I went to football yesterday, to see my beloved Tottenham Hotspurs in the best football stadium in the world, in the shittiest region of London. As ya do. I went with Tory Boy, as you can see, because some geezer bestowed upon him a bunch’a tickets for the Norwich match. Probably another Tory, definitely an Uber-capitalist, venture-capitalist, denture-capitalist (like the previous one but with less teeth) or some other captain of industry, because these ‘throw-away’ seats were of the fuck-off, best-in-house, full executive package, prawn-sandwich-eating, don’t-rush-back-after-half-time-the-beers-are-free’ variety. These were ‘corporate’ seats. We even had free cookies! You don’t get them in the stands at Barnet FC.

Having only been a few times to Stadium Nouveau, that moment when you leave whichever squalid, sordid, dirty, low-life back-street the Uber driver deposits you, and emerge onto the High Road to view its sheer immense magnificence, it quite literally takes your breath away. Our stadium. Our home. Fortunately ‘we’ didn’t have to pay for it. And because this was the executive version, you actually go in the front door. Rather than the side, rear or any of the other hundreds of ‘ways in’ to the ground. And the stewards treat you with more respect, knowing you be a dirty free-loading hitch-hiker having a jolly at someone else’s expense.

Norwich came out firing on all cylinders. As you have to when you’re bottom of the table. But what keeps you bottom is the ability to squander really good chances in front of goal. Which, thank the Lord, they did a few times before Lucas Moura, bless his saintly, Brazilian soul, scored the goal of the season. It was a goal of such wonder and spectacle and brilliance that a few people in the executive section actually paid attention, fleetingly, to the football, to see what was going on. Some even put their drinks down, it was that good a goal. I was still screaming. It was that feeling of having been there for something truly amazing.

Spurs played well. They were allowed to. We look better under Conte’s non-stop, passionate, side-line ranting. He cares. Like we do. The only difference, he gets paid about 5 million quid a year to care, we do it for nothing.

Moura was magnificent, Hojbjerg so solid, Sanchez actually looked in control of things and Sonny was his normal troublesome self. The whole team were great. But Harry Skipp, our new Harry, the third one, was immediately promoted to First Harry by virtue of an almost perfect performance in the middle. The other two Harrys need a bit more time. As Winks didn’t play and Kane did. Read what you want into that.

Meanwhile for me, its going to be a

Very Happy Monday

A xxxx