Proficient drinkers could spill out an ounce, or an ounce and a half, or two, from the neck of a Solo Soda bottle in the dark, measured to the very dram, refill it with corn whisky, turn it upside down with the thumb placed carefully over the bottle's lip— for a good mix, and luck— and drink it down, flatfooted.

It was a victory that clearly meant so much to Van Gaal as the normally impassive manager raced from his seat in the technical area to celebrate Lingard's winner.

I'm too sober to be drunk, too sober to be anything but in a funk. The safety net no longer protects. My anger no longer projects. The trite questions are difficult and pondersome.

Then towards the end you hear them both interlaced, and both are being resolved in a perdendosi.