Category: Spurs preview

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Spurs – West Brom Preview: Hoping For A Reaction

It’s been said that the measure of greatness is not how you react to victory, but how you react to defeat. I could not, even in my most wildly partisan moments, straight-facedly describe Spurs as “great”, but I ruddy well expect some sort of reaction to last week’s twenty-minute debacle at Old Trafford.No excuses – we ought to give West Brom a damn good thrashing today. We fans are owed an all-guns-blazing performance, to exorcise the humiliation of last week, and in terms of bouncing back and unleashing a bit of fury, we could not have asked for anything more suitable than a home fixture against the division’s bottom team.

Aside from the Man Utd mess last week, and the pretty unlucky defeat at Blackburn, we’ve been in decent form. There has been some zippy attacking, and generally pretty solid defensive performances. Play like we have been playing over the last couple of months, and we will win comfortably. A one-nil win and three points would be fine of course, but, perhaps because there’s still some pent up rage from last week, I desperately hope we dish out a real old-fashioned thrashing today. We’ve been making a habit of scoring first in recent weeks, so this week let’s score first but then kick West Brom while they’re down, and turn it into a rout.

Dad’s Birthday Treat 

“Who’s that chap?”
“That’s Fraizer Campell, Dad.”
“Crazy Campbell?”
“FRAIZER Campbell.”
“Oh. Never heard of him. Who’s that chap?”

– and then listening to the frequent complaint that all our players are too small. Dad uses that line like ‘Arry uses Two-Points-Eight-Games.

”I like Keane. He works hard…”
“But he’s too small, right Dad?”
“…but he’s just too small. Ah Defoe. I like Defoe. He’s got an eye for goal, like Greaves…”
“But he’s too small, right Dad?”
“…bit small though. They need someone big in there, like Bobby Smith. [Pause] Who’s that chap?”

I therefore particularly look forward to the verdict on Wilson Palacios. ‘Arry has a big decision in choosing Wilson’s midfield partner, with Jenas his seeming preference, but Hudd making noises about pastures new. In attack, Bent’s out injured, poor blighter, and could well have played his last game for us. Not entirely sure what Pav’s status is these days, so we might get an early glimpse of next season’s big problem, with a Keane-Defoe partnership. Well if they can’t work together at home to West Brom…

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Man Utd – Spurs Preview: How Far Have We Come?

Manchester United away will be a good test of how fair we’ve come this season. Actually, the very fact that I can type that and not immediately be carted off to the nearest nuthouse is itself a measure of how far we’ve come, irrespective of how the game pans out.The fact that we had only two points from eight games a few months back has had all meaning sucked out of it by ‘Arry’s narcissism, so it’s easy to forget that once upon a time this wasn’t just a relentless soundbite, but actually a damning indictment of what a wretched team we were.

How things have progressed, particularly since Palacios arrived. The gauge of our ability went from how we’d fare against Hull away, to Villa away, to Chelski at home – and suddenly I’m genuinely curious to see whether we can compete with the European and Premiership champions on their own patch. Blimey.

Top Four Next Season? Then Let’s Compete With Man Utd Today 

It could be a particularly important game for the Hudd. I would actually expect Jenas to replace him if fit, but if Hudd gets the nod this would be a massive test of how good he really is. Opinion is split. The Hoddlers and the Haters have regularly made their respective cases. We’ve seen that he can pull strings at home to West Ham and a relegation-threatened Newcastle, but if he really is to push on and cement his place in the team, and indeed the England squad, he’ll soon have to start walking the walk against the best teams in the country. An anonymous 90 minutes today would do little to advance his cause.

Anonymity against Man Utd would be no disgrace – but the “no-disgrace-in-defeat” mentality is something I’d be glad to see the back of. Let’s see who can cut it against the best, and have a think about who to jettison in the summer.

Occasional Wobbles From Man Utd 

Their fallibility has, for me, been epitomised by their goalkeepers. We’ve been rather shot-shy in recent weeks, and it would be a shame if this trend continued today, as Van der Saar has looked ropey every time I’ve seen him in recent months (cue a blinder from Van der Saar this afternoon). Thanks to the rock-solid Ferdinand-Vidic combo in front of him he kept around thirty thousand consecutive clean sheets and made the PFA shortlist, but he seems increasingly prone to spill, or flap, or get beaten at his near post. Foster’s most recent outings have also been notable for a couple of David James-esque calamities.

