Saints go marching in - Southampton beat Manchester City with uncharacteristic ease.

Saints go marching in- Southampton beat Manchester City with uncharacteristic ease.

So the Saints did indeed go marching in and by the end of another early July evening some of us were so disoriented that in a sense Southampton may just have assumed that they were heading in the right direction. There were no signposts or reference points but this was, without any shadow of a doubt, an end of season, inconsequential Premier League matc with nothing to aim for or cling onto. Somehow the satnav is far preferable to the old road map although the A to Z still has its merits if you're stuck on a hard shoulder or some remote lay by.

Yesterday Southampton, who must have thought it was curtains towards the end of last year, have quite literally pulled themselves together. In a rainstorm at St Mary's last winter, Southampton were steamrollered by ambitious Leicester City with a humiliating 9-0 defeat. They often tell us that the writing on the wall may have been there for all to see but Southampton rolled up their sleeves, knuckled down to the task in hand and now find themselves in comfortable mid table terrain.

But nobody could have seen this one coming. This was yet another midsummer exhibition at a time of the year when most footballers would much rather be listening to the soothing, sonorous waves of a Mediterranean sea than the industrial thud of boot against midriff or thigh. However, this is Project Restart, football's version of the summer fiesta where the chirruping of the late night crickets compete against the swish of the matador's cape for attention in a world where nothing is real and the way it should be.

Frequently this fourth round of matches that have been tightly crammed into a bizarre schedule of Premier League matches, is now beginning to look like a roller coaster that shouldn't really be hurtling towards its destination at such a hectic speed. Still, for most football fans, this quite definitely beats watching paint dry and besides the Premier League season had to end because if it had been declared null and void there would have been an uproar and certainly an outright revolt.

Grown men would have been storming the barricades, breaking down the turnstiles quite angrily and football would have lost its soul, its true value and that comforting sense of identity. And so it was that at the end of June and now into the first week of July the Premier League is doing a wonderfully convincing impersonation of men who may be enjoying themselves in their chosen sport but not really knowing why.

Amusingly, the whole of this game was played out to a chorus of noisy seagulls who were doing their utmost to serenade an empty St Mary's stadium with a classic Solent sea shanty. Here we were at a football stadium in July desperately stifling laughter and holding back our belly aching derision. In the normal scheme of things the South Coast would have been welcoming their traditional intake of daytrippers, ice cream licking children, parents, families, mums and dads strolling along the prom with not a care in the world.

But this was a strange footballing intrusion, not so much an imposition, more of an unexpected phenomena where players and managers join forces with small knots of men- the coaching staff- leaning forward in their seats and wearing those medicinally protective masks. Occasionally it reminded you of a low budget film about a group of footballers gathered together at a summer boot camp where actors and actresses pretend to be keepy uppy exponents or stepover and drag back experts. There were though no film cameras in sight nor the obligatory directors with a loud tannoy.

Then the referee blew his whistle for kick off at St Mary's  and you'd have been forgiven for thinking that you were stranded on a windswept beach during the winter. Suddenly, there was a cavernous echo about St Mary's that almost felt supernatural. All around the players were waves of subdued fan noises that sounded like another set of gentle tidal crashes onto the shore. Every so often players and managers would take it in turn to holler and yell, barking blasts of sound that were ever so spooky at times.

Poor Pep Guardiola, who probably felt he'd won the Lottery when Manchester City won the Premier League last season, looked ever so slightly defeated and downcast. Last Thursday City rolled back the seasons with a thumping 4-0 victory over the new Premier League champions Liverpool but in front of yet more cardboard art City looked leg weary, downtrodden and worn out. Against Southampton, whose act of defensive gallantry deserved much more than a medal, City were out on their feet, aching for warmer climes to rest tired limbs and not quite up to their rarefied standards.

For Southampton manager Ralph Hasehuttl this had to be one of his most satisfying 90 minutes in English football. There hasn't been a great deal to cheer about for Hasenhuttl who not only got a soaking in Southampton's 9-0 embarrassment at home to Leicester but probably thought his world had come to an end. But football's bearded Austrian handed out some stern instructions to his players, read that familiar riot act and after Manchester City sorrily trooped away from the South Coast, we acknowledged that every underdog has its day in the July sun.

When the sprightly and frequently energetic Kyle Walker Peters, Jack Stephens, Jan Bednarek and the ever reliable England man Ryan Bertrand pushed forward with harmonious intent, Southampton dropped anchor and sailed effortlessly away from the harbour. While the probing, prompting and scheming Stuart Armstrong linked up imaginatively with the purposeful Oriel Romeu, the irresistible Nathan Redmond and the always inventive James Ward Prowse, Southampton, certainly for much of the first half, were neat, tidy, economical in their passing and impressive moving forward.

Manchester City, to their eternal credit came out for the second half revived, refreshed and revitalised. Hurt and chastened by Southampton's attacking masterclass during the first half, City were back firing on all cylinders and for almost the entire second period, showed all the flamboyant flounces and elaborate passing patterns that would have blown Southampton into the Solent last season and the one before.

The underlying worry for City is that they could be kicked out of next season's Champions League on Financial Fair Play grounds so this rare setback must still rankle with them privately. Their football is still a joy to behold, rather like some joyous shangri-la. The passes are made of the silkiest texture, their movement on and off the ball a classical music concerto where everything happens spontaneously and perfectly. When the piano hits the right chord and the cymbal crashes dramatically you almost feel as if you've just witnessed footballing poetry.

Last night City were still knitting and sewing their passing together, recycling the ball over and over again, gathering their team around and then engaging in close, one touch football that could now be heard quite clearly at St Mary's. For the entire second half City opened up and sliced apart Southampton, dissecting and examining the Saints for further forensic inspection. Then they camped inside the home team's half, surrounding Southampton and then outnumbering them at times.

But Southampton had already scored the opening goal of the match with a truly stunning goal. For the first quarter of an hour City were not at their sharpest unlike the old City who would have gone at Southampton with tooth and claw. This was not the way it was meant to be and the goal shook the former Premier League champions to the core of their being.

A terrible goal kick from City keeper Ederson ended up at a red and white striped Saints shirt before the ball landed at the feet of Che Adams. Now this was the moment when every goalkeeper must dread. You mess up your clearance carelessly and you're punished for your sloppiness and negligence. It does happen from time to time but not to City surely. Sadly it did. There was a temporary sigh of despair and Ederson just wanted a holiday sun lounger.

So here we were in the realms of the fantasy. Che Adams, wonderfully perceptive, splendidly observant and very streetwise, noticed a goalkeeper stumbling back into his goal. Adams promptly sent an astonishingly deliciously curling lob high over Edison from almost the half way line. It was a goal made in heaven, a goal of vintage magnificence, a goal to show your children and grandchildren over and over again. And so it would prove the Southampton winner.

You were taken on a brief dance down memory lane. You would have imagined the reaction of one Lawrie Mcnemeny, a Southampton manager, Guardsman and magician supreme. When Southampton played at the old Dell ground, Mcnemeny would grin from ear to ear when the likes of Mick Channon would follow a goal celebration with a windmilling arm, drooling at Kevin Keegan re-capturing his grander Liverpool days and then smiling widely when that firework of a midfielder Alan Ball would release his all action dynamism into an old First Division match.

Southampton though are safe from relegation and have been for some time. Their team still looks slightly ragged and nervous at times and next season should tell us much more about the motivational powers of Hasenhutll. As long as they can wipe from their minds the 9-0 catastrophic defeat to Leicester then things will indeed run smoothly. For now the Saints will keep marching on as long as they don't drop anything.