I had the privilege, the honour, the just damned good fortune to be at Spurs yesterday. Because I don’t normally go but made an exception because… because… because I wanted to. And wanted to parade my new-found facial deformities before the 62000 assembled there. Though most of them didn’t appear to notice. They were too busy enjoying themselves. And enjoy we did. Well, the ones in navy blue and white did. The odd few sky blue scarves sat beneath faces somewhat less joyful. I’m pleased to say. Thrilled to say. And delighted to say.

Normally a visit to Tottenham High Road on match day fills me with anxiety. I get bad feelings, lack of confidence, thoughts of terrible defeats. Match day nerves. But yesterday, unaccountably, I actually went to the match feeling really positive, really ‘up’, really good about it. Very un-Spurs fannish.

But I think this feeling was in some way reciprocated by my team. They knew I was there. They appreciated me coming. And they made just that extra effort and commitment for their main inspiration.

What a match. It had it all. And not necessarily all in a good way. It was exciting, it was at times beautiful and it was at others, totally stupid, ridiculous and pathetic. Because that is what VAR is doing to the game. Making it a joke.

I was going to go into great detail about the events around VAR-gate and how it ruined the game. But I deleted it all because it didn’t ruin the game. Perhaps only because we later won and therefore become more forgiving of the Keystone-kopsian ridiculousness of that part of the match. Because in the fractious aftermath Zinchenko was booked, and soon after was red carded. 2 minutes later we scored. To put that in perspective, it was our first shot on goal. 63 minutes. During which we’d been equal in play but, in the parlance of the terraces, ‘wanted it more’. We were so wonderfully combative, fighting for every loose ball (obviously giving away a few of our own, as we do) and Harry Winks, bless him, simply took Kevin de Bruyne out of the game. Sanchez was immense at the back. Loris majestic (which is French word meaning ‘didn’t fuck anything up’) and the team looked good. Other than poor Son, who looked off, until he scored our second goal. Then he looked much better. Even I looked better as I could feel my face deflating with every great event on the pitch.

I had to wait for my mate who was giving me a lift home. At the pre-arranged spot. And he took ages. But just sitting there watching an endless stream of wonderfully happy, blue-scarfed, smiling, singing, shouting (ok, a bit of abusing but nothing Man City don’t deserve) was really what football is about. The fairly unfamiliar glow of a fabulous victory.

Very Happy Monday

A xxxx