The miracle of the mangled foot continues to the point where people are going to be coming round with their sick, their ailing, their dying and get me to ‘lay hands’ up one them to ‘heal’ them. Or maybe lay my foot on them. It’ll be like Lourdes, but in north-west London. Because I played tennis this morning and it hardly bothered me at all. I just got out of the wheelchair and hit the ball. Ok, exaggerating, obviously, but it was fine. I don’t get it, but I’m happy. Therefore the world is happy.

Well, it was until the football started.

This was the ultimate ‘6-pointer’. Spurs, 5th from bottom, against Nottingham Forest, 4th from bottom. We WERE one point ahead. West Ham are 1 point below. And they lost today, so stay there; one point below us. So this was THE game to win. It’s not going to be ‘easier’, because they’re not 4th from bottom because they’re playing consistently wonderful and winning football. They’re there because, like us, they’re shit and can’t even find the ‘barn door’ to miss from three yards. So it was an opportunity to play just that little bit better than a pretty crappy team.

And yet there’s always the matter of momentum, driven by confidence. And both Spurs and Forest won European matches this week, which creates a massive ‘feel good’. Or so you’d like to think.

It was all square for the first half. Well, til right at the end of the first half. When Forest scored. According to footballing psychology ‘that’s a terrible time to concede a goal’. What these boffins don’t tell you is when is a ‘good time’ to concede might be. Because the answer is ‘never’, obviously. But heh, there’s 45 minutes to play, let’s get out there, let’s justify the truly ridiculous salaries we get paid every week, let’s play like the ‘superstars’ we strut around all week pretending to be as we decide whether to go to training in the Range Rover or the Ferrari. Let’s, for the first time in 2026, WIN A FUCKING LEAGUE MATCH IN OUR MAGNIFICENT, BILLION POUND HOME!!! And can I add: FFS!!!

For my own part; I called upon the gods. All of them. One’s not enough so I tried all the 3,000 Hindu ones, all the Ancient Greek and Roman ones, especially the more obscure gods for shiny hair and fishing and healthy sheep. Then I started on the demi-gods, the Bhuddas and Donald Trumps and my left foot and everyone I could think of. (Spurs fans have lists of Gods with them for every match). And it must be said that, collectively, they were fuck all use. Because we only managed to concede another 2 goals. Maybe if I hadn’t prayed it would have been more?

This was ‘doomsday’. The day’s over, so it’s only the doom left. With an abundance of gloom.

Worst Sunday ever

A xxxx