There’s lots of important stuff going on. I suppose there always is. But they’re talking of replacing our Prime Minister! If they could get a pair of leopard-skin shoes on a lamp-post that would be fair. But they’re talking about replacing her with Boris, and Michael Gove, AND Jacob Rees-Mogg. Three for one. A clown, a back-stabbing Judas (and the back chosen was, in fact, that of the Clown) and a radicalised Christian.

Corbyn, in the other camp, is bringing back all the brethren cast out from his party for being nasty, evil bastards. The bullies, the militants, the anti-semites, all banned from the party for their horrible words/deeds, now, suddenly, welcomed back with open arms.

But I just didn’t care. Not about any of it. I cared a bit about the moronic, bandwagon-jumping, knee-jerk-reactionary ultra-feminists who want to ban the Grand Prix ‘pit-girls’, not because I actually watch Formula 1 but because I hate the thought of life being less colourful in total because Harvey Weinstein fondled some actresses. If that happens and pit-girls, and the boxing ring girls and cheerleaders get cut out, then the Weinsteins have won. Don’t they see that?? They see ‘objectification’, I see legs. Great legs. But only subjectively.

And I didn’t care about any of it for the 90 minutes (plus 4 minutes of really essential injury time) yesterday afternoon when Spurs were playing at Liverpool. Because the match was just so gripping, so exciting, so riveting, that I was too excited and gripped and riveted to think about it.

Liverpool went a goal up after 3 minutes. Bit like Manchester United who, according to their manager after they went a goal down after 11 seconds at Tottenham on Wednesday night, ‘were so shocked and surprised that they couldn’t recover’. Tosser. Even though they had almost the full 90 minutes to do just that. But Spurs were different. After surviving the first half they simply bossed the entire second period. Dominated. But no goals. At 79 minutes our manager brought on Victor Wanyama, not really the sort of player you normally turn to for a quick goal (6 goals in 175 matches or thereabouts; Lionel Messi he ain’t). And in the next minute Wanyama scored the goal of the season. Certainly his goal of the season as he’s unlikely to score another. And its 1-all. A few minutes later we win a penalty. Very controversial but definitely a penalty. Which Harry Kane (who you’d put your shirt on scoring any time he’s near the ball) missed.

2 minutes after that, in the first minute of injury time, that little Egyptian fucker- sorry, Mo Salah, the greatest little striker since… who cares, scored a great goal. As he does every week. 2-1 to Liverpool and 2 minutes left on the clock. And we win another controversial penalty. And this time Harry scores.

It takes a lot of nerve to step up to take such an important penalty having missed one five minutes previously. Takes a lot of confidence too. All justified as he neatly slotted home.

OMG. I screamed. Mel screamed (she wasn’t in the room but was so shocked by my scream). The whole world screamed. Except for the Liverpudlians. They went shtum. Jurgen Klop was screaming too, but in German and a different kind of screaming. Born of frustration, of pain and suffering and (in his mind) injustice. When he can ‘enjoy’ the 974 slow motion replays that we were all privy to on tv, he’ll understand completely.

2-all. But it felt like a win. And the most dramatic 10 minutes of football I think I’ve ever seen.

But now its over, back to reality. Where’s Lila?

Happy Monday

A xxxx