Real Madrid or Barcelona?
Yo, Adrian. We did it! And boy howdy didn’t we just. It seems odd to be amid such a delirious hullaballoo in late-August; the season’s only just wobbled onto its feet and we’re already cavorting on the streets in our underwear; blue and white scarves tied atop our head, all frothy at the mouth, baying at the moon like certified lunatics. It’s just not normal. And yet here we are- three months after Eastlands- at it again. In the comfort of your armchairs, in the stands, in nefarious back-alley watering holes- watching The Hotspur gouge another slice of history for themselves in a pulsating night in North London. Champions League, baby. It’s coming for you… It’s coming for all of us.
Nervous? My hands are still sweating as I plonk the keys this morning. Even without the deficit left over from Switzerland, there were plenty of routes the tie could potentially head down. And not all of them ended with us piling out of bars at ten o’clock, signing ourselves hoarse. Some involved drunk, cold showers and inconsolable weeping. Lots and lots of weeping. As grey clouds roamed about the country early yesterday afternoon- bringing with them many a gallon of rainwater- so the doubts started to roam also. A soggy pitch, jitters amongst the ranks, an early defensive blunder. Really everything was there to make this an uncomfortable experience for us humble supporters.
But there should’ve been no such worry. Peter James Crouch saw to that. Say what you want about the long man- I’ve been known to raise the odd quizzical eyebrow in his direction as he skirts about the pitch on a Saturday afternoon- he certainly knows his way round the big games. Cometh the hour, cometh the all important goal. We are indebted to him. Immeasurably. I wonder how our European neighbours will take to the bag of bones that is Peter Crouch? I’d like to wager they won’t have the foggiest idea what to do with him.
Elsewhere, Huddlestone was miraculous. It’s now a cliché to remark about our Tom’s range of passing- but if any of his numerous millimetre-perfect balls is worthy of mention, then that outside-of-the-boot little piece of sex he pulled in the first half- causing Jim Beglin to undo the top button of his trousers and purr like a old cat- is definitely it. I hope he’s not showboating, remarked Peter Drury. Is he ‘eck.
One thing that irked me slightly about ITV’s highlights show- on such a mammoth night for Spurs why did Southgate have to keep blithering on about Capello’s presence at the game; and how the national side would ultimately benefit from our involvement in the CL? The brink of creating club history and all that concerns Gareth is: ooh I wonder if this means England will be good now, too? Here’s a thought…who cares? England are boring.
Anyway, that’s not important. What is important is that access has been granted. ‘Arry’s privileged dining card has checked out and we’re sitting at the top table with the rest of footballing gentry. Real Madrid, Barcelona, Milan, Inter. The list will make you giddy. Champions League comes to White Hart Lane. Almost disnae feel real, does it? Any of it. Well, as sure as I can feel cheap Chinese plastic under my fingertips as I type, it’s real. We did it. We did it.
And now the season can really get going. Awfully proud.
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