Ready to give up on Tottenham?

I wonder if there is a statistic about the average life expectancy of a Tottenham fan. There must be a fair number of stress induced strokes "Oh God Gomes is coming out to claim a cross", cardiac arrests born of sheer unadulterated ecstasy "We put how many past Wigan?" and more than a few broken hearts "I am NEVER eating lasagna again". Yet surely the greatest cause of Tottenham related fatality is years and years of utter exasperation. This season has been both a blogger's wet dream and worst nightmare. Usually after a thoughtful morning ride on the fetid sweatbox that is the Northern Line and a couple of pints with my fellow yids I feel myself to be an authority on Tottenham's failings and the obvious solutions that dear old 'Arry (bless him, he is getting on a it) has missed. Just last week I thought I had cracked it. Tottenham had developed the 'professionalism' and 'discipline' to break down the league's strugglers but still lacked an inner confidence needed to beat the big boys. Two results down the line and I find myself as confused and frustrated as Cheryl Cole on her Honeymoon. Yes Wolves defended well but we looked utterly toothless. What happened to that gritty streak that saw us rip apart Wigan and had Jordan screaming 'Freeedddooommm' in delight on the side of the pitch? Suddenly when taking into account Everton and Man Utd in the Carling Cup I began to feel that familiar old shiver of fear. The same I used to feel when I saw Bent in our starting lineup...

Yet just as I had compiled my thoughts into something relatively coherent rather than the stream of vitriol that would have Allardyce blushing, Man City happened. I was actually down watching Ricky Gervais in Brighton during the game and spent the whole two hours thinking "Enjoy this, it will be the last time you feel laughter and happiness until West Ham get relegated". I pictured the texts flooding onto my phone, the league table being posted on my facebook by my gooner 'friends' and I thought about the MOTD boys shaking their heads and using cliches more worn out than King's knee. Gingerly I edged into WalkAbout to see the last 10 minutes and was instantly surrounded by revelling Spurs fans. I watched the delicate flicks, the crisp cool passing, the deliciously accurate crosses and wondered for a moment whether White Hart Lane had been magically relocated to Rio De Janiero, such was the Samba football on display. I found myself staring at the screen greeting every cute move with claps and giggles like a pre-pubescent girl at a Westlife concert.

Everything I had carefully planned to whinge about was being rectified by the cool, fluorescent glow of the television. BAE playing with passion yet composure(not to mention that priceless nutmegging of Adabewhore, Palacios throwing in tackles like the good old days and Crouchy having the ball played into his feet rather than hopeful lumps up the pitch. It wasn't perfect by any stretch of the imagination. Still too many stray passes, still too many overcomplicated moves, and just one run from Petrov brought back familiar fears about our inability to defend against pace. Yet this genuinely looked like the kind of Tottenham side which could break the stranglehold. Bassong is talented but still learning however, in the absence of Ledders and Woody, Dawson is fast becoming not only a fine commanding centre back but also, a fine captain. I cannot remember ever seeing true leadership emanating from a Tottenham player in the manner which came so naturally to Viera and still does from Terry. The injuries to our two lynch pins may actually be a mixed blessing, if Dawson continues to mature and improve I sense the makings of a Captain Fantastic and White Hart Lane legend.

Last Saturday I wanted to recall O'Hara and shove him in BAE's position, to try a five man midfield with Modric as link man, and I wanted to write to Daniel Levy asking for one last little portion of his children's inheritance in January. Now, as ever, I am just another confused spurs fan not daring to believe we might actually be good enough...

Cue hairloss, palid skin and a world weary look...the slow inevitable transformation into Gary Megson...

In 'Arry We Trust