OK, so it was all building to this, then. The slow‑burn plotlines. The room‑temperature action sequences. The winter afternoons on the sofa watching men wrestle unhappily, staring out of the window as the frigid wind tousles the clouds, wondering about the death of all things, and also why referees not only have to speak now but speak in the same awkward Yorkshire bingo‑caller voice.
All of this. It’s all actually fine. Because it turns out this was just delayed resolution, cinematic build, the sporting equivalent of a really long closeup of a man in a wide-brimmed Mexican hat narrowing his eyes and chewing a cigar. And now we get the payoff. The Etihad on Sunday afternoon. The clink of spurs. The tick of the clocktower. Townsfolk huddled at the saloon-bar shutters. Get ready for an old-school shootout.
