Fozzy 
I don’t mind admitting that the final few weeks of the season were not good for my health.
It all started with a truly dreadful home display against Wigan. Losing that game somewhat closed the gap on the baying monsters lying beneath us, and I sustained a stiff neck from constantly looking over my shoulder.
A week later, I hoped that we might have secured three points at home to the Odious Chavs, and that would have saved the NHS a load of blood-pressure pills. However, on the day, the Odious Chavs turned up with a stiffs’ eleven (plus John Terry) and parked a couple of buses. The biggest cheer during a depressing 0-0 bore draw was the sight of Cashley entering the fray to an onslaught of abuse, and then promptly getting booked. I could hardly bear to watch when we conceded a corner in the final minute of time added on with the sight of Terry pushing and shoving in order to get a head on the ball as it came over. Fortunately, we held firm and the final whistle put paid to the Odious Chavs finishing above us. But I still managed to develop a nervous twitch.
Then came Stoke away. Of all the teams to play at this crucial time of the season it had to be Stoke Rugby Team, along with their Neanderthal followers, who I feel rather sorry for, because they have been starved of watching football. We managed to leave with a point, but the door was left open for the monsters to make hay. This amounted to more angst.
We now move on to our last home game of the season where everybody apart from me seemed highly optimistic that we would take three points off Norwich and this victory would guarantee us third place. We had not played well in the three previous games, only taking two points out of nine. The newspapers were full of pieces that third spot was ours for the taking. Then, on the day of the match, the latest Gooner mag thundered through my letter box. To my dismay, I saw no less that twelve references to us having done the hard work and third spot was ours. The editor set the tone in his first paragraph, and shame on The Spy who mentioned it three times in his piece, closely followed by Micky Cannon with a brace. Now, was this complacency setting in, or what? Then, walking to the Grove, I saw “Tottanic” T-shirts on sale in the stalls. Er, excuse me, there is a matter of securing three points first. During the match I went through every emotion possible, from complete depression at half-time, to complete ecstasy following Percy’s two goals, then back to complete depression again at the end. The Norwich equaliser was almost too much for me. The thing that saved me from jumping off Westminster Bridge was the look on Percy’s face as he celebrated the second of his two goals directly in front of me. This was the look of a man who wasn’t prepared to walk away.
Knowing that we had to win the final game of the season at West Brom was all a bit surreal. The day passed me by as I found myself dribbling behind the sofa, feeding off texts from well-wishers. Thanks to Marton Fulop, we found the net three times and Marton found himself being nominated in my Gooner Survey as our second-best player of the season. It was all down to Kieran Gibbs’ last ditch tackle to protect our third place and me not caring what happened in Munich a week later. Thank you, Kieran for keeping me away from that wooden box a bit longer.
