When you learn a new word you have to re-organise your internal glossary. Otherwise you’ll get it wrong in polite company and be accused of some form of obsessional political incorrectness. My mother always referred in to ‘coloured people’. No Mum, I’d advise, we call them ‘black people’. Oh no, wasn’t black, just light brown… She never got it, bless her saintly memory. She’d never cope with the new obsession for sexual and gender redefining. She grew up in the most binary of all possible worlds. So I was never dressed in pink or instructed in gender neutrality. For which I can forgive her. But for not buying me a Barbie doll?? Never.

Today’s word is ‘polyamorous’. Read it in the paper. You’d guess it has something to do with loving anything, or perhaps everything, just from the Latin. “My friend is polyamorous” it stated. So I at first thought she’s into boys and girls and animals and plastic objects, perhaps corpses, trees, who fucking knows. But no. Apparently its more ‘everyone’ than ‘everything’. So please amend your internal word-list accordingly. Delete these terms: slut, bike, tart, whore, slag and all synonyms thereof and replace with ‘polyamorous’. Easy. Done that.

The Spurs match yesterday was very binary. We did all the attacking, Swansea did all the defending. So a proper binary score; 0-0. Was it dull? Not really, Spurs looked fab at times, not so fab at others, Swansea were incredibly organised, with a back 5 in front of the goalie and a line of three 5 yards in front. I’ve never felt that football matches are defined by the goals scored. Ok, they’re nice but I’ve seen some amazingly exciting 0-0 draws, real edge-of-the-seat stuff. This wasn’t one. You only moved to the edge of your seat yesterday to avoid the cramp of inertia. But it was ok. I won’t bang on about missed penalty awards because that’s such a horribly Wengeresque thing to do. We didn’t win because we didn’t score. End of.

Fortunately I went to the match with The Miserable Fucker which redeemed the day. Because he’s not really that miserable, though he reserves the right. And for 90 minutes (ok, ‘plus stoppage time’) we ignored most of the match to pictorially illustrate the far more interesting conversations about grandchildren obsessions, about food obsessions, about how the world could be made better if everyone just ate more meat and killed more animals, about whether its appropriate for old men to get tattoos and if so, of what? And ok, a bit about football. So did I enjoy ‘the game’ which started when we met up, the travelling together with other friends, the bullshit, the banter? And did I enjoy ‘the match’, are in fact different questions. Neither of which I’m prepared to answer without my lawyer.

Happy Sunday, which it may be for either Chelsea or Arsenal but not both.

A xxxx