Manchester City revel in coronation but they cannot control their legacy

T he fans were warned not to invade the pitch. There was a message on the big screen a few minutes before the end, a reminder on the public address system that entering the playing surface was strictly illegal and would not be tolerated. There was a line of stewards and police officers poised like sprinters by the touchline, ready to secure the turf as soon as the game ended.

And then the game ended and within seconds the grass was engulfed by stampeding boots and pounding steps and one little girl doing cartwheels, which to be fair was very cute. “PLEASE LEAVE THE PITCH,” the announcer pleaded again, as Manchester City’s players and staff dodged a swarm of flying bodies, some fully clothed and some not, each one bearing a smartphone with a little blinking red dot on the screen. They weren’t really celebrating, you see; they were simply taking what they thought was theirs. A few guys decided to carry out a strength test on the goalposts at the south end of the ground: a task probably best left until the summer and to trained maintenance personnel.

Nothing against pitch invasions, personally speaking – as long as no harm is intended and no harm is done, then who cares? But there seemed to be a rich irony in the fact that the club that built an entire sporting dynasty on the right to do whatever it wanted had discovered a sudden taste for rules and order. Eventually the security staff restored a modicum of calm and the few remaining intruders could retreat to the stands, their content captured, their thirst for freedom slaked.

So, after a fashion, the coronation could proceed: an event that ultimately proved not dissimilar to the actual coronation, another event dedicated to the glorification of state power and the