This time last week I was positively jubilant. Spurs had just beaten Fulham, with our terribly banged-up, starless, bandaged-together team and all looked ok. Then the best news ever on Friday: Korea had lost in the Asian Cup to Qatar (no allegations or implications at all here, I’m sure those Qataris are all little Messis-of-the-desert, its totally WRONG to associate ‘Qatar’ and ‘corruption in football’ together… TOTALLY) so our Son is coming home.

Though by then we’d had the Chelsea debacle in which those horrible Chelsea boys did what they, or even someone else, does every year and knocks us out of a cup at the semi-final stage. Though before we get the ‘its a bit Spursy’ rubbish from fans of Oldham, Peterborough and West Ham, just a question: HOW MANY SEMI-FINALS HAS YOUR POXY TEAM REACHED IN THE LAST 3 YEARS?!?!?!?!

So understandably knocked by that match, we went to Crystal Palace yesterday afternoon. I didn’t because, like a black cab after midnight, I don’t go south’a the river. Its a long way, and much longer when you lose. As we (fucking!!!) did.

And the reason I don’t go south of the river is because as soon as you cross a bridge, or emerge from a tunnel, you’re back in 1974. The Thames warps time. So you leave the serene, family-oriented, friendly, post cold-war 2019 and come out in Crystal Palace, or indeed Millwall, where gangs of thugs are waiting for you with razors and Stanley knives and the sort of racist abuse that elsewhere died out with John Barnes, back to ‘Inter City Firms’ even though back here in the real world Inter City went away with Maggie Thatcher. Millwall, where time stopped still. Dinosaurs roaming the streets. FFS!

No more DOMESTIC cups for us to worry about then. Just that pesky Champions League. Such a distraction…

Happy Monday

A xxxx