I don’t expect us to win, and I’m not holding out for that. But on the back of recent results, I’d love to see that our improvement extends to giving the best team around a real run for their money. Just some indication that we really have slightly closed the gap. The win against Chelski has already hinted at that. The consensus seems to be that we don’t need much tweaking in order to push for Europe or even the top four next season (although there’s still some debate as to precisely where such tweaking is needed). A good performance, if not necessarily a good result, would be further evidence that we’re inching closer, and that we’re well set for 09/10.

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Spurs – Newcastle Preview: The “Second Favourite Team” Myth

Six games left, and while trips to Old Trafford, Goodison and Anfield look tricky, our home games vs West Brom, Man City and, first of all, Newcastle, are eminently winnable.If you look carefully, the words “home banker” can clearly be seen etched across this fixture. On current form Newcastle are amongst the worst in the Premiership. Two points in six games apparently, which is the sort of stat that threatens to infringe the copyright terms of ‘Arry’s own little motto. Hilariously, they seem to be the only team in history not to have enjoyed the new-manager-bounce, and are consequently making effortlessly serene progress towards the Championship.

Everyone’s Second-Favourite Team 

First of all, nobody in their right mind has a second-favourite team. Football is a monogamous sport. Anyone with a second-favourite team is either related to a player (vaguely acceptable) or a bandwagon-jumping irritant who calls the game “soccer”, whines that there are too few goals and pronounces the “ham” in “Birmingham” (unacceptable, in case you were in any doubt).

I’ll root for whomever is playing l’Arse. I sometimes keep an eye out for Bristol Rovers, as a former classmate plays for them. However, I support only one team. Generally, I either don’t care about or actively dislike the other 19 clubs in the division, and 90-odd in the country. I’m pretty sure these traits are common to most football fans in the country. Anyone who merrily chirps about having a second-favourite team has completely missed the point, and ought really to be tied to a railway track and set alight.

So the notion of a second-favourite team is farcical. The notion that Newcastle is everyone’s second favourite team is miles off-target and utterly bereft of logic. We’re perennially invited to agree that we’d all love to see Newcastle win something – their success-starved fans deserve it apparently.

This is mildly insane. Football isn’t some sort of UN aid programme whereby every starving leper by right gets a bag of grain. Fans just have to accept whatever their team does, and if that means never ever winning trophies, and then getting relegated, so be it. They’ll get no sympathy from anyone else as we’ve all got our own team to worry about.

Non-Newcastle supporters don’t adopt Newcastle as their second team. They occasionally take time out from their own teams to laugh at Newcastle, for their insistence that they have a divine right to success, married to their consistent underachievement. This presumably is fairly similar to the opinion all non-Spurs fans about our lot too. In short, no-one truly cares about anyone other than their own team.

As it happens, we’re laughing at Newcastle for all sorts of reasons at the moment, as they provide a bit of comic relief for everyone else from the seasons’ travails. The magnificent outburst from Joe F**king Kinnear earlier this season was comic genius, and was sandwiched between the more gently amusing exit of Keegan and the slightly daft appointment of Shearer. Shearer’s arm-in-the-air thing was warmly appreciated at AANP Towers when he wore an England shirt, but did not obscure the fact that he was a dirty so-and-so. In his more recent incarnation he has been a pundit of such mind-numbing blandness that he frequently made me want to tear off my own ears and eat them. Won’t shed too many tears if his rescue mission bombs.

Palacios, Pav and Defoe 

A few changes are likely for Spurs. With Palacios back, one of Hudd and Jenas will have to make way, whilst Pav’s slick finish last week may well earn him a starting place ahead of Bent. Jermain Defoe apparently might make the bench. He’s back in full training now, which gives us a few weeks to work ourselves into frenzies over he and Keane will fit together. More immediately however, he’s unlikely to get more than a cameo at the end of the game, by which time the three points ought to be in the bag.

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Spurs – West Ham Preview: Cheer Up Chaps

Well this is awkward. Somehow this week I find myself in the unusual, and to be honest, plain uncomfortable position of having to raise everyone else’s spirits. This is foreign territory. Generally more at ease as a pessimistic misanthrope.However, a curious role-reversal now sees me rather looking forward to the season finale. Meanwhile Spurs fans all around me have been sighing melancholy sighs and eyeing steep cliffs over which they might hurl themselves.

