We’re all the same, football fans. Turn up every week, that familiar and engaging mix of optimism and dedication at kick-off, tinged with the total certainty that the wheels are going to fall off at the earliest opportunity. “Typical insert name of your team here, trust us to have it all go wrong” Really though, is there a team like Spurs? That has created an art-form out of the cock-up.

But really. Consider this a scientific endeavour. I want to know, because I’m determined to push back once more the frontiers of human knowledge, the secret must be shared. Because it’s there. Fans of other teams, compare and contrast. Especially fans of top teams, teams striving to do well in the Premier League, never mind Europe, teams who want to challenge for the untold riches and glory of the Champions League. Teams with pretensions, who want to be something.

Here’s the model to evaluate. You’re not playing well but are still on top. Although your energetic, well-organised and motivated opponents are making it hard for you and have to be carefully watched on the break, the match is yours for the taking. It’s a corner, against the run of play. two centre halves jump. Yours is the captain, a rock, who has inspired others, made himself a far better player than most expected him to ever be, who is now an international when the guy he came to the club with several years ago, the one we really wanted, is long gone and getting fat on your opponent’s bench. Yet at this crucial moment, 0-0, as he jumps he can’t resist sticking up his hand. Penalty.

Enough for most teams but oh no. Onto centre stage strolls our keeper. We like him but he has a secret power – a marshmallow body. Moreover, he has no control over when he transforms. Up steps the taker, not even much noise to put him off, such is the gloom that has descended over the ground. Ta-dah! He saves it, plunging low to his left, a proper save to a good shot, not a penalty miss.

He does a slightly scary celebratory dance in the box, reminiscent of tribal shamen high on peyote and summoning up the spirits. Maybe he was on something

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stronger than marshmallows, that would explain a hell of a lot. His joy lifts him to meet the resulting corner, he catches it but it’s not quite there, a couple of flaps and it’s gone. The opponent seizes the chance but goes a bit wide….and the keeper brings him down. For no real reason other than blind panic. A second penalty in 30 seconds, they score this time. Surely in the long annuals of football history, this is a first. Genuinely remarkable. Fans of other clubs, tell me if your lot could do that.

This was of course the second implosion of the game. Again on top, as in terms of territory we were for the majority of the time, our defence’s unerring ability to evaporate meant we almost conceded in the first half. Where do they go? Really, what are they up to? As individuals I like them. Kaboul has a lot to learn about positioning at full-back but he’s OK. Gallas and Daws are true warhorses. Not once but twice in quick succession Blackpool had chances to take it as we looked on in desperation. Credit to Gomes here for a superb save, low and one-handed to his left. That’s the thing, he’d done so well up until the penalties. That’s the other thing – this ability to fall apart is all too familiar.

You have to laugh or else you’d cry. Something else that fans of most clubs would identify with, but it was a dismal evening at the Lane that was encapsulated in the MOTD highlights, which were a) not very long and b) almost exclusively featured Blackpool attacks. Tis wasn’t a reflection of the game itself – we were on top for most of it – but showed that despite our territorial and possession superiority, the Tangerines had the best chances. We had lots of attempts but I can’t recall their keeper having to make many hard saves, or even diving come to think of it. Mind you, his outfit was so bright, looking gave me a headache so perhaps I averted my gaze. Cars on the North Circular were slowing down because they saw a warning of a hazard ahead.

We huffed and puffed but couldn’t blow the house down. Without playing particularly well, we were fine until we reached the edge of the area. Then nothing. Early on, Blackpool played a high defensive line but gradually and to our credit we broke that down by getting wide. Bale had two or three men on him but still knocked over a series of crosses, not all on target but there were more than enough decent opportunities. A couple whizzed across the box as our strikers stood back and watched from a safe distance.

The goal when it finally came was excellent, and credit to Defoe for pulling that one of the bag. This season, Spurs have scored 12 goals from outside the box, more than any other Premier League side. The end of season showreel will excite with plenty of whizz-bang moments, but that stat indicates not brilliance but our fundamental problem: our strikers are poor. Time and again Modric, Rafa and Sandro were poised at the edge of the box, looking for something but saw only tangerine shirts. The crosses came in but there’s no one on the end of the them. It’s a well-worn topic in these hallowed columns, but all three of the strikers were terrible. Pay wore his rubber boots and the ball bounced off them time and again, but it’s a basic lack of technique that lets them down, over and over again. Pav was abysmal. I feel kind of responsible because without singing his praises I would pick him ahead of Crouch but it’s got so bad, I look forward to two metre Peter’s arrival.

