When the first Manchester City goal went in, with the Wembley clock on 60 minutes, Pep Guardiola’s response was to attack a pitchside hoarding – but to do even this in a very Pep kind of way, methodically, relentlessly trousers billowing, brown lace-ups whirring in perfect concert, like an uncle doing the running man at a wedding.
When the second goal was scored four minutes later, the trophy-clincher, and Nico O’Reilly’s second of the afternoon, Guardiola was up and off down the touchline, bounding, star jumping, revolving his arms. There he goes, out there kicking down saloon doors, karate chopping blocks of concrete, bending iron bars with his bare hands.
