Sheer air-punching joy! Clint Dempsey scored a last gasp equaliser and I found myself embracing a woman in her seventies. It was my Wayne Rooney moment. We failed to exchange numbers, but the connection was undeniable. Almost a case of ‘Call me, maybe’.
On the pitch, relentless pressure told. Don’t let Alex Ferguson’s post-match hyperbole fool you. Rioja kills brain cells. A draw was the very least Spurs deserved. Tottenham registered 23 shots to United’s paltry six (managing 18 on target) and plugged away with delightful purpose when previous incarnations of our team would have folded.
In the dying embers of the game, I sensed an equaliser yet, with Spurs doggedly pounding on United’s back door, some ‘fans’ chose to leave early. Unless two impatient Victoria’s Secret models were coiled up at home on a waterbed, I fail to see a reason for an early departure. Even in this scenario the models should wait patiently. Sadly, these 'supporters' carelessly threw away an unforgettable moment. This was a notable Tottenham bookmark.
Almost-discarded skipper Michael Dawson was an absolute rock, leading a rookie back four by example, whereas the talismanic Mousa Dembele maintained his unbeaten record on the pitch in Spurs colours and dovetailed efficiently with the tenacious Scott Parker who adeptly filled a giant, Sandro-sized hole. Yet one man deserves a mention above all others. Our miniature speed demon.
Aaron Lennon is undoubtedly Spurs' player of the season so far. He fizzes, he feints, he creates. With the more touted Gareth Bale double and triple-marked by United’s defensively-inclined formation, the pint-sized playmaker was afforded extra time to make a difference and he did with aplomb.
Little surprise that Lennon possessed the calmness to find Dempsey in the injury time snowy maelstrom. When the American stroked home the equaliser, sheer mayhem broke out in the stands. Apparently, I was speaking in tongues. Every late, unmerited Manchester United goal, every fake penalty, every diabolically disallowed Spurs strike or bout of red-faced arm-pointing felt joyously erased by this moment. Carthatic? Just a bit.
Perhaps the greatest compliment was that United failed to take Spurs on and lined up defensively for the first time in living memory at White Hart Lane. Unbelievably, they 'parked the bus'. Their goal stemmed from a Kyle Walker miscalculation and a typically adroit Robin Van Persie header (an especially good day for his wife who knew Rob’s whereabouts between 4pm-6pm), but otherwise they rarely threatened despite Ferguson’s wine-addled ravings to the contrary.
Sadly, the United manager failed to emulate Martin Jol’s post-match graciousness in the Mendes fall-out claiming non-existent United ‘opportunities’ unrecorded on television or by the naked eye of spectators, a penalty for a Rooney topple (ignoring the fact Dempsey was clipped early by Evra in the second half but chose to shoot rather than keel over) and stating that United are the tragic victims of an evil linesman’s mysterious vendetta. It's a real tearjerker.
Oh shush. Four points in two games, you old melon. Can we play you every week?