The reason seems to be one bad match – in fact, one bad ten-minute spell. Seems strange to me, but the ten-minute meltdown against Blackburn has got Spurs fans tripping over themselves to write off our season and slap the wrists of anyone who cheerfully drops the phrase “European qualification” into conversation.

Curious this, as it’s usually the reverse – i.e. it’s normally one good ten-minute spell, which has us all screeching away about Champions League qualification. For whatever reason though, it’s been sackcloth and ashes this week rather than deluded optimism. The defeat to Blackburn has deflated the masses.

Reasons To Be Cheerful

Galling though it was, the Blackburn defeat did not strike me as a return to the bad old (not so old, really) days of widespread sloppiness and a marshmellow-soft spine. I honestly think that if we keep playing like we did against Blackburn we’ll do fairly well in the last few games. Beginning on Saturday at home to West Ham, who currently occupy the seventh spot we should be eyeing.

Admittedly, should we lose on Saturday  we’ll be nine points off the pace with six to play – it will be game over. Win it though, and we’ll be three points off Europe with six to play. Game on, n’est-ce pas?

The Blackburn finale aside, our recent league form has been mighty impressive – four wins, two draws and good performances. Add to that 70 or so good minutes against Blackburn, and we actually remain one of the form teams in the division.

Moreover, our competitors for seventh are hardly the giants of contemporary European football – Wigan, Fulham and Man City, as well as West Ham. Achieving seventh would not mean punching particularly high above our weight, if at all, as this motley crew are all liable to stumble a couple of times en route to the finish line. This is more of a scrap to be less bad than several other harmless mid-table drifters – seventh is a fairly realistic aim, particularly if we can win on Saturday.

So I’m therefore quite perky about the prospect of this end-of-season run-in, even if every time I say as much the music stops and tumbleweed rolls by.

Reasons To Be Depressed

Mind you, it hardly takes much effort to slip back into pessimistic mode. For a start, as well as costing us three points last weekend, that wretched second yellow card for Palacios means he’s suspended for this Saturday. Replacing him would be like trying to replace Mr T as B.A. – there just isn’t anyone else cut out for the role. With no B.A around, Face Man (Modders) will find it a lot harder to pull, if you don’t mind me wandering a little off-course with the analogy.

Presumably do-do-do Dider will take the place of Palacios, but although they start the game on roughly the same patch of turf, Zokora and Palacios are vastly different beasts. We should therefore not expect too much midfield enforcing from the Ivorian, who rather prefers a long meandering gallop to a raw-leg dinner in the centre . I guess it will be a useful exercise, as Palacios’ penchant for a tasty challenge is likely to bring him his fair share of cautions, and therefore suspensions, in the future. There will be more days like this. Gives some food for thought as the summer transfer window creeps up.

Not quite sure how West Ham have found themselves in seventh. Last time I bothered to check they were in a bit of a mess down the rear-end of the division, with Zola’s beaming pearly whites firmly locked behind a worried frown. Now they’re in pole position for the last European spot. Madness, I tell you.

As mentioned, win this one and we’ll be right back in the hunt for Europe. Plenty to play for.

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Blackburn – Spurs Preview: Things Will Never Be The Same

It ought to be thoroughly lovely to be back in the swing of the Premiership, what with our blistering form and the carrot of a European place; but I have to confess that the prospect scares the bejesus out of me.It ought not be thus. On paper we’re the form team in the Premiership. Performances and results throughout March simply got better and better. Optimism at the Lane – and AANP Towers – reached levels hitherto unheard of, to the extent that at half-time vs Chelski we found ourselves in the unlikely position of genuinely believing we could go on and win. And then we went out and there and ruddy well did win. There really ought to be good reason to approach Blackburn away with a measured confidence.

Nevertheless, I’m sick with worry. We stumbled upon that rarest of commodities at White Hart Lane – consistency – but before we had time to become acquainted just about everyone in the squad lolloped out of the door, headed off to airports and began acclimatising to completely different sets of team-mates. The wretchedly-timed international break has gone and destroyed our momentum, and torn to shreds my confidence.

