With 27 minutes gone, and Manchester City 1-0 up, Erling Haaland did an extraordinary and also very funny thing. Strolling with feigned disinterest away from a free‑kick in the centre circle, Haaland turned, took the ball, and decided to run straight at the Borussia Dortmund defence, dragging with him a pair of desperate yellow shirts, grabbing and stumbling and firing their useless harpoons into the great white beast ahead of them.

There was nothing uncontrolled about this. It was an act of targeted violence by Haaland, the application of a superior force (basically, me) to a point of weakness (that would be: all of you). Eventually the ball ran free to Nico O’Reilly, all alone, as the entire Dortmund defence was dragged along in Haaland’s wake, by now, frankly, in need of a bigger boat.

O’Reilly’s shot was palmed away, and from the corner Haaland scored. Jérémy Doku made it, cutting the ball back across the area. The finish was just power, fun, a full, meaty thunk of the left foot. And in that moment Haaland had a perfectly symmetrical game, one shot, one goal, one charge-dribble, one clearance, like a perfectly pitched Haaland tribute act.

Even the cheer...