It's nice to feel euphoric on a Saturday night for the first time this season. And it's the culmination of a very decent week. I followed Tuesday evening's fizzy-pop cup win at Sunderland via the rolling news updates at the bottom of the TV screen as I watched the second half of the Spurs-Arsenal game, resisting the temptation to turn to Sky Sports News on the ludicrous grounds that if I did, West Ham would stop winning. But hey, it worked.
And in the perverse way of the perennial pessimist, did I rejoice that two (count 'em) non-scoring forwards had scored? Of course not, I simply assumed that in some way we would now inevitably lose to Spurs.
So come today, my optimism meter was on empty. After all, we haven't beaten Spurs home or away for years, and if there's one team I'd like to beat more than any others, it's them. When we do paste them, they blame the pasta (Lasagna, geddit?) And 'Appy 'Arry has never brought a team to Upton Park and lost since he did one. And, again, if there's a manager I'd love to beat, it's the one that bought Big Titi Camara with (some of) the proceeds of the sale of Rio to Nasty Leeds. A well-greased sale, I'm sure.
But in the event, we won.
We played some football and Rob Green made one stupendous save. Scotty Parker showed why Spurs were desperate to buy him and Kieron Dyer went off injured before the first half was completed. My daughter Jessica attended her first game of the season and now maintains she is the essential ingredient.
The natural order is restored and all is right with the world at least until next Saturday.
And we've drawn Stoke in the fizzy-pop cup so I can reminisce about Bobby Moore in goal and Geoff Hurst missing a penalty so that Stoke went tio the final (and in the close season, Geoff went to Stoke).
Back to the future it is.
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