"Sol Sol Wherever You May Be..."

Three days have passed since Black Sunday and it has taken me until this morning for it to fully sink in. I have exhibited all 7 stages of grief beginning with denial "That pitch was a disgrace, they'll replay it, surely???' and ultimately ending in acceptance - reciting over and over again the tired mantra of the Tottenham fan "There's always next year, there's always next year...". I have composed my thoughts and have forced myself to watch the game again. What I saw surprised me.

All this talk of us not turning up was brushed aside by our exhibition of total domination - corners, shots, passes, possession. I can still hear the barking of my moustached primary school football coach from the sidelines 'If you don't let them have the ball, they can't score!!'. Yes, they had a few breakaways but our pressure was constant and un-abating. The post match slating of Crouch (for which I have been guilty of in the past) seemed non-sensical to me. He should have made more of a couple of headers but he was hassled and marked effectively all game. His distribution and hold up play proved incredibly useful in the build up to attacks. Not only did he score the equaliser *Google searches 'how to make petrol bomb' followed by 'Alan Wiley referee address'* but he squeezed a tight header against the post and was only denied more goals by an excellent David James. Dawson's slip, Crouch's goal, the penalty that never was - all factors beyond our boys' control, the result of unavoidable errors or incompetent decision making.

The pitch was dreadful and whatever anyone says this favoured a weaker Pompey side, whose only apparent casualty was the far from clinical Dindane. Sometimes you have to sit back, stick one finger skywards and just curse the footballing Gods for their rampant antisemitism. We didn't lose because the players didn't care, we lost because somewhere in the grand scheme o thins we were meant to. With this in mind I was up bright and early; shaving off the facial hair borne from mourning and washing the salty tracks of tears from my cheeks. Its done.Over.Buried. THIS is where the season turns and the buzz of adrenaline is constant.Let's hope our boys feel the same...

I will keep my thoughts on the Arsenal match brief. We are still without Lennon and have now lost Palacios, who was unreal in the same fixture last season(the final factor in me crossing the Wiley family off my Christmas card list). No Jenas, no Woody, No Niko, with Charlie, King and Thudd all doubts - hardly the kind of news that inspires great confidence. Yet Arsenal aren't without injuries and we must hope Wilson's brother from another mother, Alex Song, is not present to toughen up Arsenal's soft centre. However, the main point of this article is a request to the fans. We all heard the atmosphere at Wembley, and credit where it is due to the Portsmouth fans, they are superb. It seems impossible to belief that level of support didn't have some part to play in Pompey's incredible sense of fight and energy. Our boys will be hurt after Sunday and our loud support should be a demonstration that we still believe - that the fans know they are capable.

More importantly I think the Arsenal players should be subjected to some of the roughest abuse of their lives. The North London derby at White Hart Lane prides itself on being the most hostile and emotionally charged fixture of the scum's calendar, we should do that tradition proud. The Arsenal team might have experience but they are still young and lacking the leadership of Fabregas. I chance the fierce atmosphere combined with the pressure of the title race have every chance of converting nerves into errors.

But please, I beg you, save your most potent vitriol for dear old Judas, marching back into the stadium where he made his name, cloaked in the red and white of shame and betrayal. I need not remind you of his behaviour, the money he cost the club, his abandonment of the fans who used to sing his name and his pig headed refusal to accept any fault. I ask you to leave your insults burnt into his conscience for eternity, not for our own sense of vindication, but because he is weak and he will crumble underneath it. Arsenal's defence can be unlocked without a ball even being kicked.

Audere est Facere - Never has a phrase been so poignant...

InArryWeTrust

Darren Bent's Inflammatory and Immature Swipe at the Tottenham Faithful

Lets not talk about last Saturday. I don't know whether it was injuries, fatigue, poor tactics or pre-occupation with the FA cup but the lads just didn't turn up and we were well and truly dominated by a frantic Sunderland side. Whatever it was, and despite the damage it has done to our chances of the Champions League, I have done my mourning and am looking forward to this April's rollercoaster of fixtures. However, there was something from the Sunderland game that has left a rather unpleasant taste in my mouth and looking at the forums I am not alone.

There was never any question Bent would score against us. Not only was it sod's law but, as the statistics show, the guy is good at hitting the back of the net. It was also no surprise that the goal would mean a lot to him, after a prolonged transfer and a very public spat with 'Arry. Yet the way he reacted after both goals was beyond me. For those of you unable to get hold of the highlights (in particular with the first goal), Bent scored and made a deliberate bee-line for the away support. Running past the Tottenham fans he turned and made a talking gesture with his hand whilst pointedly thumping his Sunderland badge. The reaction from the travelling yids was unsurprisingly furious and he was fortunate not to be struck by a bottle thrown from the crowd.

Now don't get me wrong, there are a few reasons for Darren to feel slightly aggrieved. Arry's Sandra comment was, in hindsight, ill-advised, although unfortunately probably accurate (another one for the 'Darren Bent Howlers Xmas DVD'). Then there was the issue of his transfer which took a number of weeks to complete and ended in a famous foul mouthed rant on Twitter. Perhaps someone should have informed him that football is ultimately a business and our notoriously savvy chairman was merely (and understandably) driving to drive up the price. He got what he wanted, slated Redknapp and the board in the media but even then couldn't let it lie. His goal celebration was aimed directly at the fans themselves, designed to cause fury, and I just don't understand why.

