Slipperduke
The Camden Cad
Grown men bounce into each other like rubber balls on the street outside, screaming incoherently at each other in beery ecstasty. At the front door, a woman tries desperately to light a cigarette in shaking hands, eventually giving up and asking the bouncer to help, tears of joy in her eyes. All around us, echoing off the houses, reverberating into the night, comes the chorus that they had waited so long to sing.
“Twooooo one! We beat the scum, two one!”
Welcome to Valentino’s, a cheap and nasty nightclub on the doorstep of White Hart Lane with just one redeeming feature; proximity. Inside it’s a mass of sweaty flesh and lager, of hugs and sloppy kisses and screams of unrestrained delight. Like survivors of a battle, these scarred veterans of disappointment stagger across the sticky carpet, hugging their brothers-in-arms close, exchanging hysterical stories from the front.
On the dance floor, underneath the laser-lights, a wheelchair-bound Tottenham fan spins in perfect circles, grinning uncontrollably. Behind him, a chubby blonde girl bounces up and down until one of her breasts pops out. Cackling with glee, she quickly tucks it back in, but no-one notices. No-one cares. The only topic of conversation is that they beat the scum. Two one.
Crashing over the top of us in waves is the soundtrack to any self-respecting night of Tottenham celebration, the works of Cockney pub-rock duo Chas‘n’Dave. It’s an unfortunate irony that all of Chas’n’Dave’s Tottenham songs seem to be about the FA Cup, a competition that Spurs exited at the weekend, but again, no-one cares. They have, after all, just beaten the scum. Two one.
As the exuberance settles and the post-mortem begins, you’d be hard pushed to find two Tottenham fans who could agree on a man of the match. ‘Ledley King,’ says one observer proudly. ‘Gomes’ says another. Luka Modric, Gareth Bale, Michael Dawson. It is, everyone agrees, a night of heroes. It is also, they tell me, the night that they beat the scum. Two one.
A place in the Champions League still beckons, the news that Aston Villa dropped points circulates quickly, but it’s a distraction to the main event. Predictions and guesswork can wait until the morning. Even the visit of Chelsea this weekend is mentioned only in hushed tones. Tottenham fans didn’t care about Chelsea. As they reminded me when I left, as they reminded the night sky at the top of their voices when they stumbled home, they had just beaten the scum. Two one.
“Twooooo one! We beat the scum, two one!”
Welcome to Valentino’s, a cheap and nasty nightclub on the doorstep of White Hart Lane with just one redeeming feature; proximity. Inside it’s a mass of sweaty flesh and lager, of hugs and sloppy kisses and screams of unrestrained delight. Like survivors of a battle, these scarred veterans of disappointment stagger across the sticky carpet, hugging their brothers-in-arms close, exchanging hysterical stories from the front.
On the dance floor, underneath the laser-lights, a wheelchair-bound Tottenham fan spins in perfect circles, grinning uncontrollably. Behind him, a chubby blonde girl bounces up and down until one of her breasts pops out. Cackling with glee, she quickly tucks it back in, but no-one notices. No-one cares. The only topic of conversation is that they beat the scum. Two one.
Crashing over the top of us in waves is the soundtrack to any self-respecting night of Tottenham celebration, the works of Cockney pub-rock duo Chas‘n’Dave. It’s an unfortunate irony that all of Chas’n’Dave’s Tottenham songs seem to be about the FA Cup, a competition that Spurs exited at the weekend, but again, no-one cares. They have, after all, just beaten the scum. Two one.
As the exuberance settles and the post-mortem begins, you’d be hard pushed to find two Tottenham fans who could agree on a man of the match. ‘Ledley King,’ says one observer proudly. ‘Gomes’ says another. Luka Modric, Gareth Bale, Michael Dawson. It is, everyone agrees, a night of heroes. It is also, they tell me, the night that they beat the scum. Two one.
A place in the Champions League still beckons, the news that Aston Villa dropped points circulates quickly, but it’s a distraction to the main event. Predictions and guesswork can wait until the morning. Even the visit of Chelsea this weekend is mentioned only in hushed tones. Tottenham fans didn’t care about Chelsea. As they reminded me when I left, as they reminded the night sky at the top of their voices when they stumbled home, they had just beaten the scum. Two one.
