I guess my predicament can be compared to Aron Ralston, pinned between a boulder and a canyon wall with no means of escape. Other than attempting to cut my arm off. Although the analogy doesn't quite stretch to limb-losing I do feel completely isolated and any attempts to survive appear to be futile.
Whilst White Hart Lane is rocking to the tune of five home goals, I'll be up North. I haven't even got time to craft another chest thumping battle cry. Although it's hardly the occasion for one. We're 4-0 down. The odds on over turning it are what...astronomical, right? I have joked about how if we score in the opening five minutes, we'll win 4-0 in normal time, 5-0 aet. I'm the king of comedy me.
Pragmatically, the visit of Real Madrid should be one that the home faithful lap up and sing their hearts out as a final swan song, a heartfelt thank you to the team for this wonderfully entertaining adventure. And if we could perhaps beat them by the odd goal, it would go some way towards ending the campaign with another great memory, be it one with less gloss than the prior ones. What with Jose having one eye already on Pep.
The special one might 'rest' yellow carded players, park the bus, soak up the pressure to counter and kill the game early (and oh boy would an early Madrid goal sucketh). Can't control what they do. Down to us to set the tempo. No pressure, no tension. That should relax both players and fans. And what with 4th spot once more the priority, our minds should be on the next game. Although this being Spurs, we're unlikely to rest any of our players and will probably go gung-ho, dreaming of miracles. And let's be honest, we have no other choice than to do just that. You know I'm right. Playing the game like a friendly? Bill Nick would not approve.
I'll be getting smashed in the hotel bar, no doubt, slurring and allowing complete freedom of my fingers to dance away as I hold up both arms, hands reaching out to touch the impossible dream. Interspersed with more drink and the odd flashback of Bale's hattrick, the 3-1 home win against Inter, Milan at the San Siro.
One last swashbuckle, Tottenham? Until next season, of course.
Wouldn't want it any other way.
So hallelujah to you and the boys in Lilywhite. The tie might have ended away in Spain but glory doesn't have to be constrained by technicalities.
Come on you Spurs.