Tottenham Hotspur

Ledley’s Knee Beats Liverpool

/ Alan / 20 Comments

What the new ground needs, wherever we may end up, is a statue. It’s the thing these days, dignifying our improvised chaotic representation of beauty with the use of an art-form that stretches back beyond antiquity. Wolves and Wembley have had one for a while but there’s been a spate in the last few years. Bremner outside Elland Road, grinning wildly whereas to make it lifelike he should be scowling into the eyes of opponents spreading fear and loathing.  Jimmy Armfield stands outside Blackpool’s ground, all fitting tributes to true club greats and then at Fulham there’s Michael Jackson.

Outside the New Lane fans will gather pre-match to worship. Children will clamber over the plinth and pose for photos. Their parents’ stories of past glory days and the legend behind the bronze will pass down the love of the club through the generations as the kids rush off to the club shop. Only one symbol from the modern era can truly represent Tottenham Hotspur’s heart and soul: Ledley King’s knee. Shiny metal, each ligament, bone and cartilage in detailed relief, sadly more solid in perpetuity than in life. If only.

Written off by many, although not by this blog, even I had almost given up hope that we would ever see him play again. Dignity in retirement seemed the future

Ledleys Knee. An Artists Impression

rather than a series of limping comebacks. Barely a flicker’s difference in the expression as he trudges off but the slumped shoulders betray the agony of failure that for this dedicated Spur outweighs the pain in his leg. Yesterday he’s back as if he had never been gone, like he’s had a couple of weeks break in the sun. The familiar scuttling run, feet low to the ground to save precious energy and minimise impact. Running on empty, he conserves what’s left for short bursts over 5 and 10 yards, that’s all you need in the box. Above all, the mind is keen and alert, match sharp like he’s played every game he’s missed in his head. Perfect positioning, a refusal to be shifted out of place by dummy runs, uncanny anticipation born of years of experience.

A quiet man on the field, he has no need for conspicuous fist-pumping or bellowed vocal encouragement. True leaders inspire by other means. He lifted Dawson in particular, the two of them a solid central barrier to an attack fast becoming one of the most feared in the league. Danny Rose once again slotted into an unfamiliar role with aplomb and he and Kaboul stayed tighter in defence, close to the regal reassurance of their leader and master. Sandro patrolled in front of them, diligent and tough.

A couple of Spurs sites are doing their ‘Best Ever’ polls at the moment. Too young to see Norman at his mightiest, I was brought up on England, a giant in the middle with Beal sweeping up around him. Mabbutt and Gough, the latter teasing us with what have been if he stayed for longer. A few votes for Miller, but not mine. Since 67 I’ve seen them all and Ledley King is the first name that goes down. His injury has cruelly robbed us of the finest centre half in the last 40 years, so let us relish what we have.

I’ve been critical of some of Redknapp’s recent tactical decisions and player choices but full credit for what was a brave option, plunging King back into action in the game that could save our season sliding into oblivion. Also, Rose at full-back is a fine piece of player potential judgement. Yesterday the team was balanced throughout. Sandro and Modric once more showed that they are a formidable combination in centre midfield. Sandro’s progress is astonishing, as is Luka’s consistency. Everything flowed through and around him: selfless work, the touches, he holds it when it needs to be held and gives it when it needs to go. He does penalties too, apparently.

Unfortunately my opportunities for more detailed comments, and indeed for my enjoyment of the bloody game, were severely hampered by a stream so dodgy I may as well have drawn stickmen on the corners of a notebook’s pages and flicked through them. Try it – it’s like having Peter Crouch right there in your living room. Liverpool may have had some dangerous moments but my screen was frozen in anticipation for so long, I wondered if I had stumbled on a photo site by mistake. ‘This has been withdrawn through possible copyright violation’ – well, copyright violation is the whole point, isn’t it?

As the teams played the best game of statues ever (I’m not inviting you lot to my kids party at Christmas), attention wanders to the message stream in the sidebar. Correspondents named ‘lovespurskillgooners’, ‘parklane007’ and ‘spursbigboy’ readily share their views not just on the game but on life itself with ‘redtildead’ and ‘nukemancs100’. Presumably the number is to helpfully distinguish him from the 99 other ‘nukemancs’ out there.

