It can be a fun exercise during Manchester City games to imagine the contents of Pep Guardiola’s inner monologue, the stream of consciousness inside that whirring cranium as he strides his touchline, arms revolving, dressed these days in flowing Jedi robes, skater trainers and guru scarf, like a bald indie-Gandalf.
Most of the time Guardiola seems to be worrying about tiny details, correctively raging at shape, positioning and pressing patterns, muttering things like Jack, Jack, NO JACK, NO JACK. YES JACK. Who knows? Maybe he’s just wondering if he should have worn the quilted over-gown after all.
