I once lived with a guy who wanted to throw a party for the coronation of King Charles.

The motivation behind his idea slowly revealed itself in the days beforehand, in a real-time shattering of the illusion that we had anything in common.

At first, it was simply pre-drinks before heading to the pub. Fine. There’s nothing more British than using any excuse for a p*ss-up.

Then he bought home a load of Charlie-covered bunting ‘that was going spare in the office’. An item that looked suspiciously like a crown sat on the dining table. Inwardly, I started to panic.

When I saw him googling ‘food served at Buckingham Palace’, I cracked and asked what the f**k was going on.

His reasoning was that ‘if anyone asks me in the future what I was doing for the coronation, I don’t want to say I was just playing video games’. It was the sincerity that unnerved me. Never has Trainline been opened and a journey home booked so quickly.

I was reminded of this when news of Manchester City’s guilty verdict came through. It was 10 minutes after I’d closed my laptop, mentally clocked off for the day and gone on an afternoon walk.

It occurred to me that people may indeed ask each other Where They Were in the future, such are the potential repercussions, with Rui Pinto cast as football’s Gavrilo Princip.

My other memory was being in no rush to get back, seeing as the discourse would go on and on and on. We’re close to being Discoursed Out, in truth.

Because what now? City matches feel like contractual obligations – as much for television as the Premier League itself – until the appeal is heard and punishment decided.

Equally, the fury at City players celebrating their victory at Liverpool and indignation at their fans revelling in their club’s pariah status also feels like howling into the wind.

There’s a sense of the biggest story in Premier League history being in danger of becoming old news in under a month.

You could blame the avalanche of content or fried attention spans, but there’s also a learned helplessness too. An awareness that the eventual decision will be made by diplomats and politicians, not us.

So the Etihad was more or less full on a bright autumn afternoon, one where the first bite of winter chill could be felt in the air, as the show limbered on.

The Premier League anthem was lustily booed pre-match, but the mass of inflatable bananas felt less significant. And not just because of their inflated price; several holding them up would struggle to remember Carlos Tevez, never mind Ali Bernabia.

Given the raw information of a 3pm kick-off between Manchester City and Ipswich Town, you could very easily write a script close to what unfolded in the first half.

There would be early City pressure, with a Ruben Dias palm stinger thrown in for added colour, before an opening goal that already felt inevitable.

Phil Foden was the beneficiary of Jeremy Doku’s pull-back, sweeping home a tidy first-time finish and celebrating with what amateur body language experts would identify as relief.

Foden was back sporting his traditional Agincourt haircut, perhaps grasping for happier times after a difficult few years. This was his first goal of the season.

Then, the mid-level plot twist of a swift Ipswich equaliser from another of those uncharacteristic Marc Guehi mistakes.

Guehi was hounded down by Daizen Maeda and too easily shrugged off the ball. Going mano a mano with Gianluigi Donnarumma, Maeda shaped to shoot into the far corner before tucking his shot in the near post.

Gary O’Neil celebrated with a big glug of water, remaining stone-faced. Just as they did at Old Trafford in August, Ipswich looked like a gritty lower-mid-table Premier League team throughout and should stay up comfortably.

Another common trope of City matches is Erling Haaland remaining quiet until he wasn’t. There were 30 minutes of very little before a blocked shot, an attempted overhead kick and, inevitably, the type of thumping header he should probably think about trademarking.

The City team huddled together by the corner flag in celebration, before the obligatory camera cut to Haaland’s dad sitting in hospitality.

There were long stretches without any real jeopardy, as Ipswich pushed forward knowing City would reply quickly if they did score.

As Paul Merson said last week, City’s opponents still look satisfied with a narrow defeat at the Etihad.

Haaland scored his second with 20 minutes left, almost trampling over Abdoul Ouattara before slotting home. Nobody has scored 100 non-penalty goals in the Premier League quicker.

It looked like a question of how many City would score, especially when their resident Viking thought he’d completed his hat-trick.

VAR intervened, clocking that Enzo Fernandez was offside, but it was notable how muted the celebrations had been.

Ipswich never gave up, though, and won a penalty through Guehi’s second uncharacteristic mistake of the day, this time hauling down Abdul Fatawu.

Summer signing Zian Flemming thumped his spot-kick as if determined to tear the net, adding a sliver of interest to the 12 minutes of injury time.

Ultimately, it’s another win for Enzo Maresca, seven from as many league games. But the real action is unfolding elsewhere and nobody will remember where they were for this one.