Author: Alan

Spurs Hopes Flagging Because the Linesman Wasn’t

/ Alan / 9 Comments

He shoots from distance. The keeper sees it early and gets everything behind it.

Ultimately it comes down to the keeper. Number one, at the back, unique in that he and only he has the precious gift of being able to use his hands to repel the voracious attackers. Sure there are tactics. he’s part of a team, the back four is really a back five, with him in a crucial role. Yet he alone has special powers, to leap and soar in defiance of anything that can be thrown at him, our very own superhero to save the day at the last gasp when the villain is about to snatch the crown jewels and the girl.

Like the best superheroes, they are mortal – it’s what makes them so fascinating. Because of what they do, their human frailty is played out in full view of the public. No hiding place. Effort or hard running can’t conceal an off-day. There they are, Waiting for something to come their way. Waiting for the moment that shapes their day, that defines the team as successful or failures. Most of all, the moment when their personality, their soul, their innermost thoughts and secret fears are waiting, waiting to be laid bare. As he shoots from distance.

The keeper, our keeper, defines the club as well as our fortunes. Sustained brilliance for extended periods made him and the team successful. Our belief soared as he reached high into the sky to keep the A******l at bay or flung himself sideways, Stretch Armstrong come alive. But inside, deep down, gnawing away at our guts, there are demons. Most of the time they are under control but this fear is a fatal flaw waiting to be surface, just lying there and waiting.

Our keeper is the team. However well we shift the ball around or roar down the flanks striking terror into the hearts of hapless defenders, there’s something nasty lurking in the background. There’s a weakness, hard to put your finger on it, but it’s there, in the fans’ hearts and the players’ minds. The name we give it is a lack of resilience. You can’t see, smell of taste it, but it’s there. Just waiting.

So in this game, our keeper is the team. At kick-off expectations are low. Last week’s disjointed disappointment lingers and our opponents have a fearsome home record. But our team can play, and so we do, very well. Our manager has a plan this week and outwits his rival. They think we are easy, can’t defend, so they play their two main strikers and an attacking midfielder. To begin with, we are surprised but our manager gestures frantically from the touchline and all settles down. Sandro’s in front of the back four so that both limits the space and he can track the runners into the box. Rafa slots into midfield but not so deep that he can’t be an outlet as we keep possession and move it forward. He and Lennon, not always the best defensively, work hard. Bale is circumspect with his runs.

Inspiration comes from the back. Reassured by the protection in front of them, Dawson and Gallas are rock solid. Alongside them, Corluka and Kaboul stay tight, for the most part at least. Both can’t resist the temptation to wander occasionally but it’s OK, because Gallas has Torres in his pocket. He made sure he was around whenever the Spaniard gained possession, and with Gallas around, he didn’t have possession for long. Gallas was ritually booed for his efforts, which is rich from a club that stakes its future on players agitating for a move for the sake of money. No doubt the irony was lost on the Chelsea faithful.

Never mind the organisation, there’s magic in the air. A clever touch from Rafa and Sandro bursts forward. He reminds me of Juantereno, the great Cuban runner who also had a powerful muscular build yet was the most remarkable athlete. This athlete slams it into the top corner, a terrific goal.

Now we have something to defend, something to fight for. Our keeper shares the mood. Efficient and businesslike in the box, he then positively took off to fingertip a Drogba free-kick away. Today is going to be a good day. Our manager is very much in charge. He tells Sandro to stick to his job, the goal has put us ahead but his defensive work is how we will win the match.

Then he shoots, from distance because he’s increasingly desperate. Can’t get nearer so Lampard shoots and our keeper has everything behind it. Everything. He does everything right, arms, legs, body, yet our keeper has a fatal flaw that has been brutally exposed these past few weeks. Our keeper lets it through.

As it rolls towards the goal, the season flashes past in an instant. The good football, cracking games, attacking brilliance undermined by unforced errors at the back….as it rolls towards the goal, agonisingly, waiting for the moment of searing pain as it dribbles over. Pain in the abject cock-up, utterly avoidable, pain in the Chelsea celebrations, pain as the season slips away.

