The good news is: you can eat carbs again. Don’t hold back. No counting calories. Have the extra slice. Buy two of those. Eat the whole loaf. Toast is now king. Whereas it was… toast. Yet here in the Times this very day, they’ve given us carte blanche to binge on everything they told us last week would kill us. Would turn us into diabetic hefties with clogged up everthings and wobbling obese-ness hanging over our belts. No more; the path to a six-pack is a six-pack. (Beer’s carbs, innit?) Ok, I didn’t read the whole article because the headlines exited me so much I just wanted to share this good news before I head to Greggs.

The bad news is: Spurs played last night. Against recently re-promoted Leicester. The last match of the opening weekend of the Premier League season. Which saw inevitable wins for Arsenal and Liverpool, a stand-out away win by Brighton at Everton and the champions victorious is the battle of the money-launderers. The Chelsea Cheats hosted the Manchester Monsters and, basically, got stuffed. But it’s to be expected. You can’t spend a measly £1.2billion (yes, fucking BILLION) on new players and expect them to win games. Todd Boehly needs to up his game. No-one knows exactly how much Manchester City have spent because the accounts got mysteriously lost just before the court case for financial irregularities starts.

But then out came Spurs. My glory boys. Who have everything, except glory. But last night they strutted round the King Power stadium almost like they’re some big, top-6, rich team from London. Oh, they are. Just, sadly, usually at the wrong end of that ‘top 6’. Which used to be the ‘top 4’, but… needed to be extended.

For 45 minutes we were simply brilliant. Played with flow and flair and finesse, setting up chance after chance and… not scoring. But it was inevitable and the goal eventually came from the unlikely place of the head of the smallest guy on the pitch, a defender to boot, goal-hanging in the 6-yard box. Oh, how we all love Pedro Porro. Ok, let’s get ‘em!!!!

But we didn’t ’get ‘em’. We let them reach half time just one nil down and then had 45 minutes, plus (lots of) stoppage time to regret the misses and our failure to capitalise on all that wonderful attackingness. It was so exiting I went up for a bath. I know, that’s a particularly girly thing to do, but I’m in touch with my feminine side as much as the next right-wing rioter, so I can.

And when I came down we’d brought the kids on, changed the team around and allowed horror-of-horrors, Jamie Vardy, to score. He is 87 years old. But looks older. In what must have been a peak of despair, Ange brought on Richarlison. And I knew it was over at that point. He may have upped his tattoo game but no other.

A draw. Not the worst way to start the season. Lots of ‘positives’ in the first half domination, though Leicester were truly abysmal at that point. But not the best way either.

I remain ‘cautiously optimistic’.

As usual.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx