we've only got ten men

Eastlands is a bit cartoony. It's OK on the inside but outside it has all these spiral ramps and neon lights announcing 'MANCHESTER CITY' and looks like something a 9 year old boy would draw. You still get a feel for the wasteland I'm guessing it was built on as the car parks are rubble and the surrounding area is inhospitable to say the least. The unfinished feel is certainly reflected in the lack of thought that's gone into road and transport infrastructure and could even act as an analogy for Sven's team. Ten home victories on the trot did not bode well for the stuttering Spurs but it was like someone had slipped Juande a slip of paper (written in Spanish) which explained very clearly Sven's secret. Even after Zokora was (harshly I'm told) sent off Spurs controlled most of the game, albeit from a defensive position. Defoe's goal after 5 or 6 minutes shocked even the most optimistic Spurs supporter. In fact I had the most pessimistic supporter behind me. As the packed Spurs end gleefully taunted the City fans with 'We've only got ten men!' he was singing 'We've only got one goal' whilst tutting and shaking his head.

The passing movement when we did go on the offensive was startling and only impeded by something of a tendency to go one pass too many and by Steve Bennet's (the Ref) whistle blowing and poor decision making. The harsh sending off and a number of decisions that went against Spurs led to some pretty vitriolic anti-Bennet chants which accused him of being female genitalia and in the habit of playing on his home turf a lot. When he failed to award City what looked like a clear penalty in the second half the chants instantly became: " We love you Bennet, we do!" proving that Londoners have a fine sense of humour when they're winning.

Malbranque's goal around 8 minutes from time was the best. I got hugged by a lot of people. I didn't need reminding how important it all is but if I did, that emotional explosion would have done it.

I have to say that as I made my way back to the car park on the other side of the stadium, I began to regret some of the taunting chants and the bloody grin on my face (oh and the Spurs shirt and the clean and bright- and now officially lucky- bar scarf). It was OK though. I made it to the car just in time to sit in it for a full 90 minutes waiting for the traffic to get moving. It's funny how time works; those 90 minutes went much faster than the ones where we were waiting for the final whistle to blow.