Martin Jol loves me

I didn't write anything all week because I was on holiday not because I was agape in front of the telly suffering from shitty performance narcolepsy. Best mate will attest that one of the words I least favour is 'disappointed'. As a kid, having a parent disappointed in me and frowning felt just as humiliating as the times my youthful exuberance elicited a 'stop showing off'. When people have been disappointed with me in adulthood I have felt even more rubbish. Luckily no-one tells me to stop showing off these days (though one student recently complained that I spoke too loud in class). However, to say I was disappointed with the start Spurs made is something of an understatement. I could see that the defence was decimated but it was Berbatov's lacklustre showing and the timidity of our midfield that made me reach for the D word. For that I am sorry. Yesterday made up for it. My boy loved it, especially when he got the thumbs up from Robinson and my girl was buzzing 14 mins into a game that saw us three goals up. I explained that it was always like that at White Hart Lane. The emphatic win (let's ignore for a moment the fact that Derby were an absolute shower- disappointing even) and the atmosphere enabled her to tolerate the beery flatulence coming from a bloke nearby. I think he only let go when we scored so, unfortunately I guess, the Lane should be a whole lot less smelly in the forthcoming game against Les Arses and other big teams. My fingers will be crossed for a sulphurous stink so powerful that a 2 or 3 goal lead will be increased as Lehman fumbles the ball a few times in the way he did today against Blackburn.

Incidentally, all the talk in the press about Jol going may well be rooted in fact but you only had to listen to the crowd yesterday to know that the board and the fans don't, by and large, sing from the same hymn sheet. The board better get themselves some protection lest North London's leading mafia hitman wreaks his bloody but well reasoned and smiling revenge.