Coming soon

On the Manchester City bench Mancini offers his assistant a sweet, it looks like a fruit pastille. They are playing Balotelli on the left wing (he is a striker) and now here he is again, gathering a pass on the dead ball line, jinking, stroking it back to a team mate. He has mesmerising balance and a horrible sang froid. His hair is a tight rectangular Mohawk, already he is sweating up but that means nothing. Another corner to them and he and Walters are at it again, this time Balotelli getting a little rattled as Walters makes a stronger effort to let him know he’s there, in his face. Balotelli turns on him, tells him to fuck off. The ball is cleared to the half way line but the relief is temporary, here they come again, they are developing a slow wave of attacks. Now it is the turn of their left back Kolorov, a Serb in the 13 shirt (my lucky number – a horse in the 13 cloth in green silks at a big price in Ireland will often help you out) to surge forward and to skid the ball low into our six-yard box where Shawcross dives in late and deflects it into the side netting with an outstretched leg. Ooooh. The moan is low; from many angles it looked an own goal. Another corner to them, Balotelli and Walters getting to know each other better and better…

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