This is what happens when Spurs lose a match.

I go out on Saturday night, maybe dinner, maybe a movie, come home, make tea and don’t watch Match of the Day because I hate it and have no interest whatsoever in any other team. Instead I find the comfort that really only a T-1000 can provide. I’ve never bothered to record Terminator 2, you just don’t need to. Its always on somewhere. And Linda Hamilton provides the comfort. Yes, my team has lost a football match, let’s watch some psychopathic paranoidly delusional fucking head-case-from-hell crack up before my very eyes. Ahhhh, nice. Let’s shoot things now…

But of course, this is ‘history’. We haven’t lost a match in ages. So last night, after our dinner out, even though T2 was in fact on, I hit the play button on MOTD. For Mel. She needed to see what I’d already seen earlier in the day. Spurs not just winning but doing it in such wonderful style and grace that even Arnie blowing up 57 police cars with a rocket launcher becomes second best.

Then this morning, due to excessive rainage on the tennis courts (I fucking hate that), I watched it again. I just had to. In fact its not even the game and the goals. Its the hyperbole from the pundits. Its the wonderful praise heaped on the players I love like the sons I never had; the brothers I never wanted (remember Caine and Abel?)

Then I watched the rest of the games. As you do when you have time. And I learned that Bournemouth, although great, simply can’t win matches. And that I still love Tommy Huddlestone and wonder why such a class act is still at Hull. Other than the ‘fitness’ issue (football euphemism for eating all the pies).

And I learned that I have to re-think the whole Andy Carroll thing after that absolutely fantastic goal-of-the-season he scored yesterday. Because I used to think he was just a great big, fat, ungainly industrial lummox of an injury-prone, trouble-making, thick-as-shit, Geordie rapist scumbag who spends more time wasting NHS resources than he does kicking a ball. But that goal has changed everything. Well, maybe we can drop the ‘ungainly’ at very least. And a goal of such stunning athleticism that he’ll doubtless be on the physio’s bench for the next 27 months getting over it.

I had a conversation last Christmas with a Liverpool fan. I try not to have many. In which we discussed ‘belief’. Because little Johnny ‘believed’ that his team could win the league. But really ‘believed’ in an almost religious way. That if you believe sufficiently, then it WILL come true. I told him Spurs fans don’t do that. Too cynical. Too battle-worn from the years of frustration.

And yet… and yet… maybe not this year, maybe not next, but Pochettino is building something at Spurs. Something really good and powerful and strong. And if we can keep those fucking Chinese away from our star players, because the streets of Shanghai are NOT paved with gold, they’re paved with a billion Chinamen polluting the place up, then maybe… just maybe…

We can dream.

Happy, dreamy, wet, fucking rainy Sunday

A xxxx