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On the horizon where beauty and sadism meet, Manchester City tore Brighton to ornate, sumptuous shreds. It was luxurious, it was cruel, it was pointless and yet in a strange way seemed to mean everything. With nothing tangible to play for in the league, City simply played for the joy of playing, abetted by an opposition who were more than happy to let them do so.
Perhaps, on reflection, this is the best way of all to enjoy Pep Guardiola’s baroque creation: no fans, no background noise, no forced narratives. Just football as its own lavish end. For the muted celebrations and multiple substitutions, City’s intensity was irrepressible and irresistible. Sterling bagged a hat-trick, Jesus and Bernardo Silva added one each, but by then everyone was having far too much fun to keep counting. Continue reading...