And the Spurs go marching on!

And the Spurs go marching on!

Do you on occasions watch Tottenham and wonder… what the fuck is going on? You get a game and think, we’ve arrived… then the next game… we think we might have arrived, but where? Every game is different, every game hurts the brain that little more. We face City, second in the league, we wince, but we win. We meet those struggling at the bottom – easy-peasy we thing and end the day in tears. What just happened we cry? This game, yes, the Southampton replay, should have been just a formality, especially a team of Spurs status. But if anything, we know how to take the maze route.

What do you think Mourinho is thinking? Certainly not, “I’ve got a lovely bunch of coconuts,” that is for sure.

The FA Cup represents our best chance this season of winning our first trophy since 1991 (I am talking serious trophies here, not that Micky Mouse competition, which we won in 1971, 1973, 1999 &  2008). Currently, we sit fifth in the Premier League, we went out of Carabao cup, thanks to Pochettino’s “I don’t give a shit about little man's Cups’” attitude. Allowing little Colchester to laugh all the way home. Then there is the Champions League and Leipzig… we’ll leave that to one side for a week or two.

To recap; we had to come from behind in the third round to force a replay against Middlesbrough before going through and then had to dig deep again here, with two goals in the final 12 minutes to see off a noble Southampton side, and that as well, was after a replay.

Unlike Liverpool, who beat Shrewsbury 1-0 with their juveniles side in a fourth-round reply on Tuesday, we went one better and put out a full adult side. Yes, those professionals that are on mega-money to do what professionals do… win! We didn’t worry about winter breaks, sunning ourselves in hot climates… no, we pump ourselves up and nearly fluffed our lines (but that is Spurs for you!).

But let us be fair (no excuses here), Mourinho was without the injured Giovani lo Celso and Erik Lamela, plus the ineligible Steven Bergwijn, while Alli was only on the bench after he picked up a knock during last Sunday's 2-0 league win over Manchester City. As I said, no excuses here. We had the squad that laughs in the face of injuries.

Even though we had 24 hours less to prepare than Southampton (we fly in the face of adversity), we went ahead when Ndombele's effort, which appeared to be going wide, took a big deflection off Stephens to wrong-foot Angus Gunn. Did I mention that we didn’t need assistance from outside sources, either… oh, the deflection… does that count?

Twenty-two minutes later Mourinho was having kittens when  Lloris could only deflect the ball into Long's path for him to equalise from eight yards out. But if anything, Lloris is resilient. He made amends in the second half with an excellent reflex stop to turn Jannik Vestergaard's close-range header over the bar as we pushed for that elusive winner. Nevertheless, and to our horror, the Saints looked as if they had it when Ings scored following an excellent run from Nathan Redmond. But that lead only lasted six minutes before Moura made it 2-2. That same Moura who was slipping and sliding all over the place.

Three minutes to go when Alli's excellent pass released Son, only for him to be brought down by that bang-bang, Gunn man (appropriately named). The fans, we, the dugout, were all on the edge of our seats; first, they checked VAR to see if Southampton could wriggle out of penalty-show time, then the nervous wait while Son eyed the ball, thought for a second, jiggled and shot… GOAL! The shit hit the fan (Southampton’s !), wild scenes everywhere, naked gentleman and Ladies running on the pitch to celebrate (ok, that was my overactive mind in its creative form… sorry, it didn’t really happen). Finally, the clock struck 90 minutes, no mouse run down, but five long minutes were added on. Fans grasped each other, Old laced gentlefolk threw their prejudices to one side and snogged the nearest man to them… ladies (those of the opposite sex) did the same, under the rainbow of multicolours. Finally, the whistle went and in shock horror, strangers untangled from each other and looked away in embarrassment. It was only a slow-motion dream they cried… Nonetheless, we managed to trudge through that extra five minutes to the comforts of one's Outer Limits… or is that Inner Limits?

So, there you have it… we won, we got the spoils, we live to fight another day. Other battles will be played in the future, in the meantime, Mourinho can take his players on a winter’s break, which is probably euphemistically called training until you bastards get it right on the pitch… or words to that effect. "Audere est Facere", which means in simple English "To Dare is To Do" And Dare we shall Do… until next time… enjoy.