Tonight we discovered that football teams can experience PTSD. I’ll spare you what I feel like sharing, which is several hundred words on the sheer lunacy of us playing at Wembley for a season.
Eriksen’s goal was utterly sublime. An extraordinary thing to save us from our guilt, pull us out of our funk, give our rusted dry and sun cracked lips a drop of life giving water.
Those of you who refuse to analyse what you’re watching now have proof that this is the best side since we won The Double. Spurs have now won eight consecutive league games for the first time since October 1960.
Spurs on the night were a bundle of incoherence wrapped up in shroud upon shroud of Trying Too Hard™a fabric known for its suffocating properties.
Bonzo typified the malaise and was completely determined to put right the latest Wembley sins all by himself. There’s being revved up, and there’s being revved up to the point of being a deranged parody of someone who’s revved up.
This isn’t bullying or scapegoating, rather this is pointing out the bleeding obvious for which I require neither praise or criticism. Trippier should have started, he’s the better player. The superior human being. Walker being ‘fast’ is not a criteria for consideration. It’s a vaguely accurate, random piece of information.
Wanyama found himself being pulled into a Selhurst Park sized tumble dryer and he was far from alone in there, spinning around as fundamentally so-so players like Zaha and Andros Townsend buzzed and buffeted brightly in the cold night air.
We’ll look at the rest of the lads tomorrow but perhaps that’s what great sides do, naff all then pull something magical out of absolutely nowhere.
