Can’t hang about. These tenders won’t write themselves, you know, and Ofsted will be here tomorrow. Endless pages of submissions, evidence and method statements. 11,368 words to be precise. That’s an eighth of a book, just for one tender. Not that I have time to write a book. Too busy doing bloody tenders.

I’m pleased to be able to tell people about our work. The only problem is, no one will read it. They’ll read some of it of course, hopefully most of it but consider the maths. There’s my 11,368 words, which doesn’t include the business aspects because quite rightly they don’t let me near the money, I would just pile in and give children everything they need and deserve. Then there’s the 11,368 words, give or take, of the thirty or forty other providers. Then this bid is one of four lots. So that makes 1,818,880 words that have to be digested and compared precisely to find the preferred bidders. Just a guess but I reckon they won’t be able to do that properly. And that sense of futility runs from my brain through deadened nerve fibres to every stroke of the keyboard.

Anyone who saw yesterday’s game will understand futility all too well. What’s the point, I daresay you asked yourself, especially in the long, long second half. Plenty of time to think – at times yesterday there was more noise in my kitchen when the washing’s on spin than there was in the ground. There’s been comments about the booing but it was the silence that scared me. Nothing going on, in the stands or on the pitch.

Ofsted will soon arrive. It’s all hands to the pumps in the office when they are visiting. Evenings and this weekend, the team have all put in time, while I swanned off to football. Working to prove they do a fine job. They don’t have to prove it to me, I know they do. I’ve seen them blossom and thrive over the years. I tell all my managers to work fewer hours but none of them take any notice of me.

They work hard because they believe in what they are doing and want to prove it to the Ofsted inspector or indeed anyone who comes into contact with the office. Shame the same can’t said for my football team. Bit harsh. They’ve been great for most of the season and looking back, basking in the glow of late spring sun and the warmth of a Champions League place we’ll chuckle at comments like that. Just a blip. But right now, I’m still numb with the sheer nothingness of it all. Even deep space isn’t empty. Full of mysterious dark matter, apparently, but this one defied the laws of universe because I can tell Brian Cox personally that at White Hart Lane yesterday, there was one big void.

Our Andre has not had a good week. Playing 4-4-2 to protect a three goal lead away from home was misjudged to say the least, although I have sympathy with the optimism and confidence behind it. (No match report, I’m afraid, that tender is oh so very real). Wrong, but his heart was in the right place. Perhaps that confidence in his side was misplaced. I’m guilty too – no worldbeaters these but a decent, hardworking and well-organised side. After the Inter game, he was honest enough to say that the “organisation was not there because the mind was not there”. Yesterday we suffered a collective mental fraility that seemed to have a life of its own because it spread to the five or six players who did not start in Italy. Which is bad.

Come the second half (I’d say the first was forgettable but I genuinely have forgotten it), we geared up for more effort, partly because it couldn’t get any worse and partly because in the last few months we have consistently raised our game in the second period.  Nothing. AVB was at fault again. Players were all over the place. Adebayor as a left winger, Bale on the right mostly, Dempsey, well, I had no idea what he was up to and frankly neither did he. Did I detect a few grumbles every time he touched the ball? I don’t like that but he was dire.

Tempo was the problem. It stayed slow for the whole time and we don’t play well like that. Daws could have got us going but he went off. Last season Parker would have driven us on but it’s a measure of how far he has fallen that the least experienced Spur, Tom Carroll, had infinitely more about him. As soon as he came on, it was pass and move, one touch then pass and move. Simple. It’s what we do but we forgot. Playing badly so back to familiar basics. Bale charging down the left, why not give him 20 minutes, that’s all. No Lennon but width from Walker.  Its what we do and it’s what is needed against massed defensive ranks. Instead we resolutely stick to one-twos down the middle with Bale coming inside to be gratefully swallowed up by the men in black.

Fulham had two shots, one went in. Lloris was presumably suffering from exposure, he had been out in the open with nothing to do for so long. The divine Dimi popped it in. Disliked understandably by many Spurs fans for the way he left us, but what I wouldn’t give for a fraction of his skill and intelligence. In this team he would be a star again.

I’m a realist with optimistic tendencies. It was not going over the top to believe that we had done away with performances like this one. The week before, the Lane was rocking with two superb games in five days. Arsenal beaten, Inter taken apart. Ten days on, unrecognisable. 

There is a simpler explanation, of course. Spurs were knackered. Dembele and Siggy were, Adebayor had plenty of energy but no form. So the fresh players were balanced out with those who simply weren’t there. We can’t play with half a team.

Business continuity plan now. This is newly popular with local authorities. Think Doomwatch, 28 Days or that other wretched BBC show where a virus wiped out most of the population. If the 200 or so people who I work with were all out of action, how would we provide a service? (I haven’t made this up, by the way). Another futile exercise but I will go through the motions. Walking back to the car, I was left to ponder on the futility of hoping Spurs had tuened a corner. Another season, another blast of hope that crumbles to failure before our eyes.

Too early to tell. Maybe Andre needs a rest in the international break to recharge his batteries. Spurs need that break and to return refreshed. Still plenty of time. I’m convinced despite yesterday that the club is on sound footings.