Yet nothing compares with the pain of what follows. It looks in to me, certain in my vantage point of my sofa, but it isn’t. The referee and lineman, like our keeper, are human and fallible, and merit forgiveness, but this is not right. They can’t give a decision unless they are certain. If they cannot be sure it’s over, it’s not over.

In that instant, our keeper, our team, found redemption then lost it in the blink of a gnat’s eye. Mistake maybe but to keepers, versed in psychology greater than any university professor, it’s either in or it isn’t. Hit the woodwork five times a game? Great, the woodwork’s not in, is it? This was a save, a dodgy, unnecessarily dramatically close save, but a save it was.

And so the game and the season turns on the ref. Chelsea turn from the desperation as epitomised by the long shot that started this all to a potent attacking unit. We continue to play well and hold our shape but gradually we are pushed back, the team doing well save for Pav who is isolated and ineffective up front. Bale could have made more runs to push his man back and seize the initiative but with Torres vanquished by Gallas, Chelsea now look better with Drogba in the middle. Sandro and Modric are outstanding as first Lennon then Rafa fade, Sandro in particular makes three, four last ditch tackles as he tracks back. An outstanding game, closely followed by Luka who purrs throrugh the match.

It looks good but danger threatens. Our keeper is rigid with fear now. His rictus grin fools no one. It’s a horrible mask of terror. They shoot and he can’t move his feet but rooted to the spot he beats it away and with a bit of luck it’s cleared.

Then Chelsea rip us apart. It’s great move, with everyone back first Gallas then, fatally, Dawson is forced out of position. No alternative, we are so stretched. Drogba’s into that space, a touch and it’s in. From the all seeing eye of the sofa I shout “offside” to no one, more in desperation than expectancy. But look, here’s the replay and I was right.

No amount of organisation or effort can compensate for two errors by the officials. Chelsea were the better team but Spurs far exceeded my admittedly low expectations with a disciplined and determined rearguard action. After my criticism last week, full credit to Harry for his tactics and to the team for rising to the occasion. Pity the same can’t be said for the officials.

It’s a gloomy, headshaking how did that happen morning as I return to my sofa to write this. The way I feel, I may not get up, ever again. However, there was so much good in what we did yesterday, here’s a note of optimism to finish. Sandro and Modric could be as good a midfield partnership as any in the league, in Europe even. They are just remarkable. Hope that helps. It’s done something for me. Look, I almost smiled.

Part of the Team, Part of What Exactly? TOMM and the Baby Go Ryman League

/ Alan / 3 Comments

Summer’s nearly here and the signs that mark the eternal passing of the seasons come round once more. Warm evenings, the goalposts in the park coming down (which always brings a pang of sadness when I first discover they’ve gone) and the arrival of my season ticket renewal pack.

This last option is no longer a reliable calendar as it seems to plop on the mat earlier and earlier each year. I’d make a joke about Spurs working it into a Christmas theme next time, were it not for the fact that some clubs have actually done this in the past. Spurs of course offered the two year ticket recently. A few extra weeks interest all adds up, after all.

The pack not only has my name on the front but also a row of Spurs shirts hanging in the dressing room, pre-match. Palacios is 12, Rafa 11 and next to him, side by side, is number 10, Fisher. I kind of like the idea that I wear the 10, the playmaker, revered in Brazil, Pele, Socrates…Be Part of the Team says the accompanying blurb. They can’t do without me.

Naturally I’ll renew. Like a besotted cuckold I watch as the object of my undying desire spurns my affections, behaves badly and and consorts with others, yet I’ll always remain loyal.  As ever, the transparently false marketing platitudes grate at the same time as I once again prepare to do my bit to keep Barclay’s profits in the middle billions. Pile that debt mountain high, lads, our children will paying for it long after we’ve gone!

Despite the cash I’ve willingly given the club over the decades and the atmosphere generated by the fans that on the good nights makes the Lane the best ground in the land, I’m not really feeling part of things. It’s odd if you think about it. The Spurs marketing mob undoubtedly get paid a fortune but they are so far divorced from reality, they actually believe this appeal is going to tip the balance. You know, after over 40 years I wasn’t going to renew but I’ve read the pack and goddammit I’ve changed my mind! To be frank, I’d prefer it if they send me a scribbled handwritten photocopied note: ‘Here it is, do what you want. makes no difference to us.’ I’d applaud the honesty.

