A VIEW FROM THE GALLOWGATE

I WATCHED a clip in the week of the Spurs manager letting his team know in no uncertain terms which direction he wanted his team to play, it was essentially a 30-second censor bleep. There was no action on him of course, because it seems managers can swear, as can coaching staff and players.

It is a different matter with supporters, who have as much, if not more, emotional investment than those in and around the pitch. We are restricted to “I say referee, you really are beyond the pale, you’re an absolute charlatan” or “excuse me Mr Manager, our players appear to be lacking the required desire and tactical acumen, please rectify the matter”.

Luckily, this doesn’t apply in your own home, and for the first 20 minutes or so against Burnley I was more aligned with the Spurs manager than the supporter in the ground. We simply have lost the idea of starting on the front foot away from home – we stroll into them like Bertie Wooster ambling into Drones for his morning bracer.

Certainly, there are places where you need to be more circumspect, but we’ve lost 10 away games and they weren’t all at City or Arsenal.

Fortunately, we rode the early Burnley storm, and because I’m feeling charitable, I’m happy to accept that the plan all along was to let them blow themselves out and then stroll in to pick up the points, which duly happened.

A few weeks ago I thought that the possibility of catching Spurs was beyond us, but as they stumble towards the end of the season it looks like it’s certainly doable. Of greater concern is a £billion juggernaut rolling up behind us, as Chelsea’s players finally decide to give a monkeys.

What this means is that the end of season run in will have some meaning, it was in danger of drifting into mid-table ho-hummery, and to give ourselves a shot at top five or six we’ll have to win all three remaining games. What fun! The injury room is gradually emptying which is a help, and frankly if we do hang in for at least sixth then huge credit is due all round.

Or to quote Bertie Wooster “Bring me my whangee, my yellowest shoes and the old green Homburg – I’m going to the park to do pastoral dances”.