The eagle owl above was on duty in the market at Alnwick the other day and, of course, the moment I decided to photograph him, he swivelled his head as if to say, “I won’t be making your day, punk.” In the end, he did turn back and allowed me to snap those amazing eyes. Who wouldn’t confess anything and everything under that unwavering gaze?
I fear this is the sort of look Ange Postecoglou, currently the manager of Tottenham Hotspur, the not-so-mighty Spurs, will be aiming at the powers-that-be at the club as he demands a level of professionalism and commitment far beyond what he sees at the moment.
It was our last home game of the season on Tuesday night, against Manchester City, the team that has been setting the standard for the last few years and it wasn’t the players’ effort and determination that was in question, it was the attitude of the fans. If we won, or drew, it was likely that Arsenal, our deadly north London rivals, would win the title and there were lots of Spurs supporters who would rather lose than have that happen.
That was anathema to Ange, who couldn’t get his head round it before the game, remonstrated with at least one fan during the game and couldn’t hide his disgust after the game. City won 2-nil, though we had our chances, so they are now odds-on to win their fourth title in a row and Arsenal will miss out on their first title in 20 years. Spurs last won the league at the beginning of the 1960s, when everything was still in black and white.
I wasn’t there, being in Portstewart and not having reached double figures and on Tuesday I was in Northumberland, not far from the black and white of Newcastle and within touching distance of the red and white of Dad’s beloved Sunderland. Still, I screeched at the iPad as we failed to score, wanting us to win or draw more than I wanted to thwart Arsenal. Does that make me less of a fan or more of one?
A friend who was there said there was a strange atmosphere for much of the game and he wasn’t happy: “Many so-called Spurs fans were a disgrace. Support you own team 100 per cent always. Whatever else occurs takes care of itself.”
I couldn’t agree more. If it’s Arsenal who end up winning and it sticks in our craw, so be it. It’s up to us to do what they’ve done and get better. Stop being so puerile – or Spuerile, no wonder we’re accused of being Spursy, flimsy. Now it looks as though we need a point away at Sheffield United just to cling on to fifth, to hold off Chelsea, whereby hangs another tale!!!
Apologies, sort of, to all the non football tragics who are baffled beyond boredom.
I delayed my trip to Northumberland by a day so I could go to Spurs versus Burnley, who were all but relegated and needed to win. They scored first – most of our opponents do – but we scored two cracking goals and down they went. Their supporters were fab and we really don’t know we’re born, moaning about not being in the Champions’ League when we really haven’t put in the work. Delusions of grandeur instead of hard graft. As a lazy git I should know.
Amble is a long way from N17 and it’s bliss. The sea air knocks you out in the most delightful way, gently, without any bruising and ambling is the way to go. Harbours, beaches, caffs, pubs, crab pate, lobster if you wish, mussels, pale ale, bitter, tea cakes, market stalls and marble halls (well, a mind-blowing fireplace) at Cragside, a National Trust property not so far away.
The beaches at Warkworth and Alnmouth would pass muster on any coast and Alnwick has everything you could want, including the world-famous, dangerously addictive Barter Books, housed in the old Alnwick railway station. There you can eat, drink, chat, pat new dogs and read to your heart’s content. It is irresistible.
Dogs are welcome almost everywhere and the sainted Alice is in her element, only a little miffed if not completely shocked whenever somebody passes her by without a second glance instead of stopping to pat and chat or feed her a bit of sausage. The sea and sand send her a bit loopy and she loves chasing her ball into the waves or digging holes for it before heading home to crash out. She doesn’t bark but after a day on the beach, boy, does she snore!
“Are you training it up to Northumberland or taking the car?” Mo asked, momentarily forgetting who she was talking to (or should that be to whom she was talking…) Anyway, the minimalist who was once pulled aside by security at Birmingham airport because the check-in woman was suspicious of a bag weighing a mere 12.5 kilos on its way to Oz for an eight-week trip is long gone. If you can’t decide on what shoes to take, you have to take the car…
There’s no Mo this week but fear not, she’ll be back.