Labouring

God made man in his likeness, which explains a lot. The fucker was certainly extracting the maximum urine yesterday - not that I wish to seem ungrateful.

I was invited, you see, to the Lane to watch the last home game of the season against the mighty City. As is often the case with this kind of thing, there had been a fair bit of to-ing and fro-ing, and, up until about 8 o'clock on Friday evening, it looked as if it wasn't going to happen.

And given the way things have been going for me, that would have been about right. But go ahead it did, and despite the torrential rain on Friday evening, it really made my night/week/month/year that such an opportunity had arisen. I was not without apprehension, because there had been dark mutterings about players' lounges, Directors' Boxes and not being allowed to wear jeans. I wondered what I would say to Mark Hughes or Robinho if I met either of them, whether I should mention my blog, and ran out to buy a new pair of trousers on Saturday morning before knocking back a quick Grolsch and completing the interminable walk up Tottenham High Road to my rendezvous point outside the Corner Pin.

It turned out that we were only picking the tickets up from the Directors' Box area, and that the tickets were actually for seats among the Academy youngsters. Never mind. I have been boxed at Spurs and elsewhere, and don't really like it as a method of watching the game. But, the usual crap around scheduling meant that the Rags were winning the league as I stood waiting for kick off next to the pissers sipping my £3.30 bottle of Carlsberg, casting envious glances at the kanga burger munchers around me.

And then there was the game. There was almost a funereal atmosphere early on, a respectful air between the players. Robinho wasn't even in the squad, and we were relying on Caicedo to carry the line. Nuff said. Spurs quickly took control after about 10 minutes, and City were lucky not to be 3 or 4 nil down in half an hour. Spurs were attacking the goal just the other side of Vanuatu, so there wasn't a great deal of action on offer for 45 minutes.

The inevitable happened after the break when Spurs inexplicably self-destructed and given Bojinov a goal. For a while it looked as if we might even have won the game before the ex-Rag won that ludicrous pen, and it was game over. Not a dead rubber, but it may as well have been now that the Toon have really blown it yet again.

I never did get the opportunity to discuss my online representations with Sparky.