Being part of the team, it’s feelgood inclusivity, a sense of ownership and belonging, it’s what I as a manager in my day job try to create in my charity. However, to be believable there has to be some substance, a grounding in real everyday experience. As a part of the team, the price as gone up by over 6%. I’m not consulted over a decision that could shape the club’s future for the next 125 years, the new stadium. A cup of tea costs £2. My renewal pack says I have free use of the ticket exchange scheme, yet they refund only 75% of the price. That’s not my definition of ‘free’.

Now I’m getting petty and it doesn’t suit me. I know what I’m doing. Tottenham is my pleasure, my passion, my sanctuary, my lifelong companion. It’s a fatal mistake for a writer to use these words but I really cannot fully put into words how exhilarated and fulfilled I felt after the derby, or beating Chelsea and L’arse last season. They exploit my obsession but I’m a willing participant.

Increasingly however, clubs cannot take that loyalty for granted. Many fans are becoming disillusioned. Lifelong supporters they will stay, searching for results, their moods swinging this way and that according to our futures, but they will do so in a different way. They’ll be less likely to attend matches regularly, to make the sacrifices, the journeys, the late changes in kick-off times. Nowhere is the problem with the modern Premier League experience illustrated more pointedly than with the contrast with going non-league.

Time constraints restrict my available Saturdays but non-league has its own buzz, welcoming, friendly and inclusive. Even after I left southeast London I drove up up to watch Fisher Athletic (the attachment is obvious), buried deep in the docks where the support was hard core in more ways than one. The first time I went, I smiled knowingly as an irate voice bellowed abuse at his own players from behind me in the main stand. After 10 minutes I turned round to discover it was in fact their manager, Keith Stevens the old Millwall warhorse. None of this new fangled motivational psychology there. On another occasion a woman in a motorised wheelchair parked right next to the pitch. A steward immediately strode purposefully towards her. “Two sugars, is it, Mavis?’ ‘Thanks darlin’’

On Easter Monday I renewed my acquaintance with this world, and it does seem like another world, with a visit to my local team who play in the Ryman Premier. The most noticeable difference is off the field, pre-match: spontaneity. Rather than plan months ahead with investments in time and tickets, 30 minutes before kick-off the family are debating whether or not to come. It’s a social thing: bit of football, bit of chat, lots of laughs.

At the ground it’s clear that scenario has been played out in many other local households. Park two minutes away, families and die-hards mingle together in the sun on the halfway line before trooping to the end the home side are attacking. Here you can walk round the ground.

The game kicks off amidst plenty of noise. The stadium has a cowshed stand at either end, small but an expert in acoustics could not have designed it better. You could hear the crowd three miles away. It’s noticeable how many women and children are here, a setting where they feel comfortable. A couple of families wander off and picnic in the corner, the boys having a sly kickabout in the practice nets. In front of me, a group of 6 year olds guzzle crisps and coke as they join in the abuse of the away keeper. When you’re that age, what more do you want from an afternoon out?

The home team are well on top, buoyed by a dodgy early penalty. The football is enthusiastic but poor, although they go against type by forsaking the long hoof in favour of an attempt to play out from the back. Premier stars would struggle on this pitch, the mountains of sand unable to smooth out the lunar landscape of stones and bumps.

At half-time we chat with acquaintances we bump into on the short trip to the other end and share news from far flung Lowestoft and Horsham re the rivals for automatic promotion. The noise continues unabated for the whole of the second half, vibrant and ribald as all good crowds are. There was one remarkable episode that is decidedly unusual, unique in my experience.

One of the home faces who gets the chants going has brought his baby, no more than 14 months old. He’s decked out in home blue and white, complete with a delightful little drum to match the home drummer. My mate tells me this guy has toned down his behaviour considerably since he became a father. Once, he spent the entire first half pitchside giving dog’s abuse to the away keeper, who was black. At half-time the keeper, silent until then, turns round, looks him straight in the eye and says, ‘”At least I’ve got a bigger di*k than you”. Whereupon our man was stunned into silence and ended up shaking the keeper’s hand.

