Man cannot live by football alone. He can try but his wife will get royally pissed off. Ok, some leeway is given at this time of the year, when EVERY match is important, when Mel knows that Brighton playing Wolves has a massive impact on my life. When Liverpool at Cardiff is existentially critical to me and Arsenal hosting Crystal Palace is crucial.

Which is why we went to the V&A to see the Christian Dior. The clothes, not the man, he’s long dead. Because I needed a rest from football (NOOOOOOO; DON’T TURN OFF THE TVEEEEEEE!!!), I wanted to expand my sphere of cultural diversity (which normally means watching Championship matches or the Bundesliga) and as tickets had been acquired (its virtually a sell out exhibition) back in about February, we thought it best to leave Everton to their own devices, which they seemed to do pretty well, and venture to South Ken. On the tube, on the most gorgeous Sunday of the year, to wander round lightless basements looking at old frocks. It doesn’t get better than that.

When you enter the exhibition area, in the initial atrium there’s just a few ‘things’ to show you what you’re about to encounter. And today’s photo is one of them. Not just one of them but the most wonderful, exquisite gown/coat (we couldn’t tell, it was rather high up, hence the seeming ‘upskirtiness’ of the pic) which, even to a Neanderthal football thug like me, simply epitomised the beauty and style of ultimate haute couture and French chic. Not the ‘ultimate French chick’, that was Bardot, or Lea Seydoux, but French chic. And as Dior (died in 1957! Who knew? Made a lot of clothes post-mortem) had a mission statement that his clothes were made to enhance and accentuate the beauty and shape of women, this item of clothing exemplified that aim. (Note, I think Dior meant ‘shape of women’ as that lovely hourglass shape, rather than the more Americanised ‘amphibious landing craft’ shape of many of their women).

Unfortunately, for me (ignorant, impatient, gonad-driven) that opening thing of beauty wasn’t matched by any of the following 22,000 dresses, coats, bags or hats. He’d peaked too soon, but there ya go. So we whizzed home in time for most of the Liverpool match.

And I only watched that reluctantly because I really really really wanted to watch Arsenal. Because Liverpool are ‘gone’ for Spurs. That very top bit of the league is over and done with for me. It’s the next two slots that will dominate my life for the next four weeks. And Arsenal are ‘involved’.

Having lost to Man City on Saturday, Spurs looked vulnerable in third place, with Manchester United yet to play and, worse still, Arsenal faced with a seemingly ‘easy’ home match against Crystal Palace.

But Issa funny ole game, is football, and the humour was rich yesterday. First Man United didn’t merely lose but were truly hammered to a pulp at Everton. My only concern about that being that the instant-success-demanding powers at Old Trafford may rue their appointment of Ole Gunnar Solskjaer and come after Pochettino again.

Then Arsenal. Who would have overtaken us with that ‘simplest of wins’ (to be uncharacteristically fair to Arsenal; there is no such thing as a ‘simple win’) but managed to lose. Leaving Spurs in third place. At least for a few more hours until bipolar Chelsea play Burnley tonight.

So to Johnny the Gunner (the lawyer one, not the banker one) who wondered if I was ‘panicking’ after Saturday’s result, I’d just like to state, in a calm, adult and intellectual way: ‘NYEH, NYEH, NYEH!!!!!’

Very happy, gloriously sunny, bank holiday Monday.

A xxxx