11.00am GMT. I am on plane. I am scared. This has nothing to do with the flight. The bumps and jumps of the turbulence are no worry for me and it’s got nothing to do with the airline food. My knuckles are white and my brow is furrowed. Why? Well, if you’re reading this you should already know why and I’ll bet you’re scared too.
‘Wake up, wake up, it’s 10 o’clock and you’ve got to be at Spurs by 12.’
These must be the only words that could ever rouse me from two hours unconscious sleep.
I groaned. Well, I tried but all that came out was air across my red roar throat. I peeled open my mouth and licked away the gak that had glued it shut with what little moisture I had.
Alas, no trip to Goodison for me. Instead it was my sofa, tea and a DAB digital radio with coverage courtesy of BBC London Live. I didn’t have to be at the game to feel the tension. My imagination was far, far worse.
We’d been jumping into each others arms and high fiving like nobodies business all year but Saturday was the first time I exchanged more than, ‘alright mate’ and, ’see you next week ‘ to two of the guys who sit in front of me. There’s normally a bunch of four of them but today it was just the one who looks like Penfold from Danger Mouse, who I call ‘Penfold’ and the one who looks like ‘my old mate George’ from my doped up university days.
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