When you go off chocolate for Lent the world is suddenly made of chocolate. Mountains are rugged slabs of Toblerone, the roofs of houses neatly slated with After Eights and traffic jams are hunks of Yorkie lined up in the morning gloom.
This must be how Erling Haaland feels in those stretches of minutes when he is not scoring goals. Every through ball not attempted provokes an ache of longing, every run not found causes the mouth to water, every shot miscued makes the tummy rumble.
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