He’s a doting dad now, paying him plenty of attention as the match goes on and periodically handing him to willing grandparents who are here too. Baby loves the racket and joins in, gurgling away contentedly. There’s a moment’s silence. Baby burbles ‘blue army’, wordless but the tune and intonation is crystal clear. He goes ‘blue army’, the crowd answer. First baby, then the crowd. Call and response on the terrace, led by a 14 month year boy.

Same game but a vastly different experience. The problem for the Premier League is that many are saying it’s not different, it’s better. Close to the pitch and the players, feeling part of something, a sense of belonging that cannot be replicated by marketing ploys, however professional. I went with Villa and West Ham fans, both of whom used to have season tickets, both still follow their teams avidly but who rarely attend games now because they are disillusioned with the whole spectacle and the way they are treated.

In the short term it won’t make much difference. Cue Levy intoning the season ticket waiting list and whatever it has gone up to this week. However, unless something changes I fear Spurs and the entire league are setting up long term problems that will harm the game. Already the average age of premier league spectators is in the thirties, higher in some grounds. Football is still loved deeply but a new generation defines being a fan as watching on TV and buying the shirt rather than being there. Many of the spectators last week wore the colours of league teams but they choose to come here.

It can never be the same at the Lane and I don’t expect it but if they want us to be part of the team, the club could pay us a little more attention. Keep down ticket prices, food in the ground at an affordable cost, plenty of consultation, don’t rush to move kickoff days and times for TV, it would all help and all those points are easy to put into practice. My name on that shirt – it’s not a first team shirt. If it were, you could see some blue on the back and the collar’s wrong. I’m a fan, you see, I spotted that because I know the club better than the merchandising department. I know what’s happening and I understand my role but that doesn’t mean you have to take that for granted.

New Dawn? Just That Same Old Feeling

/ Alan / 28 Comments

The media have taken a solemn and binding oath never to say a bad word about Harry Redknapp. He’s teflon-coated, surrounded by a legion of sycophantic pundits who at the slightest hint of a problem adopt Roman strategy and surround their man with an impenetrable wall of shields. Spurs fans ringing the phone-ins who dare speak his name in vain are showered with ridicule, for example.

I was going to write about this at the end of the season, when we can properly and soberly reflect on a season of wildly fluctuating emotions, but suitably deflated after West Brom’s equaliser, this seems as good a time as any to bring the subject up. It’s a remarkable achievement in an era where the media covers football as never before, not merely examining their subjects with a fine tooth comb but individually picking out each and every head-louse, then sticking that under a microscope. If they can’t find a louse, they’ll invent one.

Yet Redknapp is immune. I can’t recall the last time I read or heard any sustained critique of his managership at Tottenham from a professional pundit. Any suggestion of negativity is met with snorts of derision, not even examined but immediately and forcefully ruled out of bounds. No other manager has such protection, not even Alex Ferguson. Nothing sticks, rather like Pav trying to trap the ball yesterday.

How did the ball get over there?

I am genuinely and sincerely grateful for the progress made by Tottenham Hotspur under Harry Redknapp. Harry bless him has obviously been told to stop intoning his mantra but for once I’ll save him the trouble: I have not forgotten that we did have 2 points from 8 games. To me that seems like if not yesterday, then only last week. The tilt at fourth place, the Champions League, the players, the football, all of this I’ve loved and will never forget. Building  a team takes time and I’m not impatient. I’m not expecting overnight success. However, Harry’s mantra can’t hide the problems and in the midst of the final few games that will define the season as one of success or failure, the old problems that we hoped had gone away have bubbled back to the surface.

Redknapp had a bad game yesterday. Starting with the team selection, he ignored the evidence that the pairing of Crouch and Pavyluchenko had worked pretty well. Now this was Harry’s selection in the first place and he deserves the credit: TOMM regulars will know that whilst I love each and every one of my lovely boys, Crouch is not my favourite son. Yet it’s been good so unless there was an injury, I saw no reason to break it up.