I can’t help but fret that things will never be the same now. It’s like getting back together with an ex after she – or you – ran off with someone else. It’s like the return of Robbie Keane. It’s like waiting years for a sequel to Terminator 2, and then watching, aghast, as Terminator 3 unfolds.

It’s no good pretending that nothing has happened since the last time we were all together, and that everything is tickety-boo. There was a hiatus, everyone disappeared for a while – and now I’m terrified that we’re going to be rubbish again.

Clean Bill of Health (Apart From Bent, Which Really Doesn’t Matter Too Much) 

Fabio Capello’s perplexing decision to withdraw Lennon after 55 mins on Weds has worked in our favour.

Even more bizarrely, Modric was an unused substitute for Croatia that night. The Croatian midfield must be the best in the history of world football if they can afford to leave out Modric, but again, it’s to our benefit.

I was having cold shivers at the thought that Wilson Palacios would hang back in Latin America to mount a Rambo-style rescue mission for his poor sod of a brother, who is apparently still being held for ransom by kidnappers. Again however, it appears that he’s back and fighting fit, with only jet-lag and duty-free allowance to bother him.

In fact, the only injury worry seems to be Darren Bent, and with the best will in the world I think we’ll cope.

Indeed, in the finest tradition of a school trip abroad, we’ve actually come back with more player than we had before, as Alan Hutton is now available for selection.

Don’t Mind Blackbrun; Can’t Stand Allardyce 

Not only does Allardyce peddle a style (I use the term loosely) of football that’s the complete antithesis of easy-on-the-eye, glory glory, all-action-no-plot, champagne football – but he seems to delight in doing so. And then he started insisting that he should be England manager. We ought all to have been rolling in the aisles at that, but the regressive fools at the FA came within a whisker of giving him the job. (Before proving their acumen and appointing Steve McLaren instead.)

I’m not sure I could have coped with the pain of seeing the likes of Joe Cole and Rooney have the talent sucked out of them by Allardyce, with Kevin Davies becoming the mainstay of attack and the concept of “playing the ball into space” involving its launch into orbit.

I don’t just hope we beat his lot tomorrow, I hope we do so playing football so luxurious and free-flowing that it ought to be a shampoo advert. Being exposed to that sort of thing would probably make his skin burn, like a vampire in sunlight. Gasping for breath he’d have to crawl home and watch old DVDs of Wimbledon in the early 90s, to restore himself to health.

Anyway, I hope and pray that we’ll simply pick up where we left off, but have a sickening dread that our season might trail away in the next few weeks, beginning tomorrow at Blackburn, and against Allardyce of all people.

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Spurs – Chelsea Preview: A Dirty Secret

As the visit of Chelski approacheth the time is probably right for me to confess my sordid little secret – I don’t actually hate Ashley Cole.Controversial Indifference About Ashley Cole 

The reason for this is probably his level of performance in an England shirt. Generally, he keeps his head down and gets on with things when he’s wearing the three lions. Few histrionics or whinges, unlike some of his international (and club) colleagues. He’s a very solid left-back, pops up with his fair share of last-ditch tackles and goal-line clearances and, as befits the 21st century full-back, he also provides an extra attacking outlet by bombing up the wing.

I feel like I’m dodging rotten tomatoes as I write this, but tomorrow I’ll probably direct my abuse elsewhere. The allegations of greed and infidelity don’t particularly bother or concern me, as they merely suggest that he’s a member of the species homo footballens, completely oblivious to the true nature of life on earth. These players are signed as young teenagers, have the annual GDPs of small African countries waved at them before they’re 21, have hot ladies tripping over themselves to snare them, and have never touched a 9-to-5 job with a bargepole.

Little wonder then, that they grow up with pound signs in their eyes, and a penchant for a bit of skirt, within wedlock or otherwise. Even Saint Gary of Lineker was at it, back in the day. I’m not condoning it – Cole’s a rotter for messing around that minx of a wife – but he’s not alone in living on a completely different planet from the rest of us. 

Bile Towards The Rest of Them 

Drogba for example – built like a boxer, yet cries like a girl who’s been called nasty names. For goodness’ sake, take it like a man. And by “it” I mean everything that comes your way. I’ll never forget the sight of him tumbling like he’d been shot under a tap from Zokora at Wembley last year, picking himself up to score the free-kick, and then comfortably supporting two or three team-mates who jumped on top of him.

