Daddy Cool

Office-Party-disaster

It’s been a delightfully frenzied couple of days. So much to take in. There’s the fear that if I think too much about the permeations of what Tottenham have achieved, and, of course, what they might yet achieve, I may well be tempted to ring up my boss on Monday and tell him I won’t be coming in for a while. Fourth place secured, Arsenal in our sights, new contracts, talk of new arrivals. I tell you it’s almost all too much. By the time I’d watched Cliff Jones on SSN yesterday talk earnestly about the chances of a title push next year I was all but ready to squeeze that little red button on the remote and hope it was the same one that alerted the nurse to crank up the morphine. Never a dull moment.

Wednesday night was one heck of a night to be a Spurs fan. The best in recent memory. The domestic pots of the nineties and noughties were splendid trinkets enough, but never quite the prize our lofty ambitions were willing to settle for. I’m not even sure the F.A cup would’ve been enough this season. (Lucky that, really) This is what we’ve been after all these years. Champions League football. A shot at the big time.

The game itself is somewhat of a blur. The opening twenty minutes made a wreck of me. Every occasion City ventured forward I kept forcing my eyes out of focus so that the screen became a haze of colours; praying with every fibre I wouldn’t hear the home fans explode into celebration. All that kept leaping into my mind was the thought of Bellamy, Adebayor and Co. jigging about like tits with scarves tied around their heads while our lot collapsed around them. Vomiting disappointment. I fully expected Viera to come on and score the winner just after Fulop had saved at least two penalties. Maybe even three.

But this is a different Tottenham team to the one that has consistently crushed my spirits in recent years. We seemed to have escaped that dooming sense of irony which followed us everywhere we went; Viera didn’t score, Fulop didn’t thwart us, Adebayor didn’t slide fifty metres on his knees to bogle in front of the Spurs fans. Nothing of the sort. We didn’t get overawed by the sense of occasion: we bloomin’ well rose to it. Like Peter Crouch ascending through the night sky like a salmon in a superhero’s cape. Beautiful.

King and Dawson were just colossal. It’s become almost a cliché now, but it actually pains me to imagine just how good Ledley could’ve been if his knee wasn’t held together with blobs of blu-tac and masking tape. Probably captaining United with more medals than Mark Spitz, I’d imagine. For my money- and I don’t have a lot- he’s one of the best centre backs in the League. Perhaps even Europe. And Dawson…well, we all know the rhyme.

So, drink it in, folks. This kind of thing doesn’t happen very often. Especially to the likes of little ol’ Spurs. Keep watching the reports on the tellybox, keep reading the hype in the daily rags, keep reliving the footage. It’s all beautifully mad and amazing at the same time. We should try and enjoy it. Oh yes.

**If you’d like to join in on the debate for Player of The Season, then you’re just one click away**


About the Author

avatar

7 Responses to Daddy Cool

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.

Back to Top ↑