A minute before half‑time, with Arsenal 1-0 down, still a little clogged in midfield but pressing hard, an unseen brass band somewhere behind the press box began playing a jaunty, oddly mocking version of “No no, no no no no, no no no no, no no there’s no limits”.
The band had vanished by the time the players trooped off. Did it ever really exist? Was it another passing apparition in a wild, gripping, at times occasionally hallucinogenic game notable for the sight of two of the great control managers slightly losing the run of themselves, like a pair of chess nerds out there having a high-speed, full-contact game of draughts, pieces scattered, formations endlessly rejigged, Pep going full Pulis, Mikel Arteta chucking every attacking weapon into the breach, going after the last column of tanks with a soup ladle.
