Was there ever a more hilarious ending to a football season than this one just past? One so rib-ticklingly amusing, so stomach-burstingly mirthful? Perhaps. Anno Lasagnum, 2006, was perhaps its equal. But even that glorious day, with its comically Spursian gourmet twist, suggesting faecally polluted pasta-based sabotage by a Goonerian chef, might not compare to the joyful implosion of Tottenham Middlesex Hotspur Comedy Club FC on Sunday.
If we are honest, the relatively straitened times of these last ten years have meant that finishing above Middlesex takes on extra significance. Even underperforming Arsenal can finish above them. Even an Arsenal with Chamakh and Bendtner in the side can finish above them. Even a side with the 2016 model Theo Walcott in it can finish above Spurs.
Imagine if you will, being a Spurs fan this Sunday last. You have watched your side, whom you believe to be the most entertaining band of mavericks and geniuses, move from a position of improbably challenging for a title against the mighty Leicester. You were, in effect, hoping to win the title by default, as no better options were currently available.
Chelsea have been in the middle of a hilarious civil war; Manchester United resemble a human boot fair for billionaires; Manchester City are marking time before Mr. Guardiola’s ominous arrival next term, and Liverpool… Ha ha ha. More of them later. As a Spurs fan, you know deep down that this was your only chance. With everyone else being as awful as awful can be, and only upstart Fosse ahead of you, surely you could hunt them down.
You have the remarkable Harry Kane, boyhood Arsenal fan and winner of the golden boot. You have violent pleb Dele Alli. You have quite the glove butler in Hugo Lloris. At the back you have Toby Alderweireld and Jan Vertonghen, who are fine footballers. You have Kyle Walker, who despite being a psychopath with no neck vertebrae manages to hold down the right back position. You have shown what you believe to be fighting spirit. This is in fact on-pitch violence and off-field delusion, but there you go. Your striker is comparing himself and his colleagues to lions, hunting down prey.
So when your lead over your north London rivals starts to dwindle, like the embers of a burnt-out sportswear shop on Tottenham High Road, you probably begin to pray. However, if there is evidence of a benevolent god, it could be seen by Tottenham Hotspur getting royally thrashed by an already relegated Newcastle side who were reduced to ten men. This may be the Spursiest moment so far. The infamous negative spiral could be seen here in microcosm, as Tottenham capitulated like the French in World War 2.
The hysteria this hopeless display of ineptitude induced will remain with us for years to come. The psychological effect will linger with Tottenham well into next season. Its memory will be whispering to them every time they seem to be on the verge of anything resembling success. Wijnaldum, Mitrovic, Aarons and Janmaat will forever be the Four Horsemen of the Spursocalypse, ushering in Saint Totteringham at the last possible hour.
Twenty years of failure is heaped upon 55 years of failure. Mr. Windsor, whatever you think of him, has maintained quite the record against the boys from the home counties. Anyone doubting his passion merely needs to examine a photograph of the boss being told of the fourth and fifth goals from St. James’s Park. We sneaked second, our highest finish since 2005, and yet this season will always be remembered, part from this most memorable St. Tott’s, as being one of missed opportunities.
A word then on Liverpool. As expected, they lost to a far superior side in the Michael Mouse Memorial Cup on Wednesday evening. Did you catch Michael ‘Mouse’ Owen being paid for saying things like:
“Who’s better than Liverpool? Who’s bigger than Liverpool? Who can you go to? Barcelona and Real Madrid will attract anyone, I suppose… but after that, where else is there to go? I can’t imagine you’re going to go anywhere else in the Premier League.”
This is a perfect example of Liverpoolitis. They all believe this. A pal of mine, a Liverpool fan who is actually from Liverpool rather than Scandinavia, and who is normally sentient, perceptive and intelligent, when alerted to Mr. Owen’s latest outburst, merely concurred with him.
“He’s right. There are only five clubs in global football. Liverpool, Real Madrid, Barcelona, Bayern Munich and AC Milan. That’s it. We’re up there.”
So there we have it, ladies and gentlemen. For next season the ambition is clear. We must aim to be as big and successful as Liverpool Football Club.
We can but dream.
