Who knew how much they disliked Frank Lampard until last night? As his sad and sorry excuse for a football team crumbled and cracked self-destructively under the might and power of Super-Spurs, I wanted to feel pity for him. I thought I would. Sat in the dug out with no mates. I wanted to think ‘awwww, Frankie, it’ll get better’. But I didn’t. And it won’t. All I could think of was his smirking visage running round arm-in-arm with John Terry, together holding up some silver chalice or other in some European city or other, smirking smugly in his Chelsea blue, often with Abramovich (!!!! Boooo, hissss) in the background.

Everton are dire. And pretty much gave up after the first (of many) goal(s). And the goals were lovely. Fast, flowing, things of extreme beauty and creativity. Each one a little Picasso. Without having tits where your left ear should be. Each one constructed instinctively by players all singing from the same sheet and, most importantly, allowed to punish by horrendous defending and goalkeeping. They couldn’t keep up with the Spurs attackers, they certainly couldn’t cope with Harry Kane, now the single most important football player in the world. Possibly, ‘that the world has ever known’. He is the country’s best number 9 and also the best number 10. Which makes him a quarterback who can make a 60-yard pass then catch it himself and run it in. He IS that good. Something we can only really enjoy whilst the transfer windows are closed.

I missed the fourth goal last night, I was getting out of the bath. So re-winding the program to see the fabulous Reguilon effort, I got a text telling me I’d now missed the 5th one, too busy watching the 4th. This is Spurs. Try to keep up. But I missed it because I am a man who now needs help. Bathing. Form an orderly line.

In fact its not bathing so much as one specific thing whilst bathing. Or showering. I’ll show you. Fold your right arm in a right angle, holding it against your belly and don’t move it. Sit in a bath and see which parts of your body you can’t reach with your left hand. I’ll give you a moment…

Ok. You can’t wash your left armpit. That’s it. Everything else is within reach and accessible. I can’t go 6 weeks with a dirty armpit. So I have friends. Helpers. Nurses. Just to wash it for me.

Spurs next game is Manchester United. The one team possibly more inconsistent than we are. Though when we’re good we’re fantastic. When they’re good it just means they’re not conceding at that precise moment. So I can be hopeful.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx