THE most curious moment of the mess that was the north London derby was when Tottenham’s MP David Lammy, partly a product of the Harvard Law School, came down to our level and began tweeting his uncontainable excitement.
His creaming joy reached a peak with this message: “Who said the revolution would not be televised. Spurs sent them packing. Man for man outplayed them #COYS#THFC.“
I’m happy to be of service here. It was said by Gil Scott-Heron in his song The Revolution Will Not Be Televised, which became an anthem of sorts to protest groups in America as they fought racial prejudice and bigotry 40 or so years ago.
This poet of a musician obviously lacked the foresight to think that – never mind whether the cause of the discriminated would ever make television news bulletins or not – Tottenham would one day win a north London derby.
Scott-Heron died last year, and so would never know his much repeated prediction would turn out to be so wrong, as Mr Lammy confirmed on Sunday. A shame. Poor Gil. The lad meant well.
Lammy was himself wrong on one point, though. Scott-Heron, from the soul heaven in the sky, can look down and laugh at the MP’s own foolish comment.
Lammy claimed Spurs had “outplayed” Arsenal, yet the revolution he said was being televised showed Spurs fans unable to watch from the stands, nerves shredded, nails chomped off.
It showed a Spurs centre-back being named man-of-the-match, hardly an indicator of attacking dominance.
And it showed a team unable to match the 5-2 thumping they received at Ashburton Grove.
Richard osley

HOW was your Monday morning, Spurs fans? Did you throw off your Chirpy eiderdown, glide across the bathroom lino in your Gareth Bale slippers, cradle your cockerel-and-ball Spurs mug in the palms of your hands and thank your lucky stars that the club you support is Tottenham? I did.
Can’t imagine many Gooners felt quite as lively when they peeled off their saggy Gunnersaurus onesies, scratched the fading club crest tattooed on their backsides and shuffled into work in their Wenger slug coats.
But that’s derbies for ya. One week you’re smugly setting the clocks in the office at five-to-two, the next you’re slinking in through the back door hoping no one even notices you’ve arrived. Arsene Wenger and sidekick Steve Bould certainly looked like they wished they’d stayed at home on Sunday. Come on, chaps, you won’t win anything staring sullenly into space like a middle-aged couple whose youngest child has just left for university.
Nope, you need a bit of go. A bit of zest. A bit of, erm, Steffen Freund.
That’s right, take a look at Spurs’ technical area and in every match you’ll see mullet man Freundie leaping around like he’s just won Euro 96, Champions League 97 and, ahem, the League Cup 99 all over again.
What he’s actually doing is egging on the team, motivating the subs and revving up the fans. He might look a bit daft, but come squeaky bum time against that spiritless lot at the Emirates, and AVB’s No 2 may well be worth his weight in gold.
CATHERINE ETOE