Rage, rage against the dying of the sky blue light. Or, alternately, don’t rage at all. The scoreline read 3-1 by the end, but for long periods on a lovely soft February night at the Bernabéu this felt like an act of extended sporting cruelty, an opportunity to sit back and watch the players of Real Madrid pulling the wings very slowly from an aubergine-shirted butterfly.
The key executioner was Kylian Mbappé, who barely seemed to sprint, or wrinkle his shirt, let alone dig into the outer reaches of his talent en route to a clean, crisp, almost uncontested hat-trick.
