And I’m still waiting for a steward’s inquiry into how Jurgen got knocked out in the Bake Off semi-final
During the half-time break at the Spurs v Leeds game yesterday, I was chatting to my friend Matthew, with whom I have been going to the football for longer than either of us cares to remember. It had been a particularly bleak first half. Tottenham were supposed to be reinvigorated under their new manager, Antonio Conte, but there appeared to be no difference to how they had played under both José Mourinho and Nuno Espírito Santo. The team still lacked any creative ideas – the default mode of every player was to pass the ball sideways – and Leeds, a side just above the relegation zone, were in complete control. What’s more, Spurs had not managed a single shot on goal, let alone one on target. So I told Matthew what had been on my mind. That I wasn’t sure how much longer I could face putting myself through such unremitting suffering: something that I had previously effortlessly taken in my stride. Indeed I had always worn Spurs’ capacity to let its fans down as something of a badge of honour. I had expected Matthew to tell me to get a grip and stop moaning. If I expected to win a major trophy I should support another team. Instead, he told me that his father – a longtime season-ticket holder back in the day – had also reached the same point at roughly the same age as me and had stopped going to games. Which got me wondering if there was a quantity theory of disappointment in football and that I had reached my limit. I’ve a while to find out. Spurs came out for the second half looking like a different team and went to dominate the game and win quite comfortably. We left the ground making plans to meet up for the Brentford game next week. Maybe I’m just incurably shallow.
