Most of the 591 passes went side to side and side to side and side to side then side to side. The whole thing was a collective failure to engage brains, summed up at what's supposedly United's new superpower, set-pieces.
All this hard work and nothing more than a single point of comfort at the top of the table: that's football at its reassuring, familiar, painful best.
The ref might have been tempted to follow Daniel Farke around with his card ready if smug eyebrows were against the rules of the game.
Back to that sofa, the coffee and the cake. Daniel Farke has made this season all about his seen it all and ridden the horse approach to the Championship, balancing his experience like a seesaw plank on a pivot of temperamental kids.
We've been preoccupied with sexy this season. And a point in Sheffield ain't that.
While Reach's speculative strike had the satisfying audacity of a stunt, Klich made something artful, deliberate and beautiful. It's the difference between watching two magpies have a fight in your garden, or watching a nature documentary narrated by David Attenborough.
Midweek on the playing fields, The Championship thwacks you on the knees, it knees you in the groin, it elbows in the face, leaves bruises bigger than dinner plates.
The other players seemed slow to join Chris Wood. Perhaps they were waiting to see if he was about to produce a bike chain from somewhere and pile into the supporters, finishing what he started on Tuesday night. He was shouting a lot, but I'm willing to assume it was all nice things.
This is how this weekend felt. Not just the defeat, but the manner of it, the way the cosmos seemed to be taking the monumental piss.
This season paring down to an individual face-off - Cellino vs Redfearn - which is not something that should happen at Billy Bremner’s club.