Terry seems to think that being an England player cloaks him in immunity from punishment. Quite why he is England captain is bewildering. A role model he most certainly ain’t – unless the asbo generation are seeking inspiration – and neither is he the best player in the team, or even the best player in the pair of centre-backs. That business of him giving a rousing speech before the Croatia game a couple of years ago, also had me spitting feathers. If the team wanted verbal inspiration then the poet laureate ought to have been hauled before them; but the entire business of pre-match speeches by the captain struck me as ludicrous, and entirely worthless once the whistle blew for kick-off. Honestly, if the players weren’t sufficiently psyched for a crunch game like that I hardly think some pearls of wisdom from John “Byron” Terry would have done the trick. And after all that fuss we were rubbish anyway.

I’ll resist the urge to go through the entire Chelski team firing off bile-soaked rants. You get the point. Unlike Peter Kenyon. Not so long ago Kenyon fastened blinkers to his head and quite earnestly banged on about turning them into the biggest club in the world by 2014. Without either an illustrious history or a massive long-term fan-base they will never be categorised as a true great of the English game. I can imagine Kenyon staring blankly at me as I try to explain this, then picking up a bag full of coins and shaking it at me, by way of counter-argument.

’Arry’s CV, Lennon’s Contract 

Lennon against Cole is likely to be critical to the outcome of tomorrow’s game, on which topic, three cheers for young Lennon for putting pen to paper. Wise move, son. It would be convenient at this juncture to forget quite how worthless footballer’s contracts are, and instead breeze into the Lane tomorrow on a wave of goodwill and optimism.

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Villa – Spurs Preview: A Thoroughly Unreasonable Hatred

Been looking forward to this one for ages. Perhaps a bit of an odd choice for a grudge match, but I have been developing, over the last year or two, an intense hatred of Villa. It has gone almost unnoticed for months, but after a recent glance at the fixture list it all suddenly burst out in a torrent of completely unreasonable incandescence.Admittedly they’re not l’Arse – ironically actually, a win for us tomorrow would do a favour for that ‘orrible lot – or Chelski or West Ham. Can’t even point to narcissistic, persecution-complexed fans, as with Newcastle or Liverpool.

However, once the idea popped into my head it gained momentum, sped out of control and now has a life of its own. I hate Villa. I absolutely loathe them.

The reason? They’ve stolen our thunder. They’ve usurped us. Challenging the top four? Pushing for a Champions League spot? Spine of young English players? Those are our trademarks. We did all the groundwork for this. Just a couple of years ago, pushing the top-four was our exclusive territory.

Yet now, no-one remembers us – they just bleat on about how good it is for the Premiership that Villa are muscling in on the top four. It’s like inventing the paper clip and then seeing someone else patent it and run off with the money. That’s exactly what it’s like. So you can easily imagine the level of ire I now feel.

I guess a modern-day Freud would diagnose this, as with most of my gripes about Spurs, as a failure to step out of the glorious bygone era of Martin Jol (blessed be his name). The all-action-no-plot goal-fests, the scintillating one-touch counter-attacks, the English-speaking changing-rooms – and the fact that it actually brought us results. It was a perfect platform for us, to expand the elite into a top five. It was supposed to be the end of our perennial underachievement. I still haven’t quite accepted that we failed to push on, that the whole empire crumbled in a blitz of inflated transfer fees and bumbling Darren Bents.

So now we find ourselves back where we’ve been most of my life – mid-table mediocrity, with the occasional Cup run and very firmly rooted within this sceptr’d isle, with no need for a passport to mainland Europe.

Instead, it’s Villa who’ve run off and sold our paper-clips. Villa, with their ridiculous colours and odious, smug little manager. Worse, since I’m in a minority of one on this point, I’ve just had to stew in a corner silently, for months on end, muttering sotto voce curses and glaring at the league table.

As we clearly aren’t going to overtake them this season, the only solution is to vent some rage and deal them a bloody nose this afternoon. It will carry the same satisfaction as beating up the lad who stole your girlfriend. Not big, not clever, won’t win back the girl – but nevertheless, in a pathetic way it will make me feel a little better about life.

On a more reasonable level, this game will also provide a pretty good gauge of where we are, given the current confusion of whether we’re still in a relegation scrap or actually pushing for seventh.

