Half time croissant, anyone?
I’m not one to be ungrateful so I will certainly do my best to measure the tone but today I was invited to sample the new era at the new ground and surreal is not the word.
I kept it simple at the Antwerp Arms and then descended to meet my host outside the West stand. Not ever witnessed the ‘West side’ before but this is literally – next level.
It hits you like business class at an airport. The new ground is no shopping mall it is the Orwellian future – so hard hat off to Levy for future-shocking Haringey with its Mega City pleasure asylum.
This is ‘the business’ as they might say. £800,000 on restaurants alone on a match day. Not for us in the West Stand though.
Shelling out isn’t easy. Like a cross between the movie Get Out and the bar in The Shining, standing face to face with my well groomed server, I found that the whole stadium was cashless.
Here I was, picking up my own chewing gum wrapper off the polished marble-like floors in fear and respect and staring at my wrinkly £20 as if it was some kind of ancient artefact.
Thumb print and iris scan Season tickets by 2025 – mark by words. Anyways, they take cards and the wine was well chosen Herr Levy, well chosen indeed.
Round the other side of the bar they were dishing out Michelin star worthy complementary food.
I had the spineless salmon, which was a perfect appetiser for Dele (don’t you dare flippin’ call him Alli) on the pitch.
The first half kicked off but let me first tell you that the intimacy created is pretty amazing for the amount of people in the ground.
You feel like you’re at The Lane but bizarrely shifted into another buzzing dimension. You expect to see Levy floating about like Mekon almost. He would love that.
And talking of Levy, as one must, I’m not one to compare him to Hitler but the sonic vibration pumped into the stands – the tremendous amount of bass frequency before the millionaires take to the pitch, as in a Nazi rally, is by no means an accident.
Everyone’s hair was standing up on end like Eriksen in the mirror out the shower. Quite astounding. Being a fan of bass (not Hitler) I thoroughly enjoyed it.
As I say, the first half kicked off. West Ham looked there for the taking. Anonymous and irritable.
We had the fantastic Danny Rose playing left wing like I had picked him for Pro Evo on the Xbox. He played without ducking out a challenge.
Son looked tired.
The team played by keeping possession that no other Tottenham team in the history of the club has managed to. What did we do with it though? Very little.
Toby always looks like a leader and today he had a orange sun bed glow. Maybe he is getting ready for Italian sunshine, God only knows.
The lights around the stadium were mesmerising but that AIA bank bollocks in red. How do we support that!? Being bathed in the saturated red light wonderment as the serfs from the Lime House docks laugh it up. Rubbish.
Half time I realised that the bar area is akin to a hotel lobby – the bogs smelling nice and hardly a queue. No splash from the gent next to you. Tastefully screened you are at the trough – how gentile. No wonder no cad puts a tackle in.
Dele jumped out a couple today. He also took about three touches every time he received the ball like he was at a photo shoot for some horrendous tracksuit brand. He plays nowadays like he is smirking at us with avarice – all ego on the billboards at Oxford Circus. Get him off!
Second half disappeared. West Ham got in behind us somehow and their lot went flippin’ mental. They even sang Bubbles a few times. No last minute heroics.
We even chucked on Janssen who did his best to write himself a Roy of the Rovers fantasy story. If he wanted champagne he’d need to quaff it quietly like the rest of us. Disassociated and winsomely distracted in our cushioned seats we were.
Outside in the streets of Haringey the stench of onions and horse meat filled the air. Disgusting it was.