Look, we won a trophy, I’m not going to get so exited about it, we didn’t invent a cure for cancer, its ‘just’ a football trophy. In the grand scheme of things, when judgement day arrives, it won’t have counted for much. I get all that. Its just a matter of keeping things in perspective.

We won a cup. ‘A’ European trophy. Not, alas, ‘the’ European trophy, but the other one.

Which, in my mind, makes us the second best team in all of Europe. (The first won’t be decided until next weekend). And as we know, the European leagues are by far the best in… well, Europe, yeah, but actually IN THE WORLD!!! Which makes Spurs, the second best team in the entire world. And unless we discover life on other planets in the next 12 months, we’re the second best team in the ENTIRE FUCKING UNIVERSE!!!

We may well have ended the season just one place away from the drop, but you simply can’t argue with the data. Which doesn’t mean we have to ‘rub people’s noses in it’. That would be neither considerate nor friendly. However, its worth just a quick flick back through your various whatsapp messages (they never go away; they stay forever and can and will be used in evidence against you) for any that depict empty trophy cabinets, the word ‘Spursy’ or pretty much anything football related, and send them a photo of our beautiful trophy with the words FUCK YOUOUOUOU!!! superimposed over the top.

Anyway, its just lucky I’m not ‘that sort of person’ who would gloat, demean or belittle.

This morning as I was e-biking to work, I was knocked off my bike. By a van. White one. He’d stopped, facing my direction of travel, to turn right. And he did turn right. Before I’d passed him. Why would you wait? Kill two birds with one stone. Or, kill one cyclist with one van. Either way. But he didn’t kill me. He hit my back wheel and off I came. Though, in the grand scheme of things, quite gently. And over I went. No damage. No bang on head, no breaks, no real wounds beyond the capability of a band-aid. And I have to confess, I swore at the driver!! I’m sorry, and (possibly) ashamed, but profanity left my mouth in a driverly direction. So I knew I wasn’t concussed.

But I was fine, the bike was fine, about 6 people just ‘appeared’ there helping me, offering love and kindness. Not to the fucking driver, they hated him. But other than few (literal) scrapes, all was good.

Until I got on the bike and realised that one pedal was broken. Which is annoying because I didn’t bother taking the name or licence number of the driver. But he can’t be hard to find. Indian geezer driving a white van. If you see him, tell him he owes Andy a pedal.

Be careful out there. And don’t mention to Mel. She’ll never let me out again.

A xxxx