What are the best things in the world? Many answers are acceptable, as long as Arsenal isn’t one, nor anything to do with snakes, financial products, anything unnatural involving animals, olives (I hate olives) or Jeremy Corbyn.

But right near the top of my list must be football and food. And, other than alliterative links, they can often be found together.

So we went, did Rachie & I, to Spurs yesterday to ‘enjoy’ (fuck me, it was horrible) the last home match of the season. In fact the last home match at my beloved White Hart Lane, as next season half of the East Stand won’t be there as stage one of the rebuild for the new stadium. And we went to be corporately entertained in a box. Ooooohhhh, that’s posh.

And oddly, it is posh. I’ve been to boxes at the Lane before but never quite appreciated how ‘different’ the whole experience is from ‘real football’. The main one being that at normal football you are treated with contempt, as a potential criminal, a hooligan, a troublemaker, just one bottle of medium strength lager from being thrown out. You are shepherded through dingy tunnels and dirty concrete-floored corridors to your ‘pen’. Where you sit and try your hardest to act like a normal member of society. If you need a toilet, without being too graphic, its not a particularly lovely experience.

In corporate world, things are different. You enter the ‘executive’ doorway to be greeted by seemingly hundreds of smartly dressed ladies and gents, with a courteous ‘good morning, Sir, hope you enjoy the game’. There are carpets everywhere, artwork… well, great big posters of Gary Linneker, Paul Gascoine, Jurgen the German, Stevie Perryman and many other superstars of Tottenham-land. You are escorted to the box, where you have your own servant. He stayed with us to bring us food and drink and to encourage us to gamble on match stats. That’s his job. So you eat. And drink. And be (very very) merry. When the match started I was happy to just sit there and eat more. It was good. And abundant. The toilets on ‘executive level’ are either nicer or executives can piss straighter than normal fans. But out I went (itself a great thing as my previous experiences in a ‘box’ there were of the sealed and unopening variety which is horrid) and watched the game.

Which started brilliantly and, as per our recent matches, petered out rather rapidly. So our early lead had turned to a 1-1 scoreline at half time. Never mind; go back inside, there more food!!!! Deserts, coffee, ice creams, buscuits, wine, beer…

Comfort eating, they call it. When you’re feeling depressed, just throw a few thousand calories down your gullet and all feels well again. For a little while at least. Then Southampton scored what was to be the winning goal. I ran back inside, needing to eat. Only fruit left, cheese and biscuits, ice-creams, ok, quite a lot really. But not enough to overcome the reality that we’d fucking lost a fucking game again and second-place is hanging on by a mere two points. So requiring a draw at very lowly and possibly totally desperate Newcastle next weekend in the Grand Finale.

The post match ‘parade of stars’ summed it up perfectly. The players came out, with their gorgeous little kids, did a lap of the pitch and they tried to invoke a ‘party atmosphere’. It was like a wedding party when the bride’s already done a runner but they have the party anyway; its paid for.

Happy Monday

A xxxx