
Sunday afternoon...a day off...but I won’t enjoy it all that much...
This is entirely due to the state of tension and stress I am at present being burdened with by one of the loves of my life.
I have four, I realised a while back. I have others that I love, - my computer for example - but they don't come close to the first four.
In no particular order (beyond a literary device).
There is my family. Well I have to say that, don't I - but I mean it. I was blessed to find my soul mate while at uni and here we are 36 years later and I am still as much in love (it might not seem like that to her all the time; I have also developed the "grumpy old man" side to my character...sorry sweetheart). I also have five children and one grand-daughter and these seven people make up one of the four.
These are not my cause of stress (at least not today!).
There is God. I have to say that too, don't I. Except that I don't actually have to but I want to. I've known Christ almost as long as I have my wife and I could expand on what He has done for me and how much He means - but that's no today's point.
He is not my cause of stress. (Although He can be, and that could be another post)
There is music. I thought a bit about whether music should actually be in the very top section or whether it belongs in the next level down of "very important but not quite" with my computer. But I once imagined what I would choose if I was ever asked on "Desert Island Discs" and I decided it would have to by some sort of iPod/MP3 player and a solar powered charger. (I'm not allowed to take people so that rules out the first - God is everywhere and of course you get the Bible, so I could take 2 of the 4)
Music doesn't stress me; in fact it generally does the opposite.
So what is number four?
Well of course, the mighty Tottenham Hotspur FC.

I have supported Spurs for longer than I have known the other three. Sometime in the mid 60's I was taken by my Dad to Stamford Bridge to watch Chelsea play Spurs. I've tried to find out the actual match but I have failed. My recollection is that Spurs won 2-1 but I think I may be mixing this up with the cup final of 1967. At the time we were living in north London...as it turns out my house was actually closer to both Arsenal and Chelsea than White Hart Lane but for some reason I gave my 7 -year-old (or whatever) allegiance to the boys from N17. It has been suggested that it was due to my being a contrary little git and that my Dad and his mate were rooting for Chelsea that day - I would not dispute this.
We moved away for four years (to the south coast in the New Forest, where everyone at my school seemed to support...Tottenham, so I was fine). It being too far to travel to the capital - so he claimed - my dad took me to a few Southampton matches at The Dell. I cannot recall a thing about them for which I am truly grateful.
It was not until after we returned to the London area (in spring 1970, to Hatfield, Herts) that I would be able to consummate my young love and make the trip the WHL for the first time.
The best thing to come out of Hatfield
- the A1(M)My new school was also a majority Spurs establishment (this made sense, at least they were the nearest top league club) although Chelsea fans came a close second.
This is not actually my school in Hatfield - they pulled it down some years ago...but this charmless '60s-built building looks much the same....It is at this point that I have to admit to a most shameful event. Like an adulterous affair, I was a Chelsea fan for two days.
Look, I have an excuse. It was my first day at a new school and in a Geography lesson I was put on a table with two guys who were clearly "hard". As it turned out they really were the hardest boys in the year. They were Chelsea fans and among the "Where do you come from?" type questions there was, of course "What team do you support?" As I viewed the square jaws (one of them seemed to have stubble - at 13!), the Neanderthal brows and felt the unspoken threat of sudden violence my attention was drawn to the CFC badges on the blazer lapels.
"Oh, Chelsea, I mumbled"
A day or two later I had met and stuck with the less violent types and discovered the large numbers of Spurs fans. Fortunately the boys in question were fairly nominal in their football fandom (although not in their interest in random violence – but strangely I always got on very well with them until they left at the end of the fourth year, it being the last year before ROSLA) and I was able to slip back into the Spurs fold much like an unfaithful husband sneaks in at 3 in the morning hoping his wife won’t hear the door. All these years later,I still occasionally feel a little soiled by this aberration.
Having fallen in with about eight fellow Spurs supporters, I learned that they made the fortnightly pilgrimage to WHL. My parents were not to be moved - it was, after all the era of the skinhead and regular newspaper reports of football violence. I had to content myself with the 1970 world cup and trying to play like a Brazilian on the playground. It was the summer of Pele, Rivelino and Bobby Moore and that bracelet.
I spent a large part of that summer holiday attempting to chip away at my parents resolve - "I promise to stay out of trouble, mum" and I either convinced them with the quality of my argument or just whined so much they would do anything to shut me up but on returning to school in September, I was able to announce the good news.
I think that up to this point my love affair with Spurs had been a bit like my love affair with Joyce Brown. I can use her name; I doubt she's one of the handful who read this blog. She was this angelic creature who I sat behind in Maths. There's a whole story of my later attempting to woo her and failing to win her heart but at this time I simply worshiped from afar. Spurs too, despite having taken deep root in my psyche were basically followed from afar. They were the team I hoped would be the featured game on The Big Match or MOTD. They were the result I listened for on the radio on a Saturday evening or the name I searched for in the back of my mum's copy of the Sunday Mirror.

