Part 1 Don’t go breaking my hart
Break it, tear it into small pieces and then stamp on it just a little bit. It is Sunday, TLF has wiped all reports of the mighty Saints humiliating 5-0 away defeat from the memory banks – LMF (lost memory fox) – and, in the interests of not being a jinx is pretending that Spurs v Lesta at White Hart Lane in the FA Cup is NOT happening. Not on the telly. Not on the wireless. Not on the Twitter. NOT AT ALL. Unfortunately everyone else has other ideas, as I am bombarded with texts and tweets. Not all of them are overly factual – ‘squeaky bum time’, leaves me none the wiser, “Are we hanging on for a draw? Desperately defending a slender lead? Or in urgent need of an equaliser or just the loo?” To escape this intrusion I give my 21st century self a stern talking to, emphasising the ability of your average TLF (not that there is any such thing as an average TLF of course), to survive for approx 45 minutes without accessing any forms of media or communication devices.
My second half of blissful ignorance is brusquely curtailed as muffled cries from the kitchen along the lines of, “Oh No. No. I don’t believe it. Nooooo,” drift up the stairs. Either Mr TLF has just experienced a soggy bottom disaster or something is rotten in the state of Tottenham. A late and slightly dubious penalty has denied Lesta a hard fought victory, placing a chill in our totally eclipsed harts as we check into hart break hotel. Still there is no point in crying our harts out – as our Lord God Claudio makes clear, “the referee says it was a penalty; it was a penalty.” That man has a good hart.
Part 2 What becomes of the broken-harted?
Well we wait for 72 hours and then we return to the scene of the crime. Admittedly the 72 hours is not some magical, TLF lucky time zone of choice, rather it’s the same fixture, but this time in the League. Can Our achy breaky harts be soothed or will there be hart ache tonight?
TLF is in the fine company of Davy Mac (honorary Lesta fan for the evening in Mr TLF’s double-booked absence) and David G of corporate hart-shaped box (that’s my favourite so far) fame. We do our best for the cause:
I eschew (BOOM!) a bet on Lesta, even in the face of league position defying odds of 7-2, as any fule kno that betting on your team is a serious nail in the victory coffin.
Davy and I manage to sit next to what may well have been the only other Lesta fan on the local train into Lundun (whisper it quietly TLF, ‘it’s a sign’).
We then bump into Paul, son of Ron and part of the St Albans Scottish Mafia as we make our way to the Victoria Line (it’s a sign!!).
I bump into Tim who sits 3 seats away from me at Filbert Way (sign cubed!).
The weather had turned distinctly chilly and it was a cold cold hart that would have prevented the intrepid trio from enjoying a couple of beers and some fine Turkish food in a venue about 5 mins from the ground. They possibly do need to rethink their veggie offering; Davy Mac cannot live on hummus and chips alone. The mood is good and even a very angry steward who I think suspected I was about to launch a terrorist attack with my very suspicious looking glasses case cannot steal the sun from our harts.
Remarkably after much comedy defending and some hart and soul stopping moments it is still 0-0. In the 83rd moment Lesta get a corner. David G and I give it the usual tosh, ‘this is it. This is when we score.’ And we do. Pandemonium. The mighty Foxes hang on and this Fox goes home, knowing that the hartache is over.
Well until the Cup replay. But that’s not at White Hart Lane. So hand on hart, there’ll be no more of this errant nonsense.