Friedel is one of the finest ‘keepers in the land, while in the last couple of years I’ve undergone a Pauline-like conversion to Heskeyism. He may not be able to score if he visited a brothel, kicked out every other punter and then signed the deeds for the place, but he has a majestic ability to treasure the ball, occupy defenders and involve his chums. In the various areas of grass between these two players I have to admit, between gritted teeth, that that darned English spine has a combo of guile in Barry, and oodles of pace in Young and Agbonlahor.

A good test for us without a doubt, and a pointer for next season (sigh – how depressing to waive this campaign, in mid-March, and already peer towards next season). We’ve honed the baffling skill of matching the top-four, yet we are frequently out-scrapped by the rubbish thud-and-blunder bunch around the drop-zone. The only true gauge of our standard therefore seems to be Villa and Everton.

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Sunderland – Spurs Preview: Not Good Enough for MoTD

A bit of a bonus game this. Somehow, amidst the hurly-burly of all those cup excursions, we’ve earned ourselves a game in hand – and the opportunity to haemorrhage blood from the nose by hitting the dizzy heights of tenth, within five points of West Ham in the likely Uefa spot of seventh. Even more excitingly, with ours being the only Premiership fixture tomorrow, does this mean that we get an entire Match of the Day to ourselves? Crumbs, they can show the entire game! Sunderland-Spurs would normally be tossed out to Tony Gubba to paint a tedious shade of grey, but if we’re the only game we’ll get the brilliant Steve Wilson, and his impeccable combo of excitement and reason!Alas, it’s not to be. They’re not giving us Steve Wilson. They’re not even giving us Gubba. There will be no MoTD at all this Saturday. They don’t deem our game sufficient to keep the programme on air this week. The ignominy.

More mundanely, the match itself – nigh on impossible to predict. This season, and indeed just the last few weeks, has seen on display every one of the multiple personalities of that strange schizophrenic beast that is Tottenham Hotspur 2008-09. Woeful defeats to Burnley and Shakhtar; creditable draws against l’Arse and Man Utd; impressive wins against Stoke, Hull and Boro. Gazing into my crystal ball the only words that appear are “confused.com”.

The trip to the north-east will throw up some friends past, present and quite possibly future. I personally vetoed the summer sale of Steed, but unbelievably it went ahead anyway, and he might well offer a pointed reminder of what we’re lacking on the left. Teemu Tainio I expect to make less of an impact, if he’s even fit, while Chimbonda is unlikely to be the most popular man in the stadium come kick-off. Nothing new there, then. The most interesting sub-plot will be about eight foot ten and playing up-front for Sunderland. A good chance for all of us to get 90 minutes of Kenwyne Jones and make some snap-judgements about whether he’ll be worth the £14 million odd we’ll probably bid for him in the summer. Don’t’ strive too hard to impress us, will you Kenwyne?

And Now For Something Completely Different… 

Little Miss Ronaldo (to Taylor): “You’re rubbish.”
[Pretty subjective, but if anyone is entitled to make that call it’s probably the World Football of the Year]

Taylor: “Yeah? Well you’re ugly.”
[Genius! Talk about touching a nerve. Take a bow son]

Little Miss Ronaldo: “You’re still rubbish.”

Taylor: “And you’re still ugly.”

Impossible to read that without smiling. I can’t help thinking Ronaldo went home and cried all night into his pillow after that. Heart-warming stuff.

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Spurs – Middlesbrough Preview: Not a Cup Final, Not a Cup Final Performance

Up and down the better half of North London the deluded are insisting that our Carling Cup performance will prove something of a turning-point for the rest of our season. Earnestly they point out that we matched, and at times outdid the European Champions, or some version thereof – for 120 minutes no less. Replicate this and we’ll storm up the table. Times are a-changing. It’s even been mentioned, by the clinically insane, that we’re only eight points off a Uefa cup spot.Tut tut, come now – you ought to know better. Of course we played well on Sunday. We always play well in such games, that’s part of our infuriating, ingrained way. It’s the Tottenham way. Raising our game for a cup final, or a game against Man Utd, has never been our problem – so raising our game for a cup final against Man Utd was absolutely guaranteed to unleash the full fury of Jenas’ one good game of the season. Zokora and Ass-Ek similarly read the script and each made a jolly good fist of it too.

