Was That a Final or a Funeral? Inter Disintegrate as PSG Put Five Past Them in UCL Humiliation.

You wait all year for the Champions League Final. The glitter. The drama. The crescendo of a season’s worth of tension. And then… this?

For the First Time in History, Paris Saint-Germain Lift the Champions League Trophy.

Five-nil.

Let’s ask it plainly: was that even a final? Because what unfolded in Munich felt less like a European showpiece and more like PSG’s private parade—with Inter Milan as the tragically invited guests of honor who forgot their boots, their spine, and their sense of occasion.

Simone Inzaghi’s side didn’t just lose—they disintegrated. PSG weren’t ruthless so much as unopposed, slicing through what looked like a hologram of Inter, not the black-and-blue warriors who clawed their way past Europe’s best.

The Anatomy of a Collapse

The script started shredding early.

Achraf Hakimi, the ex-Inter man, stabbed in the opener after 12 minutes—a poetic, painful twist.

Désiré Doué, the teenage maestro, made it two on 20 minutes, becoming the youngest player to score and assist in a Champions League Final.

He wasn’t done. Doué added his second—and PSG’s third—in the 63rd, as Inter stood, watched, and wilted.

Khvicha Kvaratskhelia danced through to make it four in the 73rd. A Neapolitan dagger twisted in the heart of Italian football.

Then came the final insult: Senny Mayulu, just 18, added a fifth in the 87th. Inter were not just beaten. They were broken.

The numbers say it all: PSG scored five without reply. Inter had two shots on target. Two. In a final. On this stage. After all the buildup.

This Was a Coronation, Not a Contest

Luis Enrique’s PSG—young, vibrant, ruthlessly efficient—played like a team with a vision. Inter played like a team with vertigo. It wasn’t tactical nuance that undid the Italians; it was total psychological collapse.

The final didn’t feel like a duel between two of Europe’s finest. It felt like the last episode of a show where only one cast member turned up. Inter didn’t just lose the plot—they forgot their lines and walked off set.

Where Was the Fight?

This wasn’t Istanbul 2005. Not even Cardiff 2017. There was no late surge, no near-miss heartbreak, no memorable resistance. It was a mauling. A mismatch. A footballing execution carried out in high definition before the eyes of a global audience.

Inzaghi, post-match, admitted: “It didn’t feel like my Inter.” He’s right. Because his Inter usually punch, scrap, kick and claw. This version melted like gelato in July.

The Beginning of PSG, the End of Inter?

For PSG, this was catharsis. A club mocked for years for failing on the biggest stage finally delivered—and in devastating fashion. Not with mercenaries, but with a generation of fearless kids led by a manager with scars, wisdom, and purpose.

For Inter, this felt like a window slamming shut. What now? Regroup? Rebuild? Reflect?

Because after a final like that, they don’t just have to answer questions—they have to ask themselves some.