It seemed fitting that Erling Haaland’s milestone should arrive from the only real moment of clarity in a mildly hallucinogenic first half during which the day seemed to lurch and swirl weirdly, red and blue shirts colliding and intersecting in the Manchester rain like a cloud of winter midges.
This was a gorgeous, muddy, angry mess of a football match. The crowd seemed constantly in the process of waving its fists in rage or shock. Both managers came dressed entirely in tight matt black and spent the afternoon whirling and crouching like a pair of furiously angry international jewel thieves.
