The Tale of The Strange Licensing Laws of Haringey Council

Well, that was about as much fun as having the dog put down. In fact, it was probably how an animal feels at that time, strangely calm all of a sudden, without knowing that the end is nigh. There was something about last night's game, a strange acceptance by those that were there that this is where the FA Cup road ended, and with all the subtleness of a two stone lump hammer smacking you on the head. This apathy had obviously started on the team coach some twenty four hours earlier, when Matt Taylor was heard to say "FA Cup? Fuck it". No doubt.

So you can imagine my surprise when I returned home surprisingly early last night, having been made aware of the fourth goal by the large cheers reaching White Hart Lane train station, where I was boarding the last train before the crush started, to read that St Owen had said this

We are disappointed to lose any game, but I felt that the scoreline flattered Spurs.

We take it that he actually meant flummoxed by the score because from where I was sitting, high in the stand, underneath the police look out point, from where you can see movement a lot better than the sidelines, they must be wondering how the only got four and how Bolton were lucky to get nil. Apparently the players fought for the right to wear the Wanderers jersey, and in this we can only presume that he meant fought to wear a jersey in the reserves, as that is where those non regulars who started, or who came on, will be heading back to.

Elsewhere on the crapwebsite.co.uk, Riga is under the impression that he deserves a place in the team. Declining to mention why he actually did not score, i.e tame shots, bad placement, easy height for a limited goalkeeper etc., he says

I was pleased with my personal performance because I was getting into the right positions to create and score goals, and I felt I deserved at least one.

The fact that I have a myopic, albeit dead, grandmother who could have got one of those and that he was running at a Spurs defence who were probably still laughing at the "after you, no after you" substitution of Matty (or was it Ricky), and being three goals up thought that they would give Gomes something to do, as he was getting rained on for the whole game with nothing to do but catch pneumonia (or punch it, one or the other) appears to escape him.

The only, and this is clutching at straws now, bright spot, was the set piece taking of our Yank, who created the chance that Mustaphafivegoes spurned. And that is all.

The Times mentions that only 250 Bolton fans were there, and they were, but again managed to outsing a team from North London. "We've Only Come To See London" and "We're Shit And We Know We Are" ringing out, while all The Spuds could come up with was some people banging on the stand and singing "Yids" every five minutes or so. Classy. Oh, and "You're Not Singing Anymore". Once. And all this after arriving at the ground to be told that beer would not be served after fifteen minutes before kick off. Obviously, due to National Express rules meaning a train cannot leave Liverpool St. until you are all in like cattle, the 19:00 train meant I got in a 19:55 and their cups of tea are rank. And they, obviously, are going on my list.

Looking at the weekend, I feel it deserves me at least trying to get out of bed to write something before the 11:00 deadline I have set myself to get to my own stag. So, until then, hello cutie pie.