Dear diary. We’ve not spoken in a while but I come to you with wonderful and exciting news. Arsenal- the vagrants from across town; possessor of the Wingnut, keeper of the turncoat- have been plundered. Do not waste time confirming the details; they count for nothing but the pair of digits which will be revealed in due course… Oh alright, it was 2-1. Two goals to their measly offering of one. Uno. Eins. Un. Spread the word, as quickly as you dare. I fear my nail bitten digits might not last the night.
F*cking nora. What a game. If we were looking for an antidote for Sunday’s painful misfire into the foot, then a victory against the Gooners was just the ticket. There’s hint of Red Stripe still surging through the bloodstream this morning, and keys are a little dizzy to the touch, but a successful North London Derby is enough to make even the groggiest first light a veritable shower of rainbows and sprightly steps. Hangover Shmangover. It was worth it.
A time for heroes? We’ve got ‘em by the skip load. Gomes may as well been wearing a cat-suit, such was the vivacity of his reflexes. A coiled spring, snapping like a mouse trap at the slightest hint of danger. Implausible. You could count the number of saves he made on his right hand, were he not using said hand to deflect yet another Arsenal effort skyward. Robin Van Go Home.
Danny Rose. Holy Moly. The entire build-up was fixed exclusively on the moisture build up behind his ears. He’s not played a game, Andy. Is he ready? Ready like warm Spaghetti. If it were possible to top Bentley’s thunder-crack from last semester, then Rose has done so with an almighty swing of the left bat. Retire now, son, you’re already etched into Tottenham folklore. Ruel Fox, he aint.
Too much to mention. Bale scores, Campbell’s still a fanny, Dawson’s going to the World Cup. Wenger sees everything.
Spurs beat Arsenal. I’m going for a lie down.