I want Mila Kunis
2-5
1-3
0-1
1-1
That's one point from four games. If we match that record in our next four games then we'll have two points from eight games. Has an endearing quality that. Feels like it belongs on a t-shirt. Can't quite put my finger on it though. I'm sure I've heard it somewhere before.
Okay, so hand on heart, I really can't be bothered to write a match report for the Chelsea game drowning in the same tactical must-haves and blah yadda ya because thanks to this non-productive run of games I'm having to repeat the same desires I lust for as a supporter from one aftermath to the next. We all know what it is we want from our team. What went missing at the Emirates is still missing four games on. It's sort of got better. Performance wise. Sort of. But the results have not. Not really. And the results are what remain paramount at this juncture of the season as we stare into the blank expression of the run-in. Nothing is quite set in stone yet. Time is still a commodity of worth. Only just.
How have we come to stand on the edge that might lead to either despair or glory?
1) Capitulation. Deserved defeat. Lost.
2) Played well, plenty of possession. Got taught a lesson in how to mug a team. Lost.
3) Disorganised but 'battered' them second half. Lost.
4) Statistically 'battered' them without really ever looking like overwhelming them and actually scoring. Managed to claw back a point from the jaws of defeat. Drew.
It's like a really crappy ground-hog day where you get stuck in the lift alone for hours on end with no means of escape rather than being stuck in the lift for hours on end with a flirty Mila Kunis.
The one repeated necessity that I've cited on a number of occasions during this spell of misery is that we need to somehow rediscover our fluency, our mojo. Be it from individualistic magic or a collective tenacity to dig out the result. Or alternatively, luck. Just a lucky break. Anything. It's not happened in the two games where we expected it to happen. Chelsea away is hardly the best place to hope it will perhaps make a surprise appearance. Because winning there (not as daunting an objective as any of the previous 22 years of mugged off visits) would switch confidence back on and we'll all marvel at how one result can change it all. We'll all scratch our heads as we witness the mentally fragile suddenly reclaim the required guile to once more go forth and conquer. Twenty-two years since we last won there. I know we don't pick our fixture list but sometimes it feels like we do.
I'm under no illusions. Even a below par Chelsea side can cause a below par Spurs side on field headaches. The best cliché that suits this game is 'the team that wants it more will win it'. A draw would be a fine result. A win would be the important result.
Do you feel that? That eerie been here before feeling? I said I couldn't be bothered with a match report and I'm being dragged down by one.
Beyond this game, it's going to the wire, no matter the result on Saturday. Your soul has suffered aplenty in the past few weeks and it will continue to do so for a while yet.
From somewhere deep within, Tottenham Hotspur have to wake the **** up and start playing the way we know they can. The way they know they can. Lose the apologetic shrugs. I don't buy into all this rhetoric about burn out and egos and losing focus. It's the same group of players. Pound for pound the best midfield in the country? Prove it then. Make the season counts for something. Start treating the situation with the type hunger and spirit it deserves.
Christ sake, there I go again. I'm turning into the same match preview for the fifth time in succession. I'm back in the lift. Stuck between floors. The emergency alarm doesn't work. It's ground-hog day and the inevitable conclusion to it will no doubt be waiting for me when the lift plummets down several floors to the basement and I'm left wondering why I ever walked into it in the first place.
This is not a good place to be. There is no Mila Kunis to keep me company. Even if by some miracle she did appear she'd probably morph into Meg from Family Guy. But hold up, I'm not alone any more. It's Harry. Harry Redknapp is in the corner. He's giving an interview about the England job to the lifts broken intercom.
Someone please help me. I need help.
