Dreams and Nightmares on Fulham High Road

The May Bank Holiday brings welcome relief to workers throughout the UK. In London with offices closed and the sun shining, we head for the nearest patch of grass, or beer garden to enjoy some ice cold alcoholic beverages. On Monday I found myself in Highgate Woods, spread across a blanket, cider by my side and sleep slowly creeping upon me.

“I am just going to close my eyes”

I informed my girlfriend, who wasn’t listening, it seems a 5 year old boy in a sun hat kicking a Ben 10 ball, was far more worthy of her attention than me.

“Wake me up in 5…”

Stood in the Shed End I couldn’t help but laugh, Chelsea were in disarray. Tottenham were leading 3-0 and had just been awarded a penalty. Tom Huddlestone’s turn of pace had seen him elude Ashley Cole and John-Obi Mikel only for John Terry to dash from the bench, with the Dummies Guide to Becoming a Manager in hand and spear him in the gut repeatedly with his 2B pencil.

Paramedics, the Chelsea weightlifting society, Fatima Whitbread and that hot Chelsea doctor, were all trying to put the Hudd back together again.

Further up the field Demba Ba seeing such bloodshed had crashed to the floor, Fernando Torres was stood above him trying to cajole him. Eden Hazard meanwhile was picking a fight with Aaron Lennon.

“I need to improve my image and show I am not a wimp who picks on kids, I am going to fight you, but not before promoting myself on Twitter to make sure I get maximum exposure.”

In the Matthew Harding stand, Chelsea fans were thinking about coming over to confront the Spurs faithful, but unfortunately they didn’t know who they hated more, Tottenham, Rafa Benitez or themselves.

It was a glorious sight, we were singing Glory Glory Hallelujah at the top of our voices and Gareth Bale, ball in hand waiting for Hudd’s blood to be cleaned off the penalty spot was conducting us. Each and every one of us looked into his eyes and we knew he would stay. In that one moment he epitomised Spurs, elegant, stylish, skilful and totally in love with the finer aspects of the game and Tottenham.

On the Spurs bench, Sandro who looked to be operating as assistant to assistant manager Steffen Freund was weeping.

I hadn’t been that happy since Des Walker scored an own goal in 1991. Someone though called my name; craning my neck I looked over to the left but saw nothing but darkness, freaked out I looked back to the pitch, but something had changed.

I couldn’t move, I along with thousands of other Spurs fans were strapped into our seats. Reading the notice on the chair in front of me I realised that standing, getting up, even rising slightly were all banned, even looking away from the pitch is discouraged.

With fear rising in me I attempted to wriggle free of my restraints only to discover my head was locked inside a SAW style metal helmet. I tried to avert my eyes from the pitch but a sensor read my intentions and two rather large spikes emerged pointing straight at my eyes. The message was clear. I had to watch.

Chelsea were playing keep ball. Ramires, Hazard, Juan Mata and even Branislav Ivanovic were showboating, the clock showed 90 minutes had already gone, but then the tannoy announced there would be 30 minutes of injury time, the Chelsea fans went wild. They were 4-0 up and cruising.

Spurs hadn’t touched the ball in an age, Bale was playing on the right and the man running the flag was a tracksuit clad Roman Abramovich. Every time Bale came within ear shot he would show him a piece of paper with numbers on it and a quaint little cottage in Russia which apparently was:

“Perfect for your granny, she will have such fun. There is a nice lake for fishing, a beautiful fireplace and I have built an airport just down the road, you can go and visit always.”

For Tottenham though, things hadn’t started going wrong at kick-off, the omens had been bad for a few days. It started with an investigation into Hugo Lloris by someone at Chelsea. They had discovered that in Daniel Levy’s rush to make a failed bid for Leandro Damiao, he hadn’t seen a clause in Lloris’ contract, that stated when the Frenchman had made 100 saves for Tottenham he would join Chelsea with immediate effect.

Spurs had no choice but to turn to Brad Friedel, but Chelsea officials were quick to point out that playing the veteran would be against new Parliamentary Legislation regarding putting the elderly into dangerous situations. With no other choice, Spurs airlifted in Heurelho Gomes from Germany. He had been at fault for all four goals.

Tottenham’s defence deflated by the return of Gomes had crumbled, whilst up front Jermain Defoe had been distracted by Chelsea filling the front two rows of Matthew Harding stand with former X-Factor contestants, nurses and dubious models.

In midfield Tottenham’s spinning top, Scott Parker had fainted, it seemed the intricate patterns mown into the Stamford Bridge turf, when viewed spinning through 360 degrees causes you to pass out. Freund had attempting the kiss of life and put Parker in the recovery position but to no avail. Tottenham’s lightweight midfield got even lighter.

The only player playing to his usual standard was Emmanuel Adebayor, it was that bad.

Sitting there I had no choice but to accept what I was seeing, all I could do was pray it would end.

“Anthony!! Anthony!!”

Sunlight hit my face, I felt a trickle of sweat make its way down my cheek round on to my neck. A cool breeze ruffled my hair; I could hear the noise of trees and birds.

“Anthony, what’s wrong with you?”

“Were you calling my name?”

“No he was.” Said my girlfriend pointing at a smiling old chap emerging from the forest.

“Ah you are awake, finally.”

“Not yet, I have plans, we are going on a picnic. Szczęsny, get the blanket.”