SOMETIMES it can seem hopeless. How do you mould a single European people out of the lumpen masses scattered across the continent? European Union citizens are stubborn homebodies: only 1.6% of them live permanently in an EU country other than their own. They still insist on speaking different languages, they read different papers, worship at the shrines of different celebrities, chortle at different television programmes. But there is one big exception. Every Tuesday and Wednesday, much of Europe's male population tunes in to watch the Champions League, the pan-European football championship embracing the best teams from all over Europe. On May 28th this year's final was in Manchester. Awkwardly for a European competition, both teams were Italian—AC Milan (who won) and Juventus. But their squads were drawn from all over the continent: France, Portugal, the Netherlands, Denmark, the Czech Republic, Georgia, Ukraine—topped up with a smattering of Brazilians.

Over the past decade European football teams have turned into a living, breathing embodiment of European integration. Clubs that once recruited fans and players from their immediate neighbourhoods now scour the continent for talent and are watched in every country. Footballing integration has both shadowed and been prompted by Europe's political and economic integration. The European Cup, forerunner of the Champions League, was first staged in 1956, a year before the Treaty of Rome gave birth to the European Economic Community (EEC). In both spheres, the British were initially stand-offish. Just as they balked at joining the EEC, so their teams refused to take part in the first European Cup, but later joined in when they saw the competition was a success.

In the 1990s, football integration in Europe leapt forward, driven directly by the expansion of European law. The free movement of labour around Europe meant it was no longer legal for football leagues in the EU to limit the number of foreigners in their teams. All EU citizens (though not all foreigners) had to be treated equally. Around the same time, the European Court asserted that footballers, like other workers, were free to move anywhere at the end of their contracts, without their old employers demanding a transfer fee. So players' wages soared and talented players headed for Europe's richest clubs. Economic liberalisation has created an elite of European teams now literally in a league of their own—the Champions League. It is no accident, given European law's role in changing football, that Europe's top clubs have set up their own organisation, the G14, in Brussels.

Romantic souls hope that integrating European football will prompt ordinary fans to start feeling more European and to dispel their clichés about neighbouring countries. Simon Kuper, a football writer, says that the best English teams' increasing reliance on continental players and managers emits a subliminal pro-European message: “Continentals aren't bad people. They can work in harmony with Britons. The continental way is more efficient...if we don't follow them we will be left behind.”

Football has probably made Britons think more amicably about their fellow Europeans than anything else in Britain. The British view of foreign footballers used to be pretty plain: Italians cheated and spent their time rolling around on the floor to earn free kicks; the French gave up if it was raining or windy; the Germans were arrogant and humourless. But then along came players like Gianfranco Zola, an Italian recently voted by the fans at Chelsea, a London club, as its best-ever player, adored not just because of his skill but also because of his sportsmanship. Across town, Arsenal are captained by Patrick Vieira, a Frenchman who is one of the toughest players in the English league (even when it is raining). His club's rival, Tottenham Hotspur, fell for Jürgen Klinsmann, a German striker, who turned out to have a self-deprecating sense of humour as well as a talent for scoring goals. Meanwhile England's Gary Lineker moved to Barcelona and showed that some Brits can learn foreign languages.

Let's keep a few enjoyable prejudices, though

But not all players reverse national stereotypes. Some are adored precisely because they confirm them. David Ginola of France won the player-of-the-year award in England—and starred in shampoo commercials. Eric Cantona, his compatriot, transformed the fortunes of Manchester United—and confirmed an old English view that Frenchmen like spouting philosophical nonsense. (Asked about a suspension for violent conduct, he remarked enigmatically: “When the seagulls follow the trawler, it is because they think that sardines will be thrown into the water.”) Meanwhile Paul Gascoigne, who played (and boozed) for England and Lazio, a Roman team, appalled Italian journalists by burping loudly into a microphone at a press conference. Luther Blissett, a centre-forward from Watford in England who moved to AC Milan, struggled with Italian culture as well as with his own limitations as on the field (“Luther miss it”), though he did achieve the rare distinction of inspiring a sect of Italian anarchists all to change their names—to Luther Blissett (see www.lutherblissett.net).

The cosmopolitan nature of the Champions League undoubtedly blurs the edges of both playing styles and fan loyalties across Europe. But the fact that teams are now so genuinely European (Chelsea have sometimes fielded sides with no British players at all) does not seem to have disturbed the way the European press writes about them. A study by Liz Crolley and David Hand, two British academics, underlines the durability of certain images. Both at home and abroad English teams are portrayed as strong in fighting spirit but short on technique; the Germans as efficient, physically imposing but unimaginative; the French as full of artistry but liable to crumble under pressure. A dreadful thought occurs. Could these clichés persist because there may, after all, be the tiniest grain of truth in them?