My friends tell me he was cheered during the warm-up and I remember him being applauded at the corresponding fixture at the Lane. Sure he was criticised by some fans during his time here for some dire misses but just ask Crouch, and even Defoe, how that feels because I hear both players criticised in the terraces week in week out.

Bent's celebration was unprovoked, unnecessary and put the safety of the stewards and fans at risk. I see no difference between his celebration and that of Adebayor, who suffered far worse abuse from his own fans. Adebayor ran further but Bent made a deliberate policy of running away from his own support to the Tottenham end, even adding and hand gesture abscent in Adebayor's celebration. For all his faults, one only need look at Robbie Keane's attitude to his former clubs upon scoring, to see how a real professional acts.

Bent is, I'm told, quite a big reader of fan sites so if you are reading this, well done Darren. You have turned a large body of fans with no hard feelings against you (dare I say many were actually happy for you) fully and whole-heartedly against you. Real professionals control their emotion and can deal with the pressure. You have shown yet again you cannot handle either; so come this Summer, don't waste too much time sitting by the phone...

InArryWeTrust

Tottenham Prepare For Their Finest Hour

The observant amongst you will have noticed that I have not paid this blog much attention of late. The old excuses flow easily off the tongue; work's hectic, people to see, places to go, but the truth is, my silence comes from the dreadful, all consuming fear that has plagued me for weeks. The fear that comes with every hard fought point, the fear of the giggling, euphoric maniac jumping up and down inside me with every passing game, the fear of daring to believe that maybe, just maybe, this is it. Last night, as the strains of "Que sera sera" echoed around the Lane, I gave up. The beast within cannot be contained by good sense, experience or civility any longer. I will admit it, I believe!

The Tottenham I watched tonight were superb. Not because of the result nor all the cute passes; the incisive cross field balls and delicate flicks. Instead it was the Tottenham team that started the second half that gave me an incredible and irrepressible feeling of hope. We began the game looking lacklustre and clueless. The passing was slapdash, there was no passion, no desire, no drive to win. The midfield was wide open allowing Fulham onto us and they fully deserved their lead at the break. Modric was guilty of missing tackless and being caught out of position leaving Palacios looking shaky and the defence exposed. The natives were growing restless, howling with rage at every bottled header and shirked second ball. As the whistle blew for the end of the first half, the chorus of whistles and boos drowned out the applause of the visitors.

Old Tottenham would have left the field heads bowed. They would have whinged they were being unfairly treated by the fans and would have played the next 45 as though they had been hard done by. Indeed, the charicature of 'Arry so many of you are so keen to drive out of the Lane with your pitchforks would have sat tight, stubborn in the knowledge Crouchie would 'do a job'. Well douse your torches and put down your scythes my heathen peasant comrades. 'Arry risked the wrath of Niko and BAE by throwing on Thudd and Bentley after half time. When Charlie hobbled off to join our injury ward (now being managed by the natural disaster branch of the Red Cross) 'Arry threw on Pav. This was just the kind of gamble that exposes managers to extreme criticism when they backfire. Decisions like that take guts and for all our wonderful ability, it is guts and graft that wins trophies.

I won't bore you with individual player reviews as I'm sure you were all with me in the stands or screaming "Yido Yido" at your TV screens. However I will throw out two quick synopses. Firstly, the 'Zamora for England' lobby can sit down at the back along with the Bent fan club. Fair play, the guy slotted in a great instinctive finish but Bassong had him in his pocket for the rest of the game. Throughout the second half Zamora was out jumped and out muscled by our Cameroonian youngster. Such was the effectiveness of Bassong's defending that the usually placid Zamora ended up lashing out in sheer frustration and getting himself (and inexplicably our man) booked. Then there was Eidur, the 'striker who doesn't score goals'. Two in less than two games says differently. Yet even more impressive was his linking of the midfield and, in the second half, his distribution in the hole behind the two front men. He looks in exceptional shape, brushing off tackles and holding up play without breaking a sweat. Before the ball even reaches him he seems to know where the next pass is going, kind of like an Icelandic version of X-men's Dr Charles Xavier. On top of this, the guy is a veteran of the domestic and European competitions, something that shows in the intelligence of every run and pass. Come the end of the season, the Iceman's cool head may have a huge influence both on and off the field.

Every week seems to be another blow for our boys in Lillywhite. Woody, King, Lennon, Modric, Huddlestone, Defoe; the spine of our team, have all spent long periods on the sidelines. Yet when a man drops, another steps proudly into his place in a style matched only by communis...sorry 'The People's Republic of' China. I can't be the only one wondering whether this Lennon bloke was actually any good in the first place. Down to the 'bare bones', playing in dreadful conditions on rubbish pitches with players in unfamilar positions and still the steam train rumbles on.

The big three as well as the clash with City will be huge for this club, but I finally feel ready to scrap with the big boys. Rather than going a goal down, curling up into foetal position and letting the kicks rain in, this Tottenham are straight back up, spitting blood in their opponents face and screaming "F*cking come on then!!". As ever, the support last night was literally unbelievable and when Eidur scored even the Paxton was rocking. I left with my hands trembling, my voice hoarse and a bigger headache than John Terry's publicist. I'm not saying we'll get top 4 this year, I'm not even over-confident about the FA cup. However after all the years of hurt, I finally feel we are laying the foundations of a club we can all be proud of.

InArryWeTrust