I’m up for a bit of football banter as much as the next fan but these boards expose the reality that ‘fan banter’ is in fact rank abuse. ‘Scousers rule’ Spurs provokes the witty rejoinder, ‘no they don’t, Spurs rule scum.’ Terrace wit, this is what the younger generation will never know. U f off, no u f off out of it. And so it goes. It’s the process behind it that gets me. It’s Sunday, there’s football on, I know what I’ll do. I’ll go online and abuse other fans in textspeak. Out of the blue, another voice appears. ‘Grimsby are going nowhere!’ It came from the heart.

The ether cleared suddenly to reveal the penalty in stunning clarity. I say penalty but we all know it wasn’t. If anything Pienaar took the Liverpool’s player’s ground. It sealed the win and from then on we played well but it must have been a difficult moment for all the Spurs Howard Webb conspiracy theorists out there.

Adopting a less gung ho madcap attacking approach, we looked more comfortable and composed, more of a unit. It’s got to be the way to go. Praise for the attitude of the manager and the players. Redknapp has been talking down our prospects, to the point where we might have gone on holiday with two games left. Maybe that’s the way he likes it, comfortable with the underdog role, which in itself does not bode well for a top team but we’ll let that aside go for now. The players lifted themselves, showing determination to finish on a high.

The same attitude next Sunday will see us in Europe, and I’m all in favour of that. I understand but don’t accept the anti-Europa Cup arguments. The tournament itself has been ruined by UEFA’s insistence on the group stages, although to be accurate, it’s the clubs who make up UEFA and want the guaranteed cash that demand it. To be a top club, you fight on all fronts. You can’t turn a proper winning mentality on and off when you feel like it. It’s precisely the art of scraping through games, winning those we have drawn or lost this season when we should have done better, to handle squad rotation without falling apart, that we need to learn. Concentrating on the league isn’t a viable option, it’s a cop out, with no guarantee of any success. It limits us severely in the transfer market, and being out of the CL will be bad enough in that respect anyway.

Above all, I’m old fashioned enough to still believe that winning something is better than coming 4th and having a decent bank balance. Play a weakened team, get through the group and then go for it. Imagine bouncing your grandchildren on your knee. They look up at you with adoring big eyes, moist with emotion. ‘Tell us about the good old days, granddad’.

‘Well kids, I remember the time when our income stream exceeded salaries and other outgoings by 10 or 20%.’

‘20% granddad. Wow, things were so different in the old days…’

With winning comes the memories, and memories last. I know which I would rather have.

The Ghost of White Hart Lane: Interview With Authors Rob White and Julie Welch

/ Alan / 7 Comments

“If you didn’t know much about the Double side, or dad, and presented the story as a work of fiction, people would say it’s great but the ending’s not right. It’s too far-fetched.”

Rob White is talking about a journalist’s reaction to the Ghost of White Hart Lane, the book about his father John he has co-written with author and screenwriter Julie Welch. Judge for yourself. Working class boy from Scotland, born into a close, caring family, he’s so frail as a baby that he’s fed with an eye-dropper, like the runt of a ewe’s litter. At a young age his father dies but the family matriarchs see John and his siblings into young adulthood.

John runs to and from work to build fitness, shared the bathwater with the rest of the family and played football in every spare moment. Rejected by several clubs for being too small, Bill Nicholson brings him to London. Life in the city is almost too much for him but he fights homesickness and soon cements his place in the team. This is no ordinary side, this is the Spurs Double team, the greatest of them all and John’s distinctive style with his selfless hard work and sublime touch is at the heart of the side that carries all before them. Then, at the height of his powers, as Nicholson rebuilds the aging team around him, he’s struck by lightning on a Hertfordshire golf course as he shelters under a tree during a thunderstorm.

It’s the stuff of dreams for any Hollywood scriptwriter but for Rob it’s all too real, ending included. He was a babe in arms when tragedy struck and despite the enthralling footballing drama, it’s his story, the tale of his quest to find the essence of a father he never knew yet who shaped the man he has become that grips until the final page.

