Picking Through The Bones of Heartbreak
If the gods didn’t exactly smile down on us this weekend- barely even raising a smirk, in fact- at least they’ve afforded us little time to dawdle or dwell on two hours of football most of us would rather forget. Pompey, may still be clear in the memory- lingering around the table like Banquo’s ghost- but the small matter of a North London Derby just around the block, should be enough to deflect our attention elsewhere. And, make no mistake, we need it deflecting as far as humanly possible; preferably out of the solar system and into the nearest black hole. Never to be spoke of again.
That was a disaster. Words seem almost pointless. It’s the thousands of Spurs fans filling the stadium I feel for; sunshine and optimism at five o clock- the sense of glory at the tips of their fingers- gradually turning to desperation and heartbreak as the afternoon wore on. The collective face of supporters told you everything; it was like watching someone open a Youtube video of their dog being hit by an oncoming train. Gut-wrenching. I couldn’t even pin-point exactly what went wrong- nothing so glaringly obvious you could identify it with confidence. It just didn’t happen. We didn’t happen. Sure, the pitch was comprised of off-cuts from a greengrocer’s stall- a fiasco for a national arena- but Portsmouth appeared to be playing on the same stuff. No-one was immune to making a complete tit of themselves on it. All that was needed was some Benny Hill parp-parp music to be played over the commentary and it might’ve been quite an enjoyable experience; had it not been for the final, costly slip from Dawson which led to the goal. Again, though, we can’t blame the F.A and their incompetent groundstaff.
The two hogwash refereeing decisions were costly. One of which, the price may well yet be felt at a later date. Palacios got the ball- that was clear enough- but the choice to award a penalty wasn’t the whole story by a long shot. With a flimsy enough squad already heading into the NLD, the groans for the booking stretched much further than Wembley Way. He finally got the ban he’d been walking a tight-rope in recent weeks to avoid. Or, at the very least, postpone. So, Wiley had a shocker; Webb-esque. A wrongly disallowed goal and a ropey spot-kick in the space of ten minutes are not stats you’d wish to take home with you. But I’m not sure if we can even hurl the responsibility his way, either. I think we were beaten the minute the final whistle sounded. By then, with extra-time and penalties looming, there was a sense that Tottenham were on the verge of ballsing it up. As only we know how. The job was supposed to be done at a canter; not two hours of slugging with relegated Pompey. Goalless at full-time and you could literally see the belief draining out of players and supporters alike. What the hell is going on?
What confounded the bloody day- even more than David James’ goofy grin when Crouch’s goal was chalked off, even more than City thwacking five past Birmingham and levelling out our goal difference- was Jamie O’Hara’s appearance in the pundit’s box. What a ballbag. Funny that his most applauded quality as a player- the fact that he was ‘a proper yid’- is now the attribute he’ll never posses again. Now he’s just some turncoat midfielder we used to have, whose colours ran faster than a blue sock in a hot wash. Nice knowing you, Jim.
Right, I think I’m straying precariously into rant territory. Let’s at least finish with some fleck of a silver lining before we all just give up entirely. I turned/kicked the telly off just after Kevin Prince slapped home the decisive penatly, but I assume Gareth Bale got MotM for his efforts. That boy is a superhero- fully licensed with a cape and everything. If there was a who’s who of players I’d be devastated if they slipped through the net this summer- Modric, Lennon, Palacios, Dawson, Gomes, Defoe and a couple of others- then Bale would be edging closer and closer to the top of that list. You could call him a ‘phenomenal prospect’ but that would be misleading: he’s doing the business now, not in five years time. Arsenal have prospects. We have Bale. A vapour thin fissure of light in an otherwise miserable b*stard affair.
Roll on Wednesday.
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