Here at AANP Towers we are inclined to pay short shrift to those who shuffle our way with
puppy-dog eyes and quivering lower lip, complaining of bad luck. "You makes yer own luck," we have
been known to roar, with such ferocity that the aforementioned puppy-eyed, lip-quivering urchins
have literally exploded into a ball of flames before our eyes; or else we invoke the barely
perceptible murmur of a true testosterone-fuelled hero like that chap Stallone, and instruct "Take
it like a man"; or indeed we sagely impart the sporting wisdom of some aged American golfing chap,
and intone with zen-like calm "The more I practise the luckier I get".
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.
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.
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.
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.
A brief perusal of the comments section beneath in the aftermath of the l'Arse defeat rather
gave the impression that our heroes are about to nose-dive to the oblivion of the Championship and
beyond. Excuse me while I take cover in the battered old AANP bomb shelter, in anticipation of the
apocalyptic levels of anguish, vitriol and over-reaction that will rain down if we take a beating
from the current Premiership champions on Sunday.
Full-blown, undiluted apoplexy does not translate particularly smoothly into the written word,
so ‘tis perhaps just as well that after a good night's sleep and couple of early morning whiskies
AANP is now in slightly more philosophical mood than at the final whistle last night, when the
denizens of the South Stand took time out from making rude gestures at the Stoke fans to stare in
horror and cover the ears of the nearest small child while I emitted an unmistakeable, loud
tut.
Thank you, thank you - AANP is happy to take the credit for this long-awaited upturn in
fortunes, having all week told anyone within earshot of a cunning Eight-Stage Plan to
guarantee we finish fourth. As it happens, the first stage – Win The Next Game – is identical
to the following seven stages, but it was nevertheless with some pride that yours truly watched our
heroes effect the plan to perfection.
If there is a crumb of consolation to be neatly divided out between the thousands of frustrated
lilywhites worldwide, it is that we do at least have our Tottenham back. When ten points clear in
third, it would have been far too straightforward simply to have wrapped things up with neat
efficiency and weeks to spare.
Two games, one point, one goal, third place – it may sound like a convoluted ‘Arry'
catchphrase, but as we approach Important Finale Time that is the nutshell summary of our position,
if you bend your neck and squint a bit. The usual hopes and concerns apply of course – a more
clinical touch from Adebayor and VDV in front of goal; Bale and Lennon on their appropriate wings;
Sandro to crunch anything that moves; and young Rose to retain possession at least once in every
half-dozen touches.
Opportunity lost, as I'm sure all my fellow geniuses have also noticed. Should make for a
frightfully exciting final-day finale though, what? As it happens our lot gave a dashed competent
showing at Villa, so no particular complaints there. Plenty of intent, flair, movement and
opportunity amongst our heroes, with the Lennon-right-and-Bale-left gambit loosely (though not
rigidly) employed, creating a pleasing balance, while VDV and Modders crafted their usual array of
intelligent triangles, and Sandro had another of his magnificent Chuck Norris days.