Harry will say, of course, that the job of a striker is to score goals and both did yesterday. However, there is no hiding from the reality that both were downright awful. Our problems stemmed from the fact that JD was never in the game (if he touched the ball at all in the first 20 minutes then I missed it) and Pav’s ball-control was a comic tour de force worthy of top billing at the Edinburgh festival. Leading the line is not his game, there’s been plenty of evidence over the years. He’s fine if he can push the ball a metre ahead of him. Do that, suddenly he’s a world-beater, as he was against Chelsea at home and yesterday he took his chance superbly. Then, as West Brom closed us down and left us no room in the box, he and Defoe looked so ordinary and ineffective. Time and again we played the ball to him, only to see it ping back from his rubber boots. When they call strikers ‘spring-heeled’, this is not what they had in mind.

It was odd not to see Benny up and down that wing. He’s been injured before but his presence is reassuring somehow. I missed him after he went off and so did Gareth Bale. He was at fault to some extent for the early goal, giving the player too much room inside him. However, he managed to get back, as he so often does, and the slip/injury did us in. Well-taken but so much room. Old failings.

Pav's boots are made of revolutionary new material

Sandro came on and had an excellent game, adding attacking drive and bounce to his defensive work. However, to fit him in required our two best players, Modric and Bale, to move out of position. This weakened our team more than if we had brought on Bassong, not a full-back and certainly not ideal but a quick and competent defender. Luka’s body language when he heard the news was a picture. He visibly slumped.

Taking of body language, an expert on Radio 4 said that tugging or touching the neck was the surest sign on a person that something was up. Feel free to use that in your next poker game or contract negotiation. As the game wore on, my neck resembled that of a turkey in early December. We never kicked on after our equaliser. It was one of those ‘nearly’ performances. Lots of good passes or touches that nearly came off but not quite. The pass looked a good one but was just cut out, or the flick opened up the defence – almost. In games like these, what begins as promising and inventive becomes over-optimistic and downright naive, as time after the moves broke down. Credit to West Brom here. Even though we pushed them further and further back towards their own goal, their defensive shield did not crack and they were always able to break quickly.We ended up trying to pass through the eye of a needle. Nothing to aim for up front because nothing was going on.

My neck

We needed a change but were treated to a mystifying substitution. For better or worse, usually better, throughout the season we’ve played with two wide men, Lennon and Bale, and this is the shape where we feel comfortable. Not only that, the combination of width and extra pace was ideal to stretch and break down the resolute WBA defence, so for the life of me I can’t see why Lennon stayed left. I can only presume that Harry wanted to double-team our opponents who had Brunt filling back to protect the full-back from Bale’s runs. Instead, it cluttered everything up and neither player was half as effective as they might have been.

Moreover, it left Kaboul unprotected on our left, as VDV was cutting inside at every opportunity. Several times WBA exploited this themselves. They found it easier to get two on one than we did. Kaboul did well enough in the circumstances but WBA had several opportunities, scoring from one, an admittedly excellent shot from deep but still Cox had plenty of room. He may well never score another like that in his career but that’s not the point. We were unbalanced by the formation.

On 5Live, after the obligatory ‘it’s been a great season’ Harry muttered something along the lines of, ‘I suppose we could be more defensive but that’s not how we are’, then he let the sentence trail away. This isn’t a precise quote as at the time the topical storm over east London had turned the North Circ into a tributary of the Ganges, not the best moment to discover that there was something wrong with my windscreen wipers. Well actually Harry, that’s precisely how we should be at times like that. Fair play again, in the bad old days we would not have fought back to go 2-1 up and that is much of the manager’s doing. However, even if we had had Lennon back on the right we would have been not only more solid to protect the hard fought lead, we could have still attacked on the break.

Rafa had a fine second half. Coming off his wing he worked tirelessly, prompting and probing, looking for an opening. Much more effective when he doesn’t drop deep, this is his position, in the area in front of the back four. However his and the runs of others were too often lateral rather than penetrating. The West Brom midfield shield pushed them across. No width and they weren’t stretched out of shape. Kaboul could not attack because he was occupied with defensive considerations. Luka had a decent rather than commanding game. Tiring towards the end, even slightly off colour and out of position he remained inventive, but there was so little room.

