… and Manchester City win 5 nil.

That’s it. That nasty northern spawn of oil billionaires have been reduced to one single result. They win 5 nil. I’d hate that. Can you imagine if your team won, like, every game with style, class, beautiful flowing football, clean sheets and 5 unanswered goals? Awful. Where’s the challenge? Where’s the uncertainty? Where’s the panic, anxiety, stress, shame, worry, shattered dreams, massive disappointment and heart-rending AGONYYYYYY!!!!!! which for Spurs fans (and don’t kid yourself, so many others too) is not just ‘part of the game’, but in fact is the game in its entirety.

And today we play Arsenal. The biggest sporting rivalry in the world. Well, in my world. Yet we don’t hate Arsenal the club. We hate their fans. Who, fortunately won’t be attending today’s derby match. Unfortunately neither will our fans. The only difference is that their fans are horrible, smug, arrogant and have no endearing features whatsoever, whilst ours are charming, gentlemanly (even the female ones… ok, and all the others in between) and rather beautiful. Tests have actually shown that Arsenal fans are the ugliest in the country. (Withnail et I, 1987). I’m not making judgments here, just stating scientific facts.

And we’ll probably (ok, definitely) lose, which will bring on heaps more smugness and horribleness, which will miss the point that both clubs, currently, are mid-table shite, leaving many good people wondering when Jose Morinho might possibly contract Covid 19 and how serious is might be.

Norwich City were relegated yesterday. But will be allowed to finish their last few games in the Premiership before they complete their demotion. That’s the rules. And I wish I could say something nice about them, or to them. Something positive, something… anything other than Delia Smith, but I can’t. They came, they were fairly anonymous for a year, and now they’re going. Bye-bye.

But Jackie Charlton. Oh my. Now that is sad. Big Jack died yesterday and for a certain generation (ok, mine) he represented one part of what is brilliant about our national game. That part being club loyalty (only ever played for Leeds), a wicked charm, a World Cup winner, and all coupled with a ‘pragmatic’ approach to the art of defending which verged (and went right over that verge) on the extremely violent. As only that Leeds team of the 60s/70s could perpetrate. As he said himself, his brother Bobby could play football (arguably the best English footballer ever) while he, Jack, could stop people playing football. Because that was his job. Which he did brilliantly. And very very dangerously at times. And I’m sad not because we’ve lost a World Cup winner, or a footballer, but because we’ve lost someone who was always much more intelligent and witty than all others around him.

Happy Sad Day

A xxxx