Tottenham Hotspur is an unfathomable conundrum. Anyone who tells you ‘I told you so’ was guessing. I take that back, in fact they were purposefully lying to you.
The wisdom deployed in predicting what Spurs might do is on a par with the toothless crones who are able to foretell the sex of an unborn baby by holding a conker on a shoelace over the bump. ‘Charlatan’ barely covers it.
The first half was as close to as dumb as dumb could possibly be watching a drunk trying to assemble an Ikea kitchen. Lots of possession, lots of own goals and no discernible progress. A purgatory of uselessness. At half time you’d have bet your house, your wife and the dog on the drunk being found slumped on the floor next to lots of cardboard, torn up instructions and a half eaten Chinese take-away scattered around the snoring corpse.
But that didn’t happen.
The 88th minute were 1-0 down and looking like nobody had even flicked through the Big Boy’s Bumper Book Of How To Finish Your Dinner on the coach over.
Tom Carroll, Gylfi Þór Sigurðsson, Wayne Routeledge and Kyle Naughton all look as if they had moved onto better things when they moved East.
Did we learn anything last night?
We learned that somewhere in that Tottenham squad, underneath all the flakeyness there beats the bruised but not beaten heart of a championship winning side.
Great sides find the magic, the true grit, the – call it what you want – and manage to pull the iron out of the fire. Great sides go to Swansea on a Wednesday night without their superstar striker, concede a goal and and after fumbling, failing to pick the locks, find what’s been missing before the final whistle blows.
I was so impressed by what I saw in the last 5 minutes because it reminded of me why I got into this in the first place.