So Rafa ran hard but he did not run back. Two up front plus Rafa, that’s three out of the reckoning when they had the ball and that’s too much, especially at a time when we were a goal up. I enjoy the cavalier football but there is a time and a place for caution. Unbalanced and unprotected, West Brom could get at our back four all too easily. One on one, Dawson did very well and Gallas was OK. However, left one on one, unprotected, they are left with an invidious choice. Dive in and there’s no one behind. Stand off and our opponents have space to create, or in this case line up a curling shot that they wouldn’t have the time to do in training. The midfield are there to protect, and survive, but they were absent. Redknapp should have reorganised.

Same old story. Weak up front and not converting our superiority into goals and points. midfield not defending. Without taking anything away from a well-organised and determined West Brom team, these points dropped against teams we should have beaten have virtually done for our hopes of the CL. Never mind that, now we are looking over our shoulders and the key match of the season is now the trip not to Manchester but to Anfield. What a waste.

Spurs v Arsenal: One of the Great Derbies

/ Alan / 15 Comments

Gone two and there’s no sleep. A long day, 6 hours driving, in between people needed me, lent on me, drained me more than the queue on the Purley Way or the Blackwall Tunnel. The Tunnel. Please let loose from your grip, just let me through, always the Tunnel, it’s holiday time, people are away for chrissakes, for once let me through. Just want to get there, is all, just once.

The sedative of choice, stress, has no effect. 2am and the adrenalin rushes through my veins like a flash flood through sewers. I stare at the ceiling. When i was a kid and couldn’t sleep, I lay in my parents bed and stared at the ceiling, watching the headlight beams from the busy main road reflected through the prism of our window as they danced across the cracks in the ceiling. Comforting but tonight the memory has lost its soothing powers.

I close my eyes. I feel every splash of blood touch the side of my veins as it pumps onwards and round my body. Listen hard and there’s the sound of my heart, reverberating loud enough to wake the neighbourhood. My fingertips tingling, harness that charge and there’s all the alternative energy the Greens or anyone else requires.

I close my eyes and I’m right there, back in the bearpit, the noise, the glare, the sweat and the passion. This head-spinning swooning tumult, extravagant skill and unstinting commitment thrill that is the finest of derbies. This is football, this is the game, the stuff of hopes and dreams, of legend, of ‘I was there’. Of the game I adore. So why sleep when I have this.

These are the things I said in the car. The car. It’s Bill Nick’s brain, the tactics truck and the Anfield bootroom all rolled into one. A myth some say but it’s real. The car on the way to the ground. One, Harry, be brave, take the game to them so pick Sandro to defend and based upon that platform play Lennon instead of Rafa. They don’t like up’em, Mr Redknapp sir. Love Hud and Rafa, don’t get me wrong, but in the car, I’m master of the universe. Play Pav and Crouch together up front. Two, speculation about Arsenal’s frame of mind may have kept the football media in business this past few days but it’s out the window if they score early. So don’t let them do that. Us? We’ll be up for it, we’re past the stage of taking it easy, of waiting for things to happen rather than making them happen, of sitting back early on.

Three, and I despise myself for saying this, but of all the great strikers in the league, there is one I fear: Van Persie. He’s seldom been fit against us of late, but he’s dangerous. Four, risk Kaboul at right-back? He’ll attack, I like Kaboul. Too much of a gamble? I would have.

We’re off and I confess, my mind or part of it is elsewhere, still processing the day, not quite up for the derby. Most unusual. In the old days, the fans would be packed in early, had to get in, queue and stand, not the maroon bar stuttering across the screen. So we would sing to salute the combatants and pass the time. The atmosphere established way before kick off. None of that now. The whistle is the switch, it’s still there, just have to hang on, it’s a proper derby after all. The analysts bray about league position and next season but we know this is about about white versus red, as it should be, as was ever. Nothing else matters. First tackle, muscle and pain, noise and anger. It’s the whistle that starts it, it’s this first tackle. A proper derby.

We’re off and we can do it. Take the game to them and we can do it. Don’t concede possession and we can do it. We’re self-confident, bright, rested after a week off. Take the game to them. Tonight the streets are ours.

Now hang on, just get hold of it. keep the ball, don’t them get hold of it. You know what they do when they have it, knock it around like they own the place, so keep it. I said keep it, keep it Tom, Tom keep it. Where did he come from, where’s the defence, so much room. Only Walcott, showpony, can’t finish….

