That title is not about Lila, though she’d actually wear it on a baby-gro if they made one and if she could read, she’d have the tattoo.

But its not. Its about Spurs. And the rather nasty and horrible accusations that we face every season of ‘bottling it’. By crumbling at the end of seasons. Normally at critical times, but, as last season, losing the plot just for fun.

No more.

Last night was a pretty meaningless match really. Leicester, ironically safe from relegation, (and still, in some way, ‘champions’), played my boys, who are second and will stay there. Nothing to play for. Why bother?

Why bother? Because we’ve had a 6-goal match in us all season, that’s why. It was just a matter of time. And finding a team prepared to crumble under the wake of our immense tidal wave of play.

I missed it. Entirely. Martial arts trumps meaningless matches. Rule number 14b. So meaningless I forgot to record it. Instead I sent Wayne up there to Leicester, he has plenty of time on his hands. As my envoy. And what transpired in the wet and grey wastelands of the East Midlands was an abject lesson in attacking football by, ON THEIR DAY, (read: ‘not at West Ham’) an unplayably brilliant and gifted team. And another from Harry Kane in how to score loads of goals and put yourself top of the golden bootees. Til Sunday.

Jermaine Defoe, never exactly one to stick around when relegation rears its ugly head, is out’a Sunderland in a hurry. It was in his contract that if that doomsday scenario should arrive, and it did, then his contract is over. So not only he can leave, but as a free agent. So the £6million quid asking price is in fact for him. And he wants 100 grand a week to play. You know what: that’s a fucking bargain. For any team. To score 16 goals for a team that dire and dreadful is a feat on its own. And he virtually was on his own. And he’s only little. But he will score goals. Always. Wherever he plays.

Happy Friday

A xxxx