An apology to my Spurs-supporting friends:

I may, at times in the past, have given the impression that my opinion of Tottenham Hotspur (aka “Spurs”) lay somewhere between disgust and contempt.

I may inadvertently have suggested that they were the very worst of football clubs, that they bore no comparison to The Arsenal, trophy-laden kings of North London, and have pointed out that their trophy cabinet is, by comparison, bare.

I think I have been misunderstood.

What I *meant* to say beneath this veneer of irony was that I have always had the utmost respect for our neighbouring club as noble rivals at the very pinnacle of the football tree.

I am certain that it is only through sheer misfortune – despite the best efforts of about 35 different highly-paid managers, including giants of the game like Doug Livermore, Tim Sherwood, Jacques Santini, Martin Jol and Juande Ramos – that they have failed to win a league title in 63 years.

Sheer bad luck, too, that their only cup of the 21st century is the League Cup – unfairly dismissed by naysayers as the “Mickey Mouse” trophy – and quite wrong to conclude that they have lived in the shadow of their illustrious neighbours for more than half a century.

Believe me when I say that I shall be glued to the television set this very evening, willing them and their “Y*d Army” on towards victory against the petrodollar-funded colossus that is Manchester City. I would even settle for a draw, though I don’t wish to sell Spurs short by suggesting that would be the height of their ambition.

So I’m saying it here – possibly for the first time, and almost certainly the last:

COYS
(For one night only)

Postscript: I take it all back, you useless bastards. What I *meant* to say is that my second team has always been West Ham so COYI. But only on Sunday.