All over us. There’s only red, passing around us. This can’t be happening. never mind keep the ball, can’t get it in the first place. There, from nothing, great ball, Charlie was it? Bang, what a shot, Rafa top class player, first time on the run, made for him by an inch perfect pass but so much to do from there. So much for the car.

A relief, we’re back now. But this isn’t right, can’t get it never mind keep it. Ref, oi ref, stop the match, count them, they’ve one extra man. Tom, TOM don’t give it away, pass to a white shirt not the crowd, for goodness sake, Tom, we need you tonight. Close him down, he’s brilliant tonight, christ he has more pressure in a training 5-a-side. Where is everyone? Where’s the midfield, the defence had the best view in the house and for free. This can’t be happening. Come ON.

Harry, Arsene’s mugged you tonight, old son. You’re sitting there, arms folded, maybe Arsene can lend you a water bottle ‘cos the pressure must be building up. Let off a bit of steam for once, he’s done you good and proper there. Nasri and Walcott wide, then they come in so we’re outnumbered. Rafa, get back, Bale, back. Rafa, this is the derby, not a night for strolling, we’ve two up front so you have to come back even if you don’t want to. Fabregas unmarked and untroubled, running things. Luka and the Zeppelin against four or five. Out-thought and outnumbered.

Walcott again. I’m right behind the line of the shot, it’s in until a late curve, like a misread putt at Augusta. Benny – somewhere. Daws looks around in bewilderment and despair. Me too. Bale offers hope, always with Bale, some hope and a chance or two, but Sagna has him more often than not. A cock-up, no danger then it’s three and no hope. never mind the tactics, where the hell was everyone? Van Persie and the car…

It’s getting nasty, the crowd are fractious and appointing blame, Hud especially, Gomes comes out and does little wrong but there is a gasp of anxiety accompanying every sortie from his line. Then some hope with a clean crisp strike from Hud, he’s not had a good one but there’s some redemption, first time and unstoppable.

How did that happen? A Gallas cock-up. Haven’t written that before. I think, wasn’t watching fully to be honest, glanced elsewhere, in my head Gallas, so danger cleared. There, on the scoreboard at half -time, the damning evidence. Like the rest, trooped off, only one down but lucky to be only one. This professional, like the rest of them, knew we had been given a hell of a going-over. Like the fans, they knew. Battered like a Scottish Mars Bar.

The story of the second half is about Spurs in the ascendancy, of Lennon flying as if his feet never touched the ground, of Modric driving on in the centre, of Huddlestone finding his range, of Crouch occupying their back four. But I close my eyes, and amidst the bedlam I see William Gallas. I see a face I loathed. I see a man who in the twilight of his career could have taken a pot of cash and an easy life somewhere in Europe, sun on his back,  in leagues where players strolled rather than clashed and clattered. I see a man who played the match of his life against Arsenal at the Emirates, yet now makes a potentially catastrophic error, who surely is on the way down.

I see a man, a real footballer, who absolutely refuses to accept defeat. Not only that, who refuses to give of anything less than his best. Where others collapse and feel sorry for themselves, a man spurred on to atone for his error. A man who played most of the half in pain but carried on. Who limped away late in the game after treatment, a man who could have been forgiven for taking it easy at the end of an exhausting match, but who when late danger appeared dashed across at full tilt to cover and tackle. As he had throughout the half, alone almost, stretched at the back as we pressed onwards, he dug out a header facing his goal, two, three, four times a toe in the box and away. One on one, he won them all. Who would not give up. I see a real footballer.

On the left, Cesc probes, searching for a weakness. Luka, alert, comes across, parries and takes the ball. Cesc is having none of that, won’t allow Luka to escape. And so they slug it out, the two masters of midfield head to head, oblivious as others look on, first Luka then Cesc, then Luka. Eventually Spurs scramble it away, but in that moment, Luka stole his powers. From then on, Luka reigned, gimlet-eyed focus against weary hope. From then, energy flowed from red into white. Sure there were times when the balance momentarily tipped the other way, how can there not be with a player like that, but Fabragas and his lieutenant Nasri were drained.

