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I am nine years old, and just up the A406 are my brother, sisters and Dad. They are at Wembley, watching the Milk Cup Final versus Liverpool...but I am 'too young' to get a ticket, and besides which, it was an expensive day out, my dad said, so you'd better stay at home with mum, but, never mind, your best mate Hed can come over and play, and you can do something much more fun that go out in this horrible cold, to stand on a terrace where you won't be able to see anything, anyway...which, some how, weirdly, translated into us going to a launderette on Fortess Road to wash duvets.

 

Fun day out, indeed.

 

Still, it was on the radio, and while my young mind's eye couldn't quite visual the pictures the commentator was painting, my mum, anxious for her flock on the terraces, was translating, and we were a goal up through Glen Hoddle and there were just three minutes to go.

 

Then disaster. Ian Rush equalises. The duvets are finished in the dryer as extra time beckons...and by the time we're back home, it's 3-1 to Liverpool. My siblings appear an hour later with mopey faces, crumpled rosettes and a folded programme fished out of a back pocket and tossed in my general direction as restorative cocoa is being warmed up on the stove, a programme which would never have been handed over if we'd only hung on...

 

Seeing the grim-yet-defiant look on my older sisters faces, who were all the world and more to this nine-year-old, broke me in two, and I vowed when I was older and playing in Lilywhite for Tottenham I'd get my revenge for them, I'd hit six past bloody Liverpool every time we met, and be the curse of all Scousers for the rest of their days.

 

It was a victory for the Reds that was repeated time and time again in my youth: Liverpool's domination of Division One was a simple fact of life when I was a kid, their scooping of the gaudy silver pot (which in my eyes was strangely shaped like a Liver Bird) each May was just the natural order of things.

 

It was just what Liverpool was all about, like The Beatles making nice pop music. You just didn't expect to beat them, and it meant when we finally did (Anfield, 1995, FA Cup Quarter Final, 2-1, Fowler answered by Sheringham and Klinsmann, a lovely day out) my mind went back to being nine and I thought of how true it was that revenge was a dish best served cold.

 

It shows how things have changed in the last couple of years that today, when I put my dad's weekly bet of Spurs to win 4-1 on (he lays it every home game, no matter who we are playing) it didn't feel a complete waste of a quid. If we can do Inter 3-1, then why not this pale imitation of the Mighty Reds, especially since Gerrard is at home with his injured hamstring up on the sofa?

 

Both sides opened brightly, with Liverpool keen to show the new Champions League pretenders that despite their critics, they were on the move again  and Spurs would have to work hard to get any joy. Harry's boys also laid out their stall early, with Lennon and Bale both cantering at their opposite numbers with real purpose, Crouch getting his elbows and knees about his markers and Modric always ready to raise the standard when brought into the action.

 

However, despite an open game, neither keeper had any save of real note to make in the opening half hour: Defoe went closest on 29 when he drove a shot goalwards with Reina out of position, which Jamie Carragher managed to get his body in the way of. On 39, Gomes had to push a drive round the post from Torres and then three minutes later, after Modric had been cynically hacked down as Spurs broke well, the home team found themselves a goal down. A lofted cross wasn't cleared, and Skrtel drove home. Five minutes previously the excellent Kaboul had limped off, with Bassong coming on in his place, and the hesitation in the defence between Gallas and Bassong (they have yet to play together) may have had something to do with the space Skrtel was allowed. As injury time was played out Torres should have made it two: another mix up saw the centre backs bisected by a cute through ball, but he over ran it and Gomes smothered the danger.

 

Harry had delivered his half time sermon and there was much more bite and purpose in the second 45: Meireles was required to get a head in the way of a goal bound Bale shot and then Crouch had a 50-50 penalty call turned down. But still the goal wasn't forthcoming, and it seemed like the childhood Scouse gremlin was alive and well when Defoe drove a penalty wide on 59 after a hand ball in the box (meaning we have missed more spot kicks this term than we've scored).

 

But while I was thinking of how this reminded me of the 1980s, and how I'd have to skip the 'Match Facts' pages in Shoot magazine the following week, Luka Modric set off on a 40 yard dash, left a contingent of opponents for dead, and forced Skrtel to turn the ball past his own keeper.

 

Things got tense as the minutes ticked down, and to make matters all the more depressing, Defoe thought he'd won it when he acrobatically turned the ball home on 90, though the linesman's raised flag was clearly correct.

 

Just as I began to think of two points dropped - a sign of how far we've come, in comparison to Liverpool's demise - Aaron Lennon latched on to a Peter Crouch flick, sped goalwards and finished with a super side footed effort. That's five times we've trailed in the league this term to come back and win it: exciting times indeed at White Hart Lane, and another nail in the coffin of a childhood memory that's haunted me for too long.  Revenge is sweet.

 

SPURS PLAYER RATINGS

 

Gomes, 6: Was unsighted for the goal.

 

Hutton, 7: Purposeful in the tackle, and hammered in one shot that bust the advert hoardings when it went narrowly wide.  

 

Bale, 7: Running from left to right, full of dash and vim and vigour.

 

Kaboul, 5: did all required but limped off on 35. Sub: Bassong, 8: One hell of a sprint and tackle on the stroke of half time to catch up Torres and stop then Reds going further ahead. Torres had 15 yards on him but he ate it up like Usiah Bolt. Proved it was no fluke a minute in the second half when he did Torres again. Played 30 games last term - looks like he has never been away.

 

Lennon, 7: Getting back to his best: always asking for the ball. Was the match winner when his speed took him past his markers - and he showed Zen like maturity to side foot home. 

 

van der Vaart, n/a: Hamstrung on 12. Defoe, 5: Didn't get enough shots off for a forward, and missed a penalty.

 

Palacios, 4: His sloppy passing broke up Spurs attacks as often as his combative tackling stopped Liverpool's: needs to be told that his job is to always, always, always find the closest person in white and never, never, never to attempt to move the ball any further than 10 yards.

 

Gallas, 7: Stood up to the threats thrown at him.

 

Modric, 8: Needed to be at his best with Palacios making life hard in the centre. Made the equaliser on 65 when he tore at Liverpool. I counted seven in red giving chase: sometimes the boy's unplayable. 

 

Crouch, 6: Juggled it gamefully when people pinged long balls at him, but he's hardly rapier like - more a fire poker than flashing steel. Still, helped force the winner.

 

Assou-Ekotto, 6: Had a good old tussle throughout against Maxi Rodriguez.

 

Subs

Cudicni

Pavlyuchenko

DeDefoe

Bassong

Kranjcar

Corluka

Sandro