But then on a Saturday in September 1970 four friends and I boarded a train from Hatfield to Finsbury Park followed by a bus up the Seven Sisters Road. I learned a lot that day. I learned that there were more than just eight of us (several couldn't come on that Saturday) but dozens - hundreds - thousands! They might come from strange exotic climes (such as Stevenage) - but with whom I shared a bond surely as strong as that shared by warriors of old. I learned that the ground wasn't actually in White Hart Lane; at the time no one could explain this...I'm not even sure any of my friends actually knew where WHL was! I learned to duck under cra

sh barriers as the crowd surged forward. As that and subsequent seasons came and went, I learned some other stuff. I learned just how to watch for the station staff and ticket inspectors on the Hatfield line and which bits of station wall were lowest and not covered in broken glass. I learned how to squat lower than the counter in order to get in with a mate – we had BOGOF long before Tesco. I learned the best places to stand, to keep an ear out for “trouble” and where I could and couldn’t safely wear a scarf. I learned that “I missed the train” was not an acceptable excuse for turning up at 2 in the morning on a school night (EUFA Cup semi-Final).
And I of course I learned the Tottenham ARE, by far, the greatest team the world has ever seen.
This has got much longer than I planned – at least it has helped take my mind off this evening a little. I could mention so much more…the passion cooled a little while at university - there was just so much going on to draw my attention (this coincided with relegation, so it worked out fairly well). It was rekindled shortly after and to my surprise and delight, my wife now caught the bug too. I knew she was fully “one of us” when I had to restrain her from decking a Liverpool fan at the 1982 Charity Shield (I think he said something about Gary Mabbutt).
There were the years of being treated like an animal at away grounds (by the police as much as the clubs) of hearing about the Bradford fire while stuck in traffic on the High Road. There was getting shut out of the ground just two away from getting in – that happened twice!
And of course, (today of all days) I remember hearing about the tragedy at Hillsborough.
I often joke that I have never really enjoyed a Spurs match. Of course that isn’t strictly true. I DO enjoy it; but it’s not the same enjoyment I get from a good pint of beer or lying on a beach. I can’t relax as I can while listening to a great piece of music or how I might enjoy a good book (another thing that is on my “nearly” list.
With Spurs the enjoyment comes with something else – it isn’t quite fear (although following a club who are perfectly capable of blowing lead at any time and however well we are playing, it might often be fear).
I think I have worked out what it is. I just CARE so damn much. I can’t stop it – just as I couldn’t simply stop loving my wife by an act of will, I’m stuck with Tottenham and they are stuck with me. I might feel the same, say, at my children’s wedding…you want to enjoy it but there’s also so much of you invested in it going well and it being one of the best days of their lives it threatens to overwhelm you.
Difference is, whereas your children will only marry once (or at least a relatively few times) and even adding other extreme events for example childbirth - by my 5th child, I WAS quite enjoying the experience although I guess my wife was finding it a little tough - or graduation say, there's a Spurs match once or twice a week throughout the season. Off season we have the will-he-won't-he saga of Modric staying or going etc. etc. etc.
...stress, worry, nerves, tension...

Bill Shankly is (mis)quoted as saying “football is more important than life or death” – he of course was wrong – today’s anniversary should convince anyone of that...
…but it FEELS like it is…
Just under two hours to go – God, I’m so nervous...
COYS..