There are three reasons to be cheerful this morning: Harry Kane, Harry Kane and Harry Kane. A masterful hat-trick last night in Nicosia left Harry with free goals, Spurs with free points and all good in the world. As long as you ignore all the bad.

And I missed it completely. Spending my time at a hospital having my hip checked out. The result of that match: no hat-tricks, no score really, a nil-nil draw. I wanted instant surgery. “Ahhhh, I see the problem, let me just hack that bit away, screw in a new plate there… where’s my hammer-drill?… yes, that’s got it… NOW WALK!!!!! Free from pain, free from anything!!!! Except my fucking fee, obvs.” Not to be. We visited the ‘imaging centre’ (don’t have ‘x-ray departments’ any more; what are you; living in1962??) and had came out with a new suit, slicked down hair and shiny shoes. Ok, I came out with x-rays. Sorry, ‘images’, ‘scans’. That kind’a thing. Which showed that I’m probably over 60, Jewish and, after staring at my pelvic scan wondering what was wrong, I have no penis either. Oh, they don’t come out on x-rays, phew. Or the x-ray machine wasn’t big enough, more likely. Anyway, nothing horrendous, all ok, just rest it and give me your credit card. Not necessarily in that order.

So then we came back. And the football was over, the fat lady had sung her last wonderful note and we were 3 points to the good in the Euro. And I thought: ‘I love Harry Kane’. Spurs, by all accounts, didn’t play brilliantly. Not even that well. But the first three attempts on goal all fell to Harry and he scored the lot. Which means lots of things.

Firstly, he has answered the ‘world class’ question with 5 goals in 2 matches in the finest footballing competition in the world. Consequently, secondly, he’ll be at Real Madrid before next September. Its what those bastards do. Steal our heroes. Well, if 100 million Euros counts as ‘theft’. It also means that the nicest, most humble, normal, common-or-garden geezer is one of the top 5 strikers in the world.

You don’t have to look like Beyonce to be a brilliant singer. You don’t have to look like, well me probably, to be a Hollywood superstar. And you don’t have to look like a pumped up, leg-waxed, tan-sprayed, tattooed steroid-receptacle to be a top footballer. And that’s Harry’s charm. He’s so wonderfully ‘normal’. Not educationally, obviously. But in his demeanour. In his manner. He looks like a plumber’s mate. The one who brings the wrenches and pipe-cutters, makes the tea, rolls up the fags. He looks like white van man. In a Range Rover. He doesn’t need to pose. He is the real deal.

Very happy, slightly limping Wednesday

A xxxx