There is still hope

I reckon I've got it sussed out.

All we need to do is sacrifice fifteen virgins (one for each remaining point) in the centre-circle at White Hart Lane and then take five voodoo dolls representing each club we have left to play and hang'em upside with pins inserted.

Whilst the sacrifice takes place (for reasons relating to legality we can't actually sacrifice people so I've spoken to a friend who knows someone who knows someone who can put me in touch with a farmer and for a nominal fee covering insurance purposes we can borrow fifteen lambs although we have to return the meat post-ritual or we'll lose the deposit)...Okay, so whilst the sacrifice takes place on the pitch we need to then set fire to the voodoo dolls and pray to Mait' Carrefour, the Haitian god of magicians and lord of the crossroads, promising him the souls of the sacrificed virgins (he won't know the difference, the souls are unlikely to bleat after they transcend) in return for Champions League next season. We also need to bury Chirpy in a shallow grave. Nothing to do with the ritual at all. Just, you know, might as well kill two birds with one stone.

I reckon that just about covers it and it's as full-proof as anything can possibly be. Got it all planned out on my clipboard.

No need to waste time on how to line-up our forwards best. How to get them to play with passion and desire starting off with the fundamentals like moving around the pitch a bit and controlling the ball. How best to structure our midfield for assured balance. Where to slot in Lennon for maximum impact. How to retain the required level of tenacity in games against lower-placed clubs as displayed against the bigger sides. How to get the message across that even if the opposition hasn't lost for a fair while, we should be storming it at home in a flurry of fantastics rather than once more failing with frustration.

Also no point in dwelling on the harsh reality of irony whereby said failure is shared by all involved, including the players that might want to transfer their way out in the summer due to the club not being involved in a competition because the same players failed to take us back there. Or is it the managers fault? Or is it mine for thinking we'd get on fine and that we were not over-extending? Regardless, where's the killer instinct? That has to be question that hides behind another disappointment.

You want killer instinct? You want it? If you want it, you do it yourself. You get on the phone to a farmer and you order some baby sheep.

Cheer yourself up, buy a t-shirt then sell it as a collectors item to a Man Utd fan in the summer


Fourth spot. It's still on.

We simply need to win every single game remaining and City need to slip up the once in addition to playing us.


We got written off every single game leading up to Eastlands last time out. Nothing is impossible until it's impossible and it's not impossible. Not yet. When it finally is I'll applaud the team for a quite stupendous season, one with regretful blips that have cost us in the long run. But that's for another me in another universe, one where we finish outside the top four filled with melancholical madness, whilst an emo Spooky sits in front of his webcam reading out poetry and despairing with endless dejection.

Screw that universe.

Now excuse me. Got me some shearing to do.

Just remember what I've done for you next time you tuck into your lamb chop and potatoes.