Fabregas versus Modric in the middle. two of the best midiflers in Europe, a deul under the lights. First half, Luka labours while Cesc glides. Second, Luka has it. Luka, born to have the ball at his feet, the picture of Luka incomplete unless the ball is at his feet, spindly frame hunched over the ball, he moves it it on back to me, first touch moves it on, now see I’m here, now back again. watch me now, lost it but get it back all in the mind run but run here, here to where the ball will be, here, where I am, and I’m away again. Watch me, do as I do, watch me play like me play to me and we will be victorious. The boots fly in on the shins, up and over, pick yourself up and take it, take it to them. Bring them on, take it to them.

Rafa’s on the ball now, looking for it higher up the field, not dropping back where he is wasted. This is where he’s dangerous. Defence? Go for it now, this is what you do, this is your game. The reds are pressed back now, minds occupied with other matters. The fouls come in. Cards don’t matter, they’re rattled. Get at them, rattle a few cages. Crowd baying, seeing foul play everywhere, baying for free-kicks. baying for blood. Fans scent weakness better than a tiger on the prowl.

Tom’s found his game, first touch and on, lovely touches. Lennon’s brightened it all up and we don’t miss Bale, injured in a legitimate clash, heavy but the keeper played the ball first. I think. Head’s in a whirl, it;s so fast, frenetic but there’s method here. Pass and move and it’s us now, not them, playing at the tempo that suits us.

Modric releases Rafa, what a chance. perfect ball, so close. Long ball Benny, Lennon has them beat, from nothing, into the box, keeper comes he’s late going to be late too late, lovely late too late. Lennon arms and legs, Rafa outwits the keeper, puts right not left as per usual.

A blur, it’s all a breathless blur. Kaboul on the right, cross and the keeper has it. Someone swept it goalwards, Luka I think, I don’t know it’s all a breathtaking thrilling stomach churning wouldn’t have it any other way blur. Crouch’s header saved, go for the corner Crouchie, the corner not straight ahead. Sandro on, picks up the tempo right away, bursts forward,keeper sits on it, he had little idea. Shot from someone else produces a flying save. Dizzy with exhilaration, can’t remember the precise order, just know these things happened.

Know that now I’m and screaming, deep deep down lungs full of great gusts of air, a roar to carry our team onwards, a roar to exorcise the ghosts of a bad week and bad times, Lungs cleansed, emptied of decades of the detritus of city living. Missed and I twist backwards, contorted in the despair that only being so close that close can bring. Acclaiming every last challenge, howling in rage at every foul. This is the game, this is football, this is my Spurs.

Know that Arsenal pumped it forward, know that Dawson would win everything, and he did, for the whole of the second half. Benny, much maligned Benny. 5live saying we had a problem with our full backs. Dixon has said this before. Benny’s problem is that sometimes he is isolated from his centre halves. Part of this is because of the way we play, not his fault. We attack and he’s left isolated, no midfield cover, so he has to come out. Last night he let Walcott get inside him, hence the goal and the chance. Then, he altered his positioning, tucking in so Walcott had to go wide. Second half, Benny was left one on one, and he came out on top every time. He was everywhere down that left, passing superb, long and short, twice late on he ran back and did enough to stop the shot. Brilliant Benny, just brilliant.

Arshavin and Bentdner on, on the ropes but the enemy won’t lie down. Wenger’s shrewd – going for the win. I’m worried but I know this is in keeping with this bedlam harem scarem hold it give it run have it back game. Arshavin  in front of me, tousled hair and reddened cheeks, like a 5 year old rushing out to play after a bad day at the barber,. but there’s danger here. Kaboul galloping down our left, there are gaps. Wenger knows, he knows. First tackle Kaboul pinches it. It’s on its way, it’s first time or no time now and Younis is on his game. First touch and it’s away but my gaze holds the Russian’s for a fleeting second. I look him in the eye: it’s Ok, he doesn’t fancy it, not this frantic spellbinding game. Could be the best game he’s ever played in but he’s not up for it. We’re OK.

So many chances, we could have, should have. We needed the points, after all. This morning, let’s leave the analysis, the tables, the Champions League, just for a few hours. For this was one of the great derbies in the forty plus years I’m been watching them. Thrilling, riveting, unpredictable dirty brilliance. This is why I love the game so.

6am, can’t sleep, have to write. But where to begin?