“There’s basically 3 strands to the book”, begins Rob. “A straight biography runs through the whole thing, then there’s John White as the final piece in the jigsaw for the Double side and its ups and downs. The third is my relationship with dad.”.

I asked how the book came about. “It’s something that I’ve wanted to do for a long time but never really found the right person to do it with.” A mutual colleague introduced him to Julie, who takes up the story. They do this a lot, picking up threads and taking them forward, two minds as one.

The Ghost Of White Hart Lane

“It’s all about seizing the moment! I was curious about the John White story. I’d been researching background on the Double but there’s not much on John. I thought about a straightforward biography at first, then it was obvious that there was this fantastic personal story to wrap around John’s life and death, the interwoven stories of father and son.”

They continue the conversation with little prompting from me, engrossed by a subject that remains fresh and vivid despite their many months of working together. New information and nuances come to the surface even now as they bat ideas back and forth, carefully weighing each word and born of a total commitment to get this precious story just right.

Rob readily admits he was in awe of Julie to start with. She was the first woman football correspondent for a national paper,  the Observer, and her lifelong love of Spurs found expression on the big screen in Those Glory Glory Days, a film about a girl’s passion for Spurs. “It was like therapy. We’d sit in the studio and just talk. No way could it have been written without Julie. She brought out my voice.”

Julie leans forward to pay tribute to Rob’s powers of expression. “It’s the quality of the consciousness that’s important. There’s a lot going on in Rob’s head and he presents it naturally.” She pauses. “It was the most marvellous experience of writing in my life. Can’t think of anything better that’s happened to me as a writer. Two people targeting one goal is just fantastic. I doubt I will ever have a better experience again, just to be able to write John White’s story and pay tribute to the Double side.”

In print, Rob’s voice comes over with disarming, touching integrity, to the point where you share his struggle to come to terms with his relationship with his father. He’s the same in person, honest and thoughtful with an underlying passion for telling this tale and a readiness to let others into his world.

“I’ve had real problems with this,” said Rob. “Not deep psychological problems but it was good to get these things out, to exorcise them.” Growing up, Rob’s identity was very much shaped by his being John White’s son. It’s a vivid portrayal of bereavement not in terms of freakshow trauma that has spawned a series of voyeuristic best sellers – Rob grew up in a close, caring family – but how others react to a bereaved child. Even as a young boy he noticed how people’s expression changed as soon they found out who he was, patting him sorrowfully on the head.

Rob laughs now about how he was a “walking cloud of sorrow. You grow up as a kid with this tragedy, people don’t know how to react. They look but they don’t know how to interact, and I didn’t want to upset people so I kept things to myself. From 13 to 42 I was scared of people’s opinions of me changing because I was John White’s son.” He describes how someone who had sat behind him at Spurs for many years – Rob is a season ticket holder in the Park Lane – was angry when he found out because Rob had not told him.

Defined by his father, Rob lived for many years with not knowing who this man was. As he child he searches for connections in a dusty box of attic artefacts. He watches the few snatches of film available of John in action, then convinces himself he runs in the same way as he studies his refection in shop windows. Dave Mackay takes him under his wing. He’s allowed on the team coach, into the dressing room, not just to hear about White’s exploits but more significantly to experience the smells and sounds of the dressing room, the pre-match tension rising as kick-off approaches, the evocative clatter of studs on concrete as the players run out. It’s comforting for a child to have so much information about a lost father. However, this is mixed with unease and frustration as the man eludes his grasp, walking beside him through his life yet when he reaches out to touch his presence, there’s nothing there, a ghost.

Rob embarked on a voyage of discovery in search of his father and, along the way, of his own identity. Some of the most moving passages cover the lost opportunities to do the everyday father and son things, like chat about football, ask him about mortgage advice or see his dad’s reaction when he gives him a present at Christmas. As Julie says, “The real heartbeat of the book is Rob’s longing to be a son to his dad in whatever way he could be.”

