Monday, 7 November 2011
Just what the doctor ordered?
Undeserved, unconvincing, utterly joyous.
Presumably the doctors treating Harry haven't wasted too much time trying to diagnose the cause of his heart problems. Our second half performance was basically a full fry-up covered in melted cheese.
But... three points, 22 from 24, another away win - and more than two weeks to savour a job well done. Okay, to savour a job done.
I do love winning ahead of an international break. That monumental relief at the final whistle just lasts and lasts. It's like a tantric win. A Sting win.
It will be at least 10 days before the prospect of playing Aston Villa becomes real enough to worry about. Until then, we can gorge ourselves on the freeze-frame moments: Jermain's volley; the ref (very wisely, I thought) not pointing to the spot when Kyle picked the ball up and hid it under his shirt for five minutes; the realisation that Aaron not only has a left foot, but has just used it to quite brilliant effect; Bale's bafflingly effete celebration with Adebayor... actually, no, let's delete that.
The only man I know with a gloomier outlook than me on these things (he's basically Eeyore in a Spurs shirt), texted me straight after the game to say he wished to report a robbery that had just taken place in South West London.
I know what he meant, but told him to sod off and cheer up anyway. We've been robbed plenty of times. And perhaps afternoons like that are as much a part of progress as taking Liverpool apart or feeling genuinely confident going into games against Arsenal. Maybe there's something in that old bollocks about the importance of winning when you play badly. And maybe the late nineties/early noughties were just our way of really nailing the 'playing badly' side of the deal.
Maybe. Or we were shit and lucky.
Who cares. Let's just enjoy two weeks off. And get well soon, Harry.