.
Want to commit outright assault right in front of their very eyes? No bother. As you were Skrtel. Want to edge yards off your line for a penalty? Again, that’s fine. They will simply stare ahead trancelike like Joey Essex asked about quantum psychics.
Bad barnets
So horrendous have been some of the hair styles on display at the Euros that Marouanne Fellaini is said to be furious and determined to up his game.
Aaron Ramsey’s attempt to drown all goodwill towards Wales in a vat of peroxide is worthy of our condemnation as too are the bastardised mohawks of Hamsik and Nainggolen.
The worst though, and I mean the very worst, is Eric Dier’s. No multi-millionaire footballer should sport a cut borrowed from a 12 year old home counties boy who takes piano lessons. It’s just wrong.
A spot of bother
In regulation time this has been the worst tournament for penalty takers since 1972 with four misses from eleven.
Then we get to the Italy v Germany quarter final shoot-out that saw an astonishing seven from eighteen palmed away or blasted high and wide. When the Germans unravel twelve yards out then you know the game is up.
Simeone Zaza’s Looney Tunes run-up and rugby conversion meanwhile represents the exact sliver on a venn diagram where a modern player’s arrogance and incompetence meets.
Strikers on strike
This was supposed to be the tournament that celebrated the welcomed return of the out-and-out striker.
After a decade-long fading from prominence, replaced by false nines and seeing their headlines nicked by inverted wingers, surely this summer would see one of Kane, Lewandoski, or Lukaku feast on a glut of six yard tap-ins and drilled angled shots.
Alas, save for a brace from the Belgian against Ireland it has once again been the ‘creatives’ who have run amok.
In the great scheme of things it really shouldn’t matter but the Golden Boot loses some of its lustre when it’s won by a team player.
