Awkward. Maybe we should begin at the beginning...
The Glorious First Five Minutes
Ah, ‘twas a pleasure to be a Tottenham fan. Our heroes produced some ovely stuff. Swift, slick
passing; patient but pacey; sideways if necessary but probing forward whenever opportunity even
threatened to knock.
Times a-changing? Keep up - they've already a-changed. ‘Tis now generally agreed, either
publicly or otherwise, that Tottenham are the best team in North London; the "St Tottingham's Day"
bet with my Arse-supporting chum Hawthy is fast becoming redundant; and following the weekly
toasting of our own latest bravura successes we lilywhites as a regular side-note are also able to
amuse ourselves by sniggering at the ongoing and quite spectacular implosion of that ‘orrible lot
down the road.
Entertaining and exciting, with a most satisfying finale – oh that the game had matched the
quarter-final draw, but we can't have everything I suppose. Should I ever cross paths with His
Eminence The Lord of Time there are one or two queries I would throw his way – whether Superman's
little fly-ruddy-quickly-around-the-world jape really could turn back time, for a start – but
high up there on the list would be a polite request to have my two hours back after the
excruciating trudge through treacle that was our draw with Stevenage.
Complacency (noun): A feeling of contentment or self-satisfaction, especially when coupled with
an unawareness of danger, trouble, or controversy
Just saying. However, given that we are now blinking well the best team left in this whole bally
competition, it would be a dashed shame if we whimpered our way to the exit door with the derisory
hoots of assorted Stevenagonians ringing in our ears.
Casual lobotomy is one of my less typical weekend pursuits, but I'm willing to hazard that were
one to pluck out the respective brains of BAE and Scott Parker, the two would be as dissimilar as
medically possible. At one point in the second half yesterday I'm fairly sure Benny executed a
scorpion kick, seemingly just to pass the time.
Oh good grief, now this is awkward. I had only just made myself comfortable in readiness for a
lengthy period of smugness, gloating and absolutely unbearable braggadocio. And why the devil not
– our lot produce the most jaw-dropping eye candy since that lady from the Sean Connery days
emerged from the sea to jiggle about in her skimpies in frightfully uncouth manner.
It was all slightly akin to a chess game, n'est ce pas? And not one of those awesome
chess games either, in which one lad loses his rag somewhat, dashes the pieces across the board and
clobbers his opponent with the clock, leading to a mass brawl involving spectators and allsorts.
This was one of those chess games in which white thoughtfully strokes his chin for a good seven or
eight minutes, before moving his bishop a few diagonals backwards whence he came, prompting black
to ponder for four minutes himself, hover his hand over his queen, retract hand, ponder some more,
and then move his knight back into its starting position.
