This is Who These French World Cup Team Members Would 100% Be in a British Crime Drama
I love the World Cup. I have since 1998 when I was ten years old and in France the summer Zidane led them to victory. Since then, I’ve taken pride in rooting for such a consistently agonizing team. Another agonizing thing I love: British crime procedurals. As I watched France advance to the semifinals through two goals and a near-fistfight, and then on to the final, I had a revelation. Every single one of those French dudes could be cast in a British mystery tomorrow.
Paul Pogba — the young hotshot detective from London, brought on board to lend his expertise. He has a dry affect and many tailored suits. His coworkers will call him a flashy dresser; you won’t be sure if they’re racist or homophobic or both. The show will dangle the possibility of giving him a male love interest above you for two seasons, only to pair him up with a female medical examiner. You will begrudgingly think they’re cute together.
Olivier Giroud — oh God. This guy is the worst. Just the worst. You can practically smell the bro body spray through the TV. He has to have done it, right? At around the halfway mark, detectives come to the fishery where he works and haul him in for questioning. Dang. It’s too soon to have caught him. Can’t you see there are three episodes left? You experience genuine dismay when he’s released, and then elation when, at the end of the very same episode, he’s found facedown in a bog.
N’Golo Kanté — the criminal psychologist brought on board to consult. He uses a lot of perfectly reasonable words that the lead detective pretends are basically ancient Greek. He rolls his eyes, takes a puff of his vape, and drives his Fiat 500 out of town, but not after exchanging a look of commiseration with the young hotshot.
Kylian Mbappé — the lead detective’s daughter’s handsome boyfriend. He’s like an investment banker or something with a long commute. You keep expecting him to be a slimy so-and-so, but most of his scenes involve him lovingly pouring wine and making food for his girlfriend. At one point he goes for a run wearing more than he should and you throw popcorn at the screen.
Blaise Matuidi — he loved her, you know? He would never kill her. He loved her. She was always forgetting her coffee on top of her car and he would let her know, no problem. She was such a lovely lady. Why would someone go and do a thing like that?
Steven Nzonzi — hotshot detective’s best friend. He’s drives out on his motorbike, takes one look at the place, and orders shots. He assumes his friend is having some kind of breakdown. He gently alludes to Matters of the Past. You ship them so hard you break your keyboard.
Hugo Lloris — he has seen some shit. He’s either a combat veteran or a preschool teacher. He doesn’t talk much and chooses to live in a camper on the edge of town with his two dogs. You will later discover that he has a police record, but for only for something charming like selling homemade edibles or liberating lab animals. He only cracks a smile when the hotshot detective steps on a dog turd.
Steve Mandanda — he owns the pub where everything went down. He doesn’t love the idea of talking to the police because some of his best customers have done time, but he’ll do it, you know? For his daughter. He’d hate to see something like this happen to her.
Benjamin Pavard — the kid from the nearby posh school who you just want to dropkick through a window until you find out how messed up his home life is. Then you kind of like him, though you’d never tell anyone on Twitter. He found the second body and promptly spewed everywhere. Doesn’t that count for something?
Antoine Griezmann — the guilty party. You first start to think something is fishy when he code-switches straight into some pretty gnarly misogyny while talking with the Axe body spray guy. The rest of the time, though, he’s basically hanging out in the background, helping little old ladies across busy streets and getting ketchup on his tie in the cafeteria at work. He obviously cries under questioning. You roll your eyes. You totally think men can and should cry at every opportunity, but this particular one doesn’t deserve the catharsis.
Raphaël Varane — well, he’s a mess, bless him. He works the front desk at the hotel where the hotshot detective stays and he’s always asking questions about the case, knowing full well he’s not going to get any answers. He has a dog named Pumpkin.
Samuel Umtiti— that one patrolman the detectives kind of adopt because he’s great at talking to the victims’ families. During moments of stress, he breaks into an A+ charming nervous laugh. He initially comes across as comic relief, but the camera lingers and lingers and lingers and you start to see some pain in his eyes. When recommending the show to your friends, you will unsuccessfully attempt to downplay the extent of your devotion to this character.
Didier Deschamps — he has given you two warnings. You have to understand, it’s not him, it’s the superintendent breathing down his neck. Straighten up and fly right or you’ll get sent right back to Vice.