Should a performance of similar quality be produced against Boro tonight I’ll go buy a hat and eat it. Boro are the most soulless, unexciting and bland team I’ve ever known. It’s not that they’re outstandingly bad, dirty, comical or anything else. They’re none of the above. That’s their problem – there is simply nothing noteworthy in their identity. Their manager is soulless, unexciting and bland, they have no history and their star-player is One-Trick Downing for goodness sake. They’re not even offensive or in any way loathe-worthy. They incite no passion of any sort. They just subsist to make up the numbers and throw up the occasional completely incongruous result, like beating Liverpool at the weekend.

As such, they’re exactly the sort of team to whom we’ve been capitulating all season. In fact, we duly did precisely this in the very first game of the season, a standard which we’ve maintained throughout. Except when we play the top four of course, at which point capes are donned and crime prepares to be vanquished, as the entire team suddenly become superheroes and play out of their skin.

While it would be lovely to see us produce one of those opening-20-minute-blitzes which occur at the Lane every few months, a dour, scrappy affair strikes me as far likelier, and would be the perfect antidote to the optimism engendered by the spirited performance of Sunday. The game will also mark one of the last times this season that ‘Arry gets to moan about congestion caused by cup games. Sad times indeed. The laboured crawl away from the relegation zone continues.

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Carling Cup Final Preview Mk II

That’s right. So excited, I’m writing a second preview.24 hours until kick-off, and naturally enough I’m bouncing off the walls. Yep, after the carefully-rehearsed exit from Europe, and the laboured operation to escape the relegation mire, over the last couple of days we’ve been able to devote ourselves to altogether cheerier fare.

My chat is generally inane at the best of times, but around the drinking-holes of London in recent nights I’ve become a kid on Christmas Eve, tactlessly steering every conversation towards the same topic. Any poor sod who has fallen into my field of vision duly has been pinned down and force-fed garbled cup final hysteria, delivered with ever-increasing rapidity and the wild-eyed stare of the unhinged. It is not an approach that has automatically endeared me to my fellow man. Nonplussed seemed to be the expression of choice on the faces of the unlucky souls subjected to this ranting. Nonplussed, merging into desperate glances for an escape route.

Still, a cup final is a rare treat, and as the clock ticks down towards kick-off, Spurs fans the world over are entitled to eschew the common rules of social propriety, and go a little nuts. Some appear reluctant to enter into the spirit of the occasion, seemingly unimpressed by the pedigree of the competition and more concerned about our league position. Be that as it may, but for the next few hours at AANP Towers, nervy excitement approacheth fever-pitch. Finger-nails are being shredded, chewing-gum annihilated, heart-rates gently nudged towards dangerously unsustainable levels.

No-one ought to begrudge us our day out at Wembley, and a few evenings of over-excited babbling beforehand. We long-suffering mugs have been shelling out all season, murmuring in disbelief, screaming in frustration, gawping in incredulity – and still going back each following week for more punishment. Football sure as hell owes us the occasional crack at glory, for toying with us thus, all year round. Football owes us, for the staggeringly atrocious Gomes blunders, the astonishingly mal-coordinated Bent misses and every infuriating mistake in between. No-one ought to begrudge us, and we ourselves ought to cherish these moments – it may be some time before the opportunity rolls around again.

Less of an occasion for the Man Utd lot I’d imagine. Just another day out in London for them, which really is underwhelming as most of them live in London anyway. And with eighteen other trophies on the go, and the Premiership title wrapped up in February, one suspects that tomorrow will rank alongside mowing the lawn and popping to the parents’ for a Sunday roast, in terms of excitement factor for their lot.

Massive day for us though. Win a big game and I can hold my head high in the office the next day. Win a trophy and I’m happy for a whole year. A trophy is like some sort of uber-penicillin for football, a cure for all ills. Rubbish result against Stoke or someone? I don’t care, we’ve got a trophy. Best players leaving for the Champs League sides? I don’t care, we’ve got a trophy. Season of optimism degenerating into a relegation scrap? We’ve got a trophy. House on fire, girlfriend left you, four horsemen saddling up? Who the hell cares, because we’ve got a trophy!

Winning that trophy has made it all seem worthwhile over the last 12 months – by hook or by crook or by penalties we need to get our mitts on it all over again today.