Right at the first half’s close Sandro realised the real problem. Twice he surged forward at pace, knowing that we had to up the tempo and Harry took the hint in the second half by bringing Lennon on. He and Bale banged in the crosses – to a strike force composed of JD and VDV. If one stood on the other’s shoulders, they would barely be taller than the Blackpool centre halves, yet still we crossed it. This plays to our opponent’s strengths. One of their tactics is to withdraw into their box and the massed ranks repel all boarders. Not a criticism, it’s just what they do and we made it so easy for them.

Good luck to Blackpool. Their fans look and sound as though they actually enjoy football rather than being obsessed by money and league position, and their manager has done a fantastic job, my manager of the season. However, they are the dirtiest team I’ve seen at the Lane this season with several ugly fouls, late and high, when not under any pressure. In the first half Rose rode a dreadful tackle, then Bale was singled out for special treatment as Adam came across and cynically and calculatingly took him out. That ended his threat for the last 30 minutes (and as it turns out for the season), yet the referee did not even give a foul, let alone display a card when red could easily have been appropriate.

Mind you, by this point the ref appeared to have given up, happy to let the players get on with in the manner of a lunchtime playground kickabout. Fouls from both sides, with many from Spurs, went unpunished. I’m all for letting a game flow but this was bizarre. At one time, Crouch, Rafa and Evatt were on the floor clutching their heads and the ref gave a bounce-up after we deliberately stopped and kicked it out of play. He was probably still chuckling as in a moment of comedy gold increasingly in tune with our performance, Crouch had been pushed in the back and went flying into Rafa. Head met head and both lay prostrate. He even got the bounce-up wrong. Adam let Modric have it, thinking clearly that it was supposed to be uncontested but the ref meant it was a competitive drop, presumably to cover up the fact that he couldn’t decide what was going on so left it to the players.

Crouch on and the ball is launched high into the evening sky. A few half-chances but mostly a waste. That’s what happens when Crouch is on but we’ve done that one before, too. The guy behind brought his young son. He’s trying to teach him the finer points of the game but as with any 6 year old, he’s majorly impressed when they kick it as far and as high as possible. Suffice to say  he enjoyed the last twenty minutes more than I did.

A few other things to say, in no particular order. Luka Modric was once again outstanding, when we play like this he does so much to get us going, it’s downright criminal to see it go to waste.

Never mind all this samba football, the best Brazilian teams always has a tough defensive midfielder or two at their heart. Sandro will that man for years to come. He’s that good.

Danny Rose had a fine game. He looked composed and purposeful throughout and his defensive positioning was satisfactory. At the start Holloway pushed Taylor Fletcher right up on him, big experienced guy versus the slim newbie, but Rose easily had the beating of him on the ground and, surprisingly, in the air. Although he might have used his pace and linked better with Bale in attack, that’s only to be expected as they haven’t played together much. Rose is one of those players who came with high hopes and doesn’t seem to have moved on. From all accounts he’s not been ripping up trees when he goes on loan but this performance at least showed plenty of promise and it will be interesting to see what plans we have for him next season.

A great goal by Defoe, no question, but it was virtually first time that Blackpool allowed him any space. Give him a  second to compose himself and he looks dynamite. Except that in the Prem, that seldom happens.

Our last 12 games: won 1, drawn 7, lost 4. Opponents include whammers, Wolves, Wigan and Blackpool twice. It’s a lousy anti-climax to the end of the season. The lustre of the Champions League is fast fading. At the match I was mystified as to why a guy as experienced as Dawson should throw his hand into the air at a routine corner. I don’t usually get the chance to watch replays if I’ve been to a game but MOTD perhaps gave us a clue. it was a great ball and Evatt had him beat. No good moaning about a push, Daws, there wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. Beat and knew it. An ordinary incident but it revealed the pressure he and the whole team feel right now, and if he can’t cope then there’s no hope for the rest of them. Or for wins at City and Liverpool in the next 7 days.

Cheer yourself up – the club can’t be bothered to do much to celebrate the 50th anniversary of the greatest side we’ve ever had, unless you believe Paul Coyte talking to someone who wasn’t in that team to be enough. Fear not – wear the shirt with pride. Celebrate in style. The Double won the Spurs way, beautiful passing football. A superb high quality t-shirt featuring the team and the pair of trophies. Completely unofficial from Philosophy Football. Click the photo above or visit them here:  http://www.philosophyfootball.com/view_item.php?pid=700

More about the Double? Read my interview with John White’s son Rob and the co-author Julie Welch of the Ghost of White Hart Lane, the book about John and the Double team that’s a must for any Spurs fan. It’s the next piece down, go on, just scroll down a few centimetres…there it is, see it now.

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.

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.