These are the days we dream of, soggy queues and crushed hopes, shoulders rounded against the oppression of defeat. No longer!

These are the nights we long for, banish in an instant decades of mediocrity, though  our loyalty never wavered and now to be rewarded.

These are the moments we yearn for. Floodlit intensity, venerable old stand, seen it all now shakes with passion fresh and heady. As the ranks of the worthy and chosen fall back, others press forward to take their place. Willing voices chorus into the dark. Tonight, outside the extremities of the searing ball of light that is a corner of north London, there is nothingness. We and the white shirts, we who hold the heritage and soul of this club in our hearts, nothing exists save for this moment.

Dawson, mighty leader, fearless, proud: let us inspire you so you may inspire those around you. Luka my lovely Luka, float unencumbered above the turf and above the mere mortals in your presence. Scheme and plot their downfall, then plunge a knife into their hearts! Gomes, we will lift you to the heights. Be brave: hold the ball, you can you will.

Van der Vaart, do not be taken by surprise by our triumphs. Spin your magical bewilderment, trap them in your web, spellbound. And Bale, born to play for Spurs, such pace and power seldom seen despite all the greats that have gone before, muscular stalwart, you are invulnerable. Their tackles cannot harm you, their defence cannot halt you. You are unstoppable.

Call up the spirits, Blanchflower, Richards, Smith, White! Call up the fans to lift our heroes! Glory awaits. Come On You Spurs