Poor Uncle Cyril. One day he was right as ninepence, the next he took ill and a day later he died. He was 82 and ka-boom. Such is life, such is death. For those left behind, it was sudden, unprepared for, shocking. As my father (his older brother) said, when I told him: ‘great way to go’. No suffering, no long-term misery, no hospital food, no disappointment that the nurses who should look at very least like Barbara Windsor in Carry on Doctor, if not like the full Jenny Agutter in American Wearwolf, instead look like great fat Lithuanian farm girls. Who, in turn resemble (both in stature and temperment as well as compassion) the cattle they once tended back in the motherland.

So this morning, arguably the finest tennis morning in the whole history of forever, I want to the cemetery for a consecration cermony some six months after Uncle Cyril walked the dog for the last time.

And how appropriate to be at that place of such symbolic finality. Where ‘the end’ is so represented. The place where the future is buried. For there, I took a moment to have my own metaphorical internment. And over my little hole in the ground I invented a new prayer. An unusual prayer really in that it used the word ‘fuck!!!!’ 19 times, the word ‘bollox!’ 8 times and the word ‘shit!!’ 5 times. And it was only 42 words long in total. Short for a prayer, but long on feeling and emotion. And profanity.

Into that little hole, locked into an empty box (I borrowed the trophy cabinet from the Emirates, ha, ha, haaaaa), I buried any lingering hopes, dreams and aspirations for Spurs season. Which died yesterday at Stamford Bridge. Died quickly (ish) and with extreme and agonising brutality. And really, dodgy refereeing decisions aside, it was suicide. Killed by our own hands. Or feet. A tragic and hapless display of capitulation to a team who weren’t even playing that well. Whether going down to 10 men so soon after conceding the first and consequent second goal was relevent we shall never know. Kabul went, heads dropped, and we conspired to just keep giving them goals.

But on the bright side… is there a bright side?? Yes, there’ always the UEFA cup. Possibly, with Manchester United false dawning once more, might be our only chance for any European football next season.

Rest in peace.

Happy Sunday. Phah! Even though its the most lovely day ever.

A xxxx