We’re talking when Rob is a long way down the road but there must have been tough soul-searching moments along the way. As men, we don’t talk about such things. I wondered if Rob feared what he might uncover and then reveal in the pages of the book, especially as he has such a candid approach.

“I reached the stage when I had to face up to it. It was the elephant in the room, something we didn’t talk about much in the family. Having children made me think more about this, then I had to face writing the dedication in the book. I struggled – to the memory of dad? the team? Then it seemed logical, for the kids.” The memories are handed on through the generations. Julie finishes the thought: “Pass it on, pass it on.”

He pays fulsome tribute to a major source of information, the Double side. ”Research was like King Arthur visiting the old knights, a pilgrimage  Their knowledge and wisdom, they knew my father and know you are your father’s son. That recognition meant a lot.”

It’s a perspective that enhances the reputation of this great side. Cliff Jones was White’s co-conspirator in the series of playful practical jokes, a comedy duo that brightened the dressing room and made John so popular and well-liked by everyone who knew him. Mackay has been a lifelong friend. Terry Medwin dissolved into tears as he recalled fond memories.

John White

The togetherness of the team was a major factor in their success. “They had 5 years close to dad, living, training, playing “ Rob continues, “It’s a band of brothers thing, not like an ordinary job. One day he goes, that’s it, John’s gone. The thoughts are less frequent as time goes on but he was always there. Then, something jogs them. Seeing me is like the closing of a circle.” “Healing”, chips in Julie.

Talk to the old-time fans about the Double and they will marvel at Blanchflower’s midfield drive, the bull of a centre forward that was Bobby Smith, Jones flying down the wing or Brown leaping high across the goal. Come to John White, suddenly they have a far-away look in their eyes and tail off into a reverential whisper. Here was a real footballer. Yet despite his distinctive style and telling contribution, he remains the least known of the Double side and Julie was determined to put that right.

“Mention John White and his name is always followed by ‘struck by lightning’, not something about this fantastic player whose assists helped Greaves be the player he was and indeed helped many men in the Tottenham side to be the players they were.”

Having read the book, I longed to see him play. “That’s the frustration,” Julie picks up my train of thought. “Couldn’t we do with him today? Just imagine what a player like that would achieve because of the way he played, so far in advance of his time.”

Rob picks up the baton: “He was like Cryuff, not the same type of player of course but in the sense that he’s an original – no one else was like him. Part of the sadness in the book is revealing what might have been.”

The book has been extremely well-received, topping the sports sales and entering the non-fiction top 50. The real benchmark, however, is its impact on readers rather than the book charts. The engrossing tale of John White and the Double side interacts with a profundly honest and poignant account of father and son that has reduced terrace-hardened grown men to tears. Did they find John in the end?

Julie: “I found the Apollo in him. Cliff Jones talks about running out onto the White Hart Lane pitch to be hit by the mass of noise. To be able to do that and play your best, you must have absolute confidence on your ability”

Rob’s journey was slightly different; “Found him? I’m a lot closer, yeah. You spend time looking for this person then realise the person is you. I was choked up about that.”

The journey isn’t over with the publication of the book. Well into Rob’s adulthood, the family revealed that John fathered a child during a short and abortive teenage relationship. He agreed to do the right thing but was advised against it by his commanding officer – John was on National Service at the time. Now his half-brother has come forward in a thoroughly modern fashion with a splash in the Mail. More thought and reflection and tricky, perhaps painful moments for Rob.

As I get up to leave, while Julie and I make small talk behind us Rob rummages in what looks like an ancient giant safe. He rejoins us, carrying in one hand his father’s football boots. They are tiny, size 6. Battered but lovingly cared for, the starch-white laces bear traces of black polish where the cloth in John’s hands rubbed them last. It’s almost impossible to believe that these dainty slippers mastered rain-sodden panelled leather footballs with the finesse and precision of a true artist, yet in my hands for an instant I’m touched by the spirit of a truly great footballer. Julie and Rob have a theory that John manages to play little tricks, as he did in life. The book may be finished but the Ghost of White Hart Lane is still around.

The Ghost of White Hart Lane – In Search of My Father the Football Legend  by Rob White and Julie Welch  Yellow Jersey Press

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?