In the car, on the way there, they all told me how well the lads had been doing, what a transformation, now playing as a team, all relaxed, all confident, surely we're going to win something. No, not New Tories, under Old Michael Howard. New Spurs, under Uncle Dave Pleat. Spurs were about to play Boro, my first game in the flesh since the Lake District, and they got me so excited, telling me what I'd missed. Once Hoddle got the chop, a wondrous change had taken place. So they said.
How touching the faith of the average football fan. How their little hearts soar, up to the heavens, off with the fairies, at the merest hint of improvement, such as a small string of games without defeat, or one win on the trot. Sometimes, so I have observed, euphoria can sweep over the most cynical after just ten minutes of their team not giving the ball away.
Inside White Hart Lane, the atmosphere did seem better, more cheerful. Even the grass looked greener, but then English pitches do. They are now rubbish in Italy. Thank God we are better at something. And our refs don't wear those stupid yellow strips.
The last days of Hoddle had been so bitter, so depressing, as we slowly turned against someone once adored. At the beginning of this season, I said to myself: that's it, I'm not renewing my season ticket again, unless they end up higher in the league, I'm so pissed off, year after year, mind-numbing mediocrity. Which was a disgraceful, disloyal thought - how could I have even breathed it to myself? Especially now, all going so well, with a new broom, new heroes to cheer, new chants to learn.
Poss-teega, oh oh oh ohhh
Poss-teega, oh oh oh ohhh
He comes from Portugal
He hates the Arse-en-al
A pinch from Arsenal's Vieira chant but, even so, it was clearly amusing the Paxton Road.
When the ball hits the net
Like a fockin rock-et
I think that was stolen from Brighton and Hove. There was also a topical song about Rio Ferdinand to the tune of "The Banana Boat Song". "Missed my drug test and I wanna go home . . ."
I also heard some gossip from a lawyer beside me about the real reason why Rio forgot to take a medical test - and a reference to his sex life which I can't possibly repeat and is totally wrong.
Then came the game itself. Dear God, it was awful. A dreary, goalless draw. In the car going home, there was silence, except for mutterings of sorry, sorry, we was wrong.
Last Saturday, at home to Bolton, Spurs were even worse. Bolton could have had five, as they hit the bar four times. Jay Jay Okocha was brilliant. The fans around me in the west stand did at least give him a clap, showing how decent we are, deep down. There's something wrong with Robbie Keane. Last season, he was the only Spurs player I looked forward to seeing, hoping for a bit of inspiration and magic, which he did provide. Postiga is a girl's pinny. Zamora is at least trying. Doherty - I have to close my eyes when he's on the ball. I don't think he would make Carlisle's starting line-up.
The only fun bit so far has been half-time in the Boro game. Spurs came out first, forced to wait for Boro to reappear. Because of the delay, the taped music compilation of Spurs songs, which we all know and love, beginning with "McNamara's Band",was going on longer than they had expected, moving on seamlessly into the first bars and the first five words of "Glen Hoddle's blue and white . . .".
The silence was eerie when it was savagely and suddenly cut short, right in the middle of a note. Someone had clearly forgotten instructions from the White Hart Lane politburo that history has been rewritten. Hoddle the manager had never existed, things have now changed.
Oh, if only that were true . . .