Like the rest of you, I spent last weekend in a big mushroom cloud of ecstasy (no, not the narcotic, although the effect was much the same.) Tottenham shirts were all over the place in London, as we all high-fived each other and scoured the globe for any United fans we knew. I even rang up a lad I haven’t spoken to since secondary school, just because I had ran out of Utd fans to throw obscenities at.
Utd fan; “Hello?”
Me; “3-2! Suck on that! Suck it!”
Utd fan; “Who’s this?”
I put the phone down as I couldn’t be bothered having a proper conversation with him, I had far too much drinking to do.
I know it is only one game, it’s only 3 points, it’s not a guarantee of a top 4 slot, and it’s not like we’ve won a trophy for our hard-fought 94 minutes, but as a long serving Tottenham fan, I have learned to enjoy the little things while they are there. If the season implodes and it all goes to the dogs, it will be these small moments that I can look back on with a smile.
The day started with a certain article in The Sun trying to make us believe that we were in ‘turmoil’. Sherwood frozen out of 1st team affairs and was on his bike, players meeting with management complaining of how terrible life is under Satan reincarnate AVB.
As a long serving Tottenham fan, I have learned to enjoy the little things while they are there. If the season implodes and it all goes to the dogs, it will be these small moments that I can look back on with a smile.
Not a great beginning to a day when, let’s face it, we had all conceded the points to United before a ball had even been kicked. Nonetheless, those of us who did not have a golden ticket all crowded around our televisions to watch the inevitable loss manifest itself. The ref blew his whistle, the game kicked off and we continued our grand tradition of hoping for the best, but expecting the worst.
Bang! Jan ‘the man’ Vertonghen with a great run and a shot that took no deflection what-so-ever (shhhhh). 1-0 to the mighty Spurs, but the celebrations were marred by a collective thought of ‘we’ve scored too early.’ Dembele and Sandro were running the show in the middle of the park and our full backs were pushing Utd further and further into their own half. Bang! Gareth ‘I would be prepared to have your babies’ Bale showed how old Ferdinand really is by blowing past him and slotting it in the bottom left corner. 2-0 to the mighty Spurs, but the celebrations were marred by a collective thought of ‘we’ve scored too early, again’.
Half-time brought with it conflicting emotions of excitement and apprehension. I was doing my best not to get my hopes up while still getting carried away with the scoreline. Various views on how the 2nd half would pan out were being thrown around the pub like white and blue confetti, but all of these got lodged in the throat as the game got back underway.
Nani put United straight back in the game before I’d even taken a sip of my freshly-poured pint. ‘Here we go again’ almost turned into a chant, because so many people said it at exactly the same time, 2-1, and an old familiar fear started making its way up my spine. Bang! Clint ‘I’m not too sure about you yet, but good on you lad’ Dempsey pounced on a rebounding Bale shot. I couldn’t tell if I was shocked because we’d scored straight away or because Defoe had held the ball up and actually passed it (for any of you who didn’t get to watch the game, I’m honestly not joking he really did pass it). Then Kagawa cut us all short by taking advantage of some bad positioning by our defence. 3-2 and United were brething down our necks. The rest of the half was a cardiac arrest waiting to happen. My rear was clenched so tightly that I was practically chewing on my prostate. This handsome face of mine was never more than 3 inches from a TV screen covered in my own spit. Pieces of me were dying every time United had a chance, and I think we can all agree that they had a lot of chances.
The blessed final whistle, oh how I love thee. I jumped so high that I hit my head on a light fitting, but who cares, we’d just done the Red Devils on their own turf. My Lilywhites and I hugged and jumped all over each other in what I can only describe as a huge love in, but once the dust had settled, we all waited for the post-match interview for we knew what was to come. Everybody has said what a nerve Ferguson had to moan about added time, especially after everything that has transpired in our fixtures at Old Trafford in the past, but, if we are all honest with ourselves, we all wanted him to complain about something just so we could say ‘Who does he think he is!? How dare he!? What about the time when (insert your worst Utd memory here)!?’ We all wanted him to do it and we loved it when he did. Not a lot of class from a so called ‘Sir’, but he gave us the fuel to light a fire of unashamed self riotousness, cheers for that Alex, you’re a gem.
What a great day. We shoved it up United, we shoved it up The Sun and we shoved it up Piers Morgan’s twitter account. Remember, if the season does go down the toilet, these are the days that we should keep in our hearts. Now bring on Woolwich, the Russian Mob and anyone else who wants some. COYS!