I’m not the most ‘god fearing’ bloke in the world, I admit that. I only speak to Him when Spurs are losing or when they miss stupid, easy goals. When I’m driving sometimes. Often. But sometimes there are ‘signs’ that simply cannot be ignored. Not ‘miracles’ in any biblical, Noah’s Ark, Jonah and the Whale, burning bush, sense, but ‘signs’ that can only really be understood in the context of some form of divine intervention.

England winning the semi-final last night was miraculous enough, given the awful way we’ve been limping through the previous rounds. But then, this morning, ‘this’ just dropped through the letter box when I came down for breakfast (see pic). And the combination of England reaching the Euro finals and some ‘angel’ delivering a message from The Lord above, loosely disguised as a menu from a cheap and cheerful, bog standard, 307 different curries all described in exactly the same way, restaurant. Or possibly just a ‘take-away’. Who knows? Who cares. You phone ‘em, they bring you a curry. And the ‘angel’ didn’t look like… you know, l’m thinking white, wings, diaphanous, looked more like a brick-layer from Warsaw’s wife, but ‘He moves in mysterious ways’.

So that would appear to be Sunday night sorted then. It’s the will of God.

And the goal by Ollie Watkins. A player I’ve loved for many a year and have always paid him the finest compliment I know: I WANT HIM AT SPURS. Ok, it would possibly condemn him to Kane-syndrome, but at least it would get him out of Aston Villa. Who wants to live in Birmingham?

Anyone who critises Gareth Southgate if officially the absolute tosspot that we already know Lineker is. Two finals in four years. Over a hundred games and always clever. Even if not always ‘beautiful’. The man walks on water.

And for last night’s game, I was so exited by the prospect that I actually went and spent time with God. No, honestly. Well, I was in a synagogue in St John’s Wood for the memorial service for a bloke who selfishly died during the fucking Euros!!! And we prayed. And there were speeches which, in the manner of such events, all sounded the same. So I watched my watch, checked the score on my phone very sneakily and then, for the first time in my entire life, I ran past the sandwiches and cakes without touching them, dived into the car and broke every speed limit (Hampstead is all 20mph, so speeding is really easy there) to get home for the last 20 minutes. Had to overtake a blue-lighting ambulance but that’s his worry.

So now I’m exited. Not to the point where I’d ever say ‘it’s comin’ home’ in earnest, because it’s stupid. But I’m brushing up on Neil Diamond lyrics in case good times never feel so good. So good. So good. And I’m up to lamb pasanda on the menu.

And, as long as no-one else dies, I can’t wait for Sunday!!!

Happy Thursday

A xxxx