Faces is rammed. It’s Friday, ‘Ladies Night’. And the Spurs boys are in full-on party mode. They are in the Champions League proper and have every right to celebrate. If they can beat Young Boys, they can beat anyone. Now for the young girls.
Inter? Managed by the ‘Spanish Waiter’...we know how he hates a trip to the Lane. Bremen? Lost star player Ozil...a shadow of their former selves. Twente? Play in a pony league and no longer managed by the talismanic 'Stevie Mac'. And it’s only Wigan on Saturday...Spurs knocked 12 past them last season...the boys can afford to party hard in fake tan heaven.
Everyone is drinking Moet, bar teetotallers Jermain Defoe and Gareth Bale who are incongruously downing Fruit Shoots. Peter Crouch is absent having been suspended indefinitely from such contretemps by dear Abi. Younes Kaboul drinks a Jagermeister out of a girl’s belly button. That’s the best shot he’s had since Villa at home in 2007.
The champers is flowing. And yet there is a familiar but not Tottenham face at the famed Essex nightspot. “I recognise you from somewhere,” drawls Tom Huddlestone at an odd, moon-faced individual trying to get the barmaid’s attention with a whistle.
Phil Dowd reaches for his wallet and a Weight Watchers DVD-ROM falls on to the bar; in his embarrassment, the portly ref tries to pay for the round with a yellow card.
A cluster of orange girls move away. He doesn’t play for Blackpool. He’s a fat bloke with strange, non-platinum coloured credit cards. An incandescent Dowd whistles furiously...but nobody listens.
Back in his Surrey mansion, Crouchie wears extra large marigolds while scrubbing the toilet bowl. At Sandbanks, Harry is impressing Sandra with his new Soda Stream. Nothing can go wrong on Saturday, right?