Haircuts and a Humdinger
And what a pleasing weekend that was. A dogged, Stoke-shaped obstacle lay between ourselves and three points last Saturday afternoon, and, while we didn’t float majestically over the blockade with the grace of an Olympic hurdler, we did, at least, roll our sleeves up and clatter our way to the other side. We burrowed deep and slogged the f*cker out. Selection headaches, steadfast opposition, a rather anaemic looking forward line; all factors which might’ve persuaded us all that a well-tussled draw would’ve been no cause to grumble. They’re a tough nut to crack, you might’ve heard muttered at the back. Such is the rate that our resolve has stiffened over the last twelve months or so, however, we were determined to flee home with plenty more besides. These days, tough nuts are the accoutrements of our morning cereal. And we eat cereal for breakfast.
Bale’s rather good, isn’t he? Quotes from ‘Arry yesterday-remarking on the Welshman’s stratospheric ascent into the big leagues- were typically underplayed. If you believe Redknapp, all that was required of Gareth to fast-track his career into superstardom was to a) stop fannying about with his hair, b) refrain from being such a limp petal in training, c) hit some weights and d) grow a moustache. Granted, the last one was made up but I’m sure it’s only a matter of time. Whatever the cause, whatever the advice, the goal he scored at the Britannia was the humdingiest of humdingers I’ve seen for an age and typifies where this boy is at. Off the freaking chart. What, exactly, his left leg was doing at that altitude is one thing; how he managed to jettison the ball back across the keeper and into the opposite corner is another altogether. He’s a star. A bona-fide star. And, however straightforward ‘Arry has made the job of nurturing Bale over these last few months sound, he’s done extraordinary work and deserves praise from anyone in back-slapping distance.
Gomes had a strange one. On the odd occasion his services were called upon, Heurelho’s charge of the box looked less than secure. Most notably for Stoke’s equaliser, where the Brazilian, to put it midly, was all over t’shop. Meh. These things happen. Show me one goalkeeper who hasn’t had a game where they’ve put the fear of god into their defenders with some bat-shit-crazy antics, and I’ll show you someone who doesn’t exist. It’s only lazy commentators who blurt such guff as ‘that’s Gomes’ career at Tottenham in a nutshell. Brilliant save one minute, blunder the next.’ It’s the sort of thing I’d imagine Jim Beglin saying. Newsflash, poindexter. Gomes is the f*cking bomb.
I don’t why I’m swearing so much. I think it’s the nerves. Wednesday night and all that.
Anyhoo, a win, then. All that we could’ve asked for. Trips around this small isle over the next few months will be littered with stern ordeals such as these and I’m all for going about it in this manner. Win. Win ugly if you have to. If it was United or Chelsea doing so it would be filed under a professional job. The best teams do it, apparently. And, if we’ve got any plans to progress further in this ol’ League in years to come, I suppose we ought to get used to it.
I think I could.
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