The cruel tick of the clock

Approximately 20:45 on Tuesday night I was in heaven.

The half time whistle had been blown at White Hart Lane where Burnley had outplayed Spurs for the duration of the first period with their slick, open, attractive footballing display.

A brilliant piece of play by Chris Eagles had left the Tottenham defence motionless as he weaved into the box to square the ball for Martin Paterson to make it one nil to the Clarets.

There were scenes of joy and jubilation as the style and level of performance that’d already seen off Fulham, Chelsea and Arsenal looked to be working again. Jermain Defoe must have been pulling that ridiculous hat down over his face in disgust.

Hugs, handshakes and text messages to absent friends were flying around while contact with my Spurs mate had gone remarkably quiet. He must have been feeling a bit of a tit for all his pre match talk of a Claret and Blue annihilation.

The mood was perhaps epitomised by the big screen, which cruelly replayed the Burnley goal at several different angles, with each play receiving an ever louder cheer from the away fans.

The substantial number of “it’s never over until it’s over” clichés will testify that football isn’t a game to be resting on your laurels. Deep down we all know this, however on the odd occasion we allow ourselves to get carried away.

Burnley were leading in the semi finals of the League Cup for Christ’s sake.

But as we cheered and jeered, Harry Redknapp was busy giving a team talk of orgasmic proportions.

Whether he morphed into Coach D’Amato in “Any Given Sunday” or William Wallace at the Battle of Falkirk it certainly worked.

Perhaps ‘Arry had hooked up the action on the big screen through to the dressing room and it was him that was rewinding the video that was sending the fans in the stands as giddy as a teenager drinking their first bottle of blue WKD.

With the restart our joyful marriage to the first half was about to be met with the revelation of a cold, callous mistress.

A four goal humping in the second period left us with a deficit not even Gordon Ramsey would be able to rebuild.

The details of the way we imploded are now irrelevant. Of course, there is a chance of a second leg come back at the Turf.

Believe me, I’ve already dreamt of an early goal multiplying into two or maybe three while the North Londoner’s are still thinking about the shade of their Cup Final suits.

But realistically, the best we can hope for to beat Spurs on the night. Wembley may be a step too far, but Owen Coyle needs to pull up his men’s shorts to cover their red spanked bottoms and go down in a blaze of glory a week on Tuesday.

If we can end what has been a fantastic cup run on a high then I’m sure they’ll be a ground full of even more proud Clarets than there already are.