Monday
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 their 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…
