Tottenham Out of The Title Race

Bad news, everyone. After wrestling long into the night with the figures- nearly giving myself a nosebleed in the process- I’ve come to a demoralizing conclusion. Deep breath. We can’t win the title this year. I know, I know. It’s a hammer blow. But with only four games remaining, even with all the teams above us losing their remaining three, the maximum haul we can hope for is a paltry 76 points. No matter how imaginative you get with a calculator- or, as is likely, make it spell boobs– we are destined to miss out by a single, gut-wrenching point.

*deflated sigh*

Okay, maybe I’m jumping the gun a little here. But isn’t it remarkable to think- with less than a handful of games left in the diary- we’re only just mathematically out of the race. I don’t know about you, but I get altitude sickness at the thought of us clinging onto fourth; lord only knows what would happen if we were to smash the bus even further into the party. Probably the same result as an astronaut taking his helmet off in space, I would’ve thought. My head would burst clean off.

Gruesome.

Anyway, just a thought. It was in a terrifically buoyant post on here earlier that got me pondering on such things. As was suggested, when you cast your eye over the League table- and I’ve done little else this weekend- we’re really not that far off the big money. A few wins here and there- or specifically against Wolves and Stoke- who knows where we could’ve ended up. Dizzying, vertigo-inducing heights, indeed.

Moving on. Or backward, even, to the goings on at White Hart Lane on Saturday.

Another performance of the like everyone was hoping for, but few, in all honestly, could dare to expect. Chelsea had a day up on us from the mid-week rota; and I dare say exerted considerably less than we were in a frenetic North London Derby on Wednesday evening. And, as well, still carrying the extra baggage of Wembley heartbreak. You wouldn’t believe it it, though. Tottenham hurtled out of the blocks in a manner, had it been an olympic sprinter, you’d be conviced was about to be brought back for a false start. Instantly dangerous, instantly on the front foot. The Guardian said we ‘outclassed them,’ The Times that it was our ‘finest display of the season.’ I say right-on.

Chelsea just had no answers- or if they did- they were for questions posed moments previously. We were just too darn quick for them; in thought, endeavour and sheer pace of attack. Modric was a delight. Positively angelic in movement; pinging passes with more snap than a turtle’s jaw. Enough to make you go all gooey inside. Dawson, in front of Fabio Capello, was the embodiment of grit and refinement. In equal doses. Fearless, unruffled and probably winning more headers than most centre-backs do over the course of a season. No sooner had Drogba found his way out of Ledley King’s pocket last year, he went and slipped neatly into the dark recesses of Dawson’s this. And if he doesn’t go to the World Cup this summer, I’m supporting USA.

Gareth Bale’s fast becoming a good advocate for buying an HD television. I swear to god, I watched the highlights on my battered old 24” on Saturday and couldn’t make head nor tail of his whereabouts. Just a blur of white, blue and yellow, thundering along the touchline, no-one else even within shouting distance. An irresistible performance. As Bobby Robson said of Michael Owen during France ’98, we’re starting to run out of superlatives to describe this lad. How about a simple ‘thank our lucky stars he plays for us’ and leave it at that. Inter and Man City can kindly direct their interest elsewhere. I hear Downing’s available.

Right, I’m off to finish drowning my sorrows over another title bid slipping through our clumsy fingers.

Try and enjoy the rest of the-

–Oh what’s the point?