Yes it was only QPR (nota bene, Chelski), and no one does not really like to brag – but by golly our lot could not have played with more swagger if they had purred around in Lamborghinis with Megan Fox in the passenger’s seat and Snoop Dogg mixing cocktails in the back, while the stereo blared out Test Match Special. In truth this was not so remarkable – recall ye the similarly imperious dismantling of Liverpool on that very same patch of turf but a couple of months ago – but it was still absolutely ripping fun to observe. Like a man-size version of those rather charming little 6-a-side keep-ball games in which they indulge in the pre-match warm-up, the attacking five, plus full-backs, made it look for all the world like we had twice as many players as they, particularly in the first half. Two goals was the minimal requirement at the break. Something of a mixed bag from Adebayor in attack, his ability to hold up the ball a wonderful vindication of the observations of just about every Spurs fan in Christendom last season that we needed a forward of presence, yet the radar needs some maintenance, for his finishing was curiously awry. Attention from this mini-drought is neatly diverted by the net-bulging prowess of others.
But curses upon that break, and the deplorable half-time routine in which our heroes seem to engage. They seemed to have swapped half-time energy drinks for warm milk laced with laxatives and horse tranquiliser, duly trotting out looking ready for bed rather than another 45 minutes of blood, thunder and corners. Mercifully the 2011 Tottenham vintage does possess more class in attack than one can shake a giant stick at, so no matter how susceptible we looked in retreat, there was a general air of menace when we went forward. Thus, matters were duly secured in another blur of breakneck first-time six-yard passes, followed by the sort of finish that really separates wheat from chaff.
Nevertheless, this habit of scoring first and duly conceding does not quite have me dancing jigs of delight across the corridors of AANP Towers. And somebody somewhere might want to teach sit them down and teach them the intricacies of the noble art that is set-piece defending.
It is peculiarly appropriate that Scott Parker has something of the geeky, unspectacular air of Clark Kent about him. Within a performance overflowing with attacking flair, his was probably the stand-out contribution, based on grit, energy and other attributes the like of which are perhaps a little anathema to some of our more feted superstars, past as well as present.
So it’s two out of two within a run of six eminently winnable to-dos, and a game in hand no less. Honestly, where will this all end?