Building for the new stadium has not yet begun but already it looks as if they are moving ahead on the naming rights. White Hart Lane has become the Pleasure Dome, a place of euphoria and delight. Last night Spurs overwhelmed a weakened Inter Milan side with 90 minutes of sustained flowing football that simply brushed one of the top Italian teams aside as if they barely existed.

Lovely stuff and the fans responded, a wonderful celebratory atmosphere less for the tie itself and more for the football Tottenham are playing, for the manager whose efforts are deeply appreciated by an initially wary Spurs crowd and for the growing belief that promise will be fulfilled.

Measuring my anxiety levels is a complex undertaking, admittedly not quite on a par with the Hadron Collider’s calibrations but a nevertheless complicated cluster of interacting variables. There’s gum-chewing of course, subdivided into intensity of bite and chews per minute, glances at the clock in the second half and that odd hand-wringing thing that I do. The details aren’t important but if blood is drawn, things are going badly.

Yesterday, levels veered crazily into the positive, at times they were off the scale. What a revelation to watch an anxiety-free Spurs game. All-round good performances, an early goal, silky passing, cracking atmosphere throughout. Inter even went so far as to miss the obligatory chance out of nothing, the forward shooting straight at Friedel when clean through. No Spurs cock-up! I did look at the clock but only in the hope that we could have more time.

Once again Villas-Boas selected a very strong team, as he has throughout the competition. Inter? Not so much. I’m no authority on the reserve league in Italy, no really, I’m not, but I’m certain half of this lot don’t see much first team action. By the end they were bringing on players who looked as if they had come for the Beat the Deckchair competition.

Unfair – they had a sprinkling of experienced players and it was a shame to see them in such reduced circumstances. The motivation, organisation and application of Our Andre’s Spurs has been a feature of last few months but nowhere has it been more obvious than in the stark contrast between these two sides. From the kick-off Spurs were willing and eager, pinging it around and by-passing their lacklustre opponents with inventive pass and move football. They know what they are supposed to do and where they are supposed to be.

Parker and Dembele were the pick. Both had an extra yard or so available and they plundered this rare freedom to great effect. Parker’s problem this season has been his release of the ball. At his best when he can win it and lay it off or drive forward ten or fifteen yards and then let it go, he’s forgotten the simplicity of his game or not been able to pick out a man amidst a packed defence. Either way, he ends up holding onto it longer than he has to.

Last night, he had the space to move and his teammates could get into space to be found. Similarly, Dembele had more room to roam. Some of his play was delightful. Lennon was energetic excellence throughout, dashing back to cover as well as whizzing at the Inter backline. It’s good to see Siggy have some gametime. His miss on Sunday, passing when clean through, betrayed his lack of confidence. At Swansea and Reading, his trademark was goals from midfield. With us he’s developing a knack for the alert tap-in, following up Defoe’s shot to tap in the rebound off the keeper. It should help him overcome a lingering inferiority complex – I suspect he’s still coming to terms with this step up in class.

Vertonghen was imperious at the back, Gallas had enough time to charge forward in the second half. Brad was a spectator. The only disappointment was Defoe’s failure to score. He knows goals are the only thing that feed his confidence and his pre-injury instinct for the corners of the goal deserted him. His efforts to hold it and shoot rather than pass to a better placed team-mates became increasingly absurd. They just rolled their eyes and looked to the heavens.

No matter. Bale put us one up after five minutes with a header, because he can do EVERYTHING, and missed another similar opportunity. Siggy next, then Vertonghen with a header. Three and could, should, have been more but no one really cared about what might have been. Fans right across the spectrum came together to experience the pleasure of watching Spurs play good quality football. The guy next to me wore a baseball cap pulled down almost over his eyes and his scarf covered his face. When the ball nearly hit us, he ducked down for fear of the cameras catching a glimpse. I suspect that guy’s been banned…

To my right, a three or four year old with eyes as bright as his new white Spurs woolly hat. His first game and the memory will live long. Glad to share it with him.

I didn’t see it coming. We’d been squeezed back into our own half from the very beginning, a dog on a leash struggling in vain to free himself.

From where I sit, you see every bead of sweat, each straining muscle, look into the players’ eyes and beyond, deep into their psyche and their soul, determination or fear, laid bare. I saw the pass but not where it would end up. I saw the red shirts, odd how they stand out, more so than the white, however bright. So much red and the only white was the ball itself. Then Lennon, scampering goalwards, so sudden, so perfect because in that instant I knew. Control as perfect as Greaves, gliding, in his stride. Bustle and rush, this frantic game paused for a long, lingering moment. The moment. Lennon looked up, saw an open goal. I looked up, saw an open goal, just as I see it now, eyes half-shut.

Felt the moment. In my ears, the roar. A powerful exultation from way down, expressing years, decades of frustration and misery, gone in that instant. The old ground shook and shivered around us, coming to life like an old soldier’s last hurrah, rediscovering the spirit and glory of past victories, buried but never forgotten. Seen it all before but knows there’s more to come.

