MOURINHO. Martin Atkinson. Tottenham away. In January. Bring it all on, football; do your worst.
When I find myself veering into “hard to be humble” territory (rarely, but it does happen), I remember how cruel the game can be and err on the side of caution.
And while Donald Trump is trying to provoke World War III, I’m taking absolutely nothing for granted.
Outsiders are having a strange time of it, begging for a response of any kind. They’re either jinxing us like crazy, proclaiming loudly it’s already over, or hellbent on diminishing it all by claiming it’s down to luck, VAR, the injuries of others (we’re not having any of those, obviously) – any crumb of comfort will do at this obviously distressing time.
If you can’t beat them, undermine them.
I feel a pressing deadline stopped me from fully luxuriating in last week’s splendidness. It was like Lucy telling Charlie Brown he could kick the ball this time, she wasn’t going to spoil it for him. Honest…
Needless to say they’ve lost their heads totally. Try not making us the epicentre of your lives, perhaps. A good run of results under Dunc and Carlo was for nought, and suddenly the baby’s getting lobbed with the bathwater.
You may think this unnecessarily barbaric and cruel of me, but I’m not doing anything I didn’t do in the 1970s or they wouldn’t do were the bovver boot on the other foot. Believe me, I’ve lived among the buggers my entire life.
It won’t take long before they’re fantasising anew, bolstered by the bizarre notion that new stadiums are the panacea to all ills, as proven by… well, no-one, actually.
Certainly not Saturday’s hosts, already with the look of a team whose time has come and gone. The preceding week featured numerous pleasantries from Mourinho, right before his eyes began spiralling and he started singing “Trusssst In Meeee”.
I miss Trizia Fiorellino, never more so than when her beloved Spesh joined the dark side. Blue would’ve been the colour that day alright, the language especially.
Another Terrace Talker, Bernard from Arsenal, once ‘thanked’ me for Liverpool beating City 4-3 and halting their progress towards an invincible season.
Whether he’d have done the same after Saturday to my Tottenham counterpart, who can say? Thankfully we never gave him the opportunity.
There’s still a long way to go before we can even begin considering that nonsense. It’s not something I ever wanted desperately, anyway. It’s all about the points, baby.
The games are becoming a little grim, tight and testy. We should’ve had this one over by half time too, but feel I’ve said that a dozen times already this season. There is nothing but attrition, now. Leave style marks to the ice skaters.
Logic resides elsewhere, cursing Mo one minute for slack finishing then idolising him unequivocally for setting up the goal.
Apparently, there was something wrong with it. Isn’t there always? Do they not all feel like they’re clutching at straws now? We must have won one game fairly, surely?
There seemed little difference between Tottenham’s tactics and Sheffield United’s the other week, apart from the calibre of player implementing them.
But those of us with long memories can recall Jose ordering Robert Huth to play centre forward, so we shouldn’t have been surprised. We began taking others’ desperation as a mark of respect months ago.
We’ve been impregnable since Gomez got into the team. Why I don’t know, he gives me the fear at least three times a game.
I could have done without their misses late on. Hyperventilation’s no fun. Without it ever really being a procession, the team’s got into this extraordinary position.
38 league games unbeaten. I’m counting that as a season, even if the Arsenal fans won’t. You don’t want to lose your record run because of Mourinho, that would be just intolerable.
So who have we got next, then? Gulp.