THERE has been bile. There are those who are criticising Euro 2016 as being as invigorating as watching the Japanese Noh theatre interpretation of this Setterday Shug column while munching a Valium sandwich.

There are those too who find the TV extravaganza so superficial, so dire that they sit in a stew of self-loathing as they resist the temptation to change channels and have Chris Evans shout at them. The joy of an Ireland united in triumph, the roars of the boyos from the valleys, the Icelandic pillagers on the march . . . all this and more has left them unmoved.

And then there is me. I love the Euros. Basically, it is why I voted to stay in. My obsession, my inability to be sated by football competitions reached its summit when I found I had spent 45 minutes studying the recreation of the Daniel Sturridge goal against Wales. In Lego.

I have some sympathy for those who state the international football is not of the highest order. My tolerance for this point of view is increased by the acceptance that it is right.

International football is the primary school football of football. Club football – particularly that at the highest end – is the secondary school football. The reality is that in international football there is a limited pool to choose from, though Spain have managed to field a Brazilian forward and Germany regularly annexe the Poles.

But the only limit in club football is the amount of money a board is willing to spend. This means international competitions are filled with the guys who would be picked last in a Champions League playground. Basically, all Champions League players can don a strip in international football but not all internationalists can play Champions League football.

So it can be like primary school where you have a great player and a somewhat underwhelming supporting cast. This provides unexpected joy for the viewer. For example, everyone knows Luka Modric of Real Madrid and Croatia is a great player and he is complemented in his national side by formidable players. But he never looks more stellar than when playing for his country. The contrast between him and some of his team-mates is so stark that even an English commentator would spot it.

The contrast is similarly obvious with Wales where Gareth Bale is the type of lad the janny would allow to run down the corridors. Russia v Wales provided the perfect example of the gradations in international football. The Welsh scorers were Bale, a worldy, Aaron Ramsey, a good Champions League level player, and Neil Taylor, whose last goal was a non-league effort for Wrexham against Grays in 2010.

My regular reader will know that I do not believe in the romance of top-level football, having learned it has all the fluffy soppiness of a night out with the Russians in Marseilles. But Euro 2016 has emphasised the international football can provide extraordinary moments not only for fans (the Welsh, Icelanders, Irish and Northern Irish will be wondering who put the MDMA in their pints) but for footballers.

They lead a well-paid if psychologically brutal life. They are judged severely by their employers, placed into categories and then dumped if injury or lack of form restricts their usefulness. The marvellous Bale is not immune from such criticism. He has received pelters on occasion at Real.

But there are others so far down the pecking order that natural selection has removed their beaks. There are players in the Euros that have taken their summer holidays from clubs such as Jablonec, Skenderbeu, Frosinome, and Sundsvall. Geez, there are even players from Kilmarnock, Hamilton, Inverness and Aberdeen. In the Champions League playground these are the sort of characters who cause an argument as opposing captains picked sides.

“You take him.”

“Naw, you have him.”

“Naw . . . well all right. Haw you! You’re wi’ us. Try and keep out the road.”

This may seem insulting but the joyous truth is that some of these players have made history and not just of the personal sort. They have helped their sides to victories that will resound down the ages.

Michael McGovern is being measured by the EPL for a new Superman suit. And will Josh Magennis ever forget that moment when he confounded a defender to set up a goal that confirmed victory for Northern Ireland against Ukraine? The scorer was, of course, Niall McGinn of Aberdeen. The Northern Irishman once was considering alternative careers to football.

His gamble was rewarded with a move to Celtic but subsequently Brentford felt no pressing need to retain him after a loan spell. He will be 29 next month and his football career has been gilded with a League of Ireland Cup with Derry City, a Scottish Cup with Celtic and a League Cup with Aberdeen. These are welcome adornments to a fine, honest career.

But something special happened to him in Lyon. A simple rebound, a finish of conviction. He was in the playground with the big boys, with the Bales, the Modrics, the Ronaldos, the Mullers, and he had his moment and made it spectacular.

It is what we all hoped for in the playground of the past. It is routine when it happens for a worldy. There is something inspiring, though, when it happens to such as McGovern or McGinn. Now where are those boots?