Finishing above our rivals for the first time since 1995 carries a meaning and significance far greater than the parochialism of a win in the north London derby. Once, we were equals, with identical records in a fixture that dates back to the early years of the last century. Then they pulled away into the far distance, in the process winning not one but two Doubles at White Hart Lane. I was there for both and it hurt, my goodness me it hurt.

Now, there is an inescapable feeling that the balance of power is about to shift and this game was the tipping point. More precisely, around 4.35 on March 3rd 2013 was the tipping point. A relatively young Tottenham team is one for the future, packed with skilful players desperate to better themselves and loyal to manager André Villas-Boas. Contrast this with Arsène Wenger, a decent man unfairly criticised by sections of the media and his own fans but whose ideas appear jaded, his hitherto masterful judgement in the transfer market having finally failed to bring in enough players of sufficient quality. Never mind north London, the future is ours.

Derbies often don’t live up to expectations but you cannot say this about the north London derbies at Spurs in the last five years. Fantastic, breathless football with the quality enhanced rather than hampered by the frenetic pace. The 3-3 match was one of the best ever seen in the Premier League, two sides giving everything they had for 90 minutes.

Yesterday, Arsenal did not give everything and therein lies a significant difference between the sides and between Arsenal then and now. On top for the first half an hour, they beavered away in midfield and denied Spurs any room. We could not keep the ball and as in other matches recently, especially in the opponents’ final third where Adebayor singularly failed to rouse himself despite the usual inspiration of playing against his old team and Parker, the supposed reliable, was more flummoxed than the rest.

Our defence were exposed but rose to the task. Dawson and Vertonghen were magnificent throughout, unbeatable in the box. Superjan’s saving tackle on Giroud was miraculous. Time and again Dawson got to the ball first. Rock solid and they did as much as Bale and Lennon to win the match for us. Lloris, impeccable again, swept up the leftovers.

Both sides played a high line so the play was heavily compressed in the centre. Trying to get going, we fell back, playing the ball this way and that across the halfway line. Suited Arsenal – we were getting nowhere and it was only a matter of time before we gave it away under pressure. To counter Walcott’s pace, we had dropped back a little more than in previous games so everything moved five or ten yards closer to our goal. Dembele moved up a little towards the end of the half and had a good period either side of half time.

Bale gets all the attention. I noticed the hand-held camera following him at full-time when it should have been on Vertonghen and Dawson. However, the key is that somewhere in the last couple of months, Spurs have discovered the mysterious alchemy of resilience. We were not playing well but we did not concede. Not fluent but it was tight. Bale in fact was not allowed much time or space but the midfield stayed firm and the defence played as a unit.

Regular Spurs fans, just pause to consider one aspect of the last couple of paragraphs. The fact that I can write about a defence working as a unit. Pushing up, playing the high line, playing any tactic for that matter. Who would have thought it? Walker had the best game defensively he’s had for a long while. Anyway, something is working and that is down to our Andre.

But back to Bale. As we always do. Add a matchwinner to that resilience and we have a team capable of doing something. It’s the recipe of a successful side. Under pressure, we were at our most creative and turned adversity into goals. Bale on the end of Siggy’s pass and he took it like a classic goalpoacher. But what a pass – took 6 red shirts out of the game in a single moment. Lennon on the end of Parker’s pass – took out five red shirts in a single moment. I’ve read stinging criticism of Arsenal’s back four but they were two fine goals, perfectly timed runs onto passes of perfection.

The old Arsenal would have come back at us after the break but that sustained determination is missing. Don’t know exactly what it is but we’ve got it and they’ve lost it.

After taking over as the second half began, we stupidly gave away the sort of goal that makes my blood boil. On top but concede a needless free-kick and pathetic marking at the near post. Yet despite a couple of chances, our opponents’ opportunities were limted by sterling defence that got better as the match went on. The players look so fit they could have played another game straight way. In fact, once Defoe came on  (can’t get rid of the idea that Manu took the easy way out) we looked the more likely to score again, Bale putting it over at the far post after a stunning move from deep inside our half and Siggy showing the tell-tale signs of a man without confidence by passing when the only option was a shot.

Within the mayhem in the stands, something odd happened. About 80 minutes, I suddenly found a moment’s calm. Dawson and Vertonghen were winning everything. Perhaps Arsenal weren’t going to score after all.

Many articles over the weekend about the fit between Villas-Boas and Tottenham, favourably comparing his achievements with his time at Chelsea where the old guard did not take to his methods and Abramovich pulled the chair out from under him just as he was trying to get comfy. Undaunted, the young manager with the manner of an earnest, newly qualified teacher came to a club where he could express the ambition that burned inside him. He found a group of talented, maturing footballers of a like mind who were good but wanted to better themselves.

Similar pieces appeared here in Tottenham On My Mind before the season began. I added that we may have to wait awhile until it all came together. For once, I was right. The players have bought into the Villas-Boas way and so have I. At the end, we celebrated together, players chucking their shirts into the crowd, Dawson the last to leave the pitch. The old place may be on its last legs but on the good days it rocks like a proper football ground should, and this was one of the very best.