The entire day was...momentous. It was my last visit to the old girl, White Hart Lane. Up until the morning of the game I was supremely confident about this match-up. Arsenal's form had picked up but it was plucky rather than a rebirth of tactical and player power fusion. Our form has been sensational in comparison, especially at fortress N17. Yet there I was in the pub, quad rum and coke, worried. It's how we're built, for the most part. Even with our progressional success as a team there's always doubt that lingers. It's not in our nature to expect nice things. A defensive mechanism kicks in to protect us from losing our balance in amongst the hedonistic heights and free-falling into the crushing lows. Add to it the emotional attachment I have to the place and the fact that this would be a final goodbye, I was a mess. More rum helped. Only the football could save me.

The walk up to the turnstiles was colourful. Red flares going off. Sirens. Bottles launched into the Arsenal contingent being marshalled by police up the high road. One of their dogs had taken a bite out of a supporters leg. Others were being threatened with arrest. Some dragged away. It was fantastic. A proper old skool taste in the air. I don't condone violence but you have to be wet behind the ears if you think it's going to be a yellow brick road half an hour before kick off. You could slice the hate out of the air and feast on it for weeks. Their fans hate running the gauntlet when they visit. And so they should. We're hardly going to roll out the red carpet for them. Our territory, you're going to be made to feel unwelcome. I don't expect anything less. It's why Upton Park was wonderfully intense before they sanitised their soul and opted for popcorn.

Inside, I was tucked away in the lower corner of the West Stand near the Paxton. The joke not lost on me that this being my last visit, I'm sat with the bourgeoisie. I'm not complaining. I'd be more than happy inside the Chirpy outfit if it meant watching the game live. Then the nerves, they disappeared, when the ref blew the whistle. I was at church and the sermon I was about to witness would be powerful.

The first half was a graft. Arsene Wenger's side resembled a team in terms of organisation and didn't appear fearful. The pace was frantic. There was a thunderous approach for every loose ball. Dele Alli and Christian Eriksen both missed sitters. Dele not connecting with his head and Eriksen striking the bar in what was a slightly more tricky to control chance. Both players should have scored. 0-0 at the break looks like an evenly matched contest but Spurs looked the better going forward and didn't appear flustered at the back. We weren't really breaking sweat. Spurs digging in is, let's face it, routine these-days. It was hard to tell if they (Arsenal) were playing out of their skin to contain us. They had one effort (Aaron Ramsey) that Hugo Lloris had to push wide of the goal. Spurs were having to be patient. One point would do but three would really ram it down their throats. Something had to give in during the second forty-five.

Cue the second half and the most significant two minutes of action since losing my virginity. Tottenham blew Arsenal away. We shut them down and placed them back into a dark box of despondency full of cruel insecurities. Dele scored the first, never looking to surrender time and space by invading it. Surrounded by red shirts, he got there before any of them reacted after some neat footwork and a saved shot from Eriksen. Then Harry Kane, from the pen spot. Drawing in the challenge for the foul and then expertly finding the inside netting to leave Petr Cech for dead. Their keeper the only man to stand between us scoring more with saves from the immense Wanyama, Vertonghen and Alderweireld. Two up and Spurs purred into second gear, composed and controlled whilst Arsenal, with no fluidity or recognisable style, chased shadows. Alexis Sanchez also got away with a handball and the visitors managed to survive a battering.

This was the most one sided NLD for years. Tottenham tactically imperious. Arsenal lifeless. Mauricio Pochettino, unbeaten in six against the enemy. A man with a plan that has given us identity and purpose whilst his counterpart hangs onto the memory of one he lost a long time ago. Whilst they rely on their key players to perform, we're fuelled by the synergy of the eleven, playing and protecting each other all over the pitch. It's a no contest when comparing both teams pound for pound.

The nervous energy around the Lane turned into joyous celebrations. This - the conclusion -was the part of every season we haven't quite got our hands on. Our mindset, having suffered the brutal learning curve of last seasons unwanted dramatics, was perfection. Spurs, big bold and brave. Mature and magnificent. A team worthy of a title win that we'll miss by a handful of points again. A team finally gaining the non-trophy plaudit of being the dons of North London. It means little yet means everything. As I've already alluded to, this isn't about them. It's about us finally getting rid of the monkey off our back. Finally smashing through the last obstacle in our way that has so often held us back. That block in our heads has been surgically removed and used to brick Arsenal's cannon in half.

When the final whistle went, bedlam. We were uncharacteristically prepared for it. No last day of the season nail biting for us. Not this time. The players more than content that we're mathematically still in contention for an unlikely league upset. Also, no doubt, happy for us that we were ecstatic with the result and performance. As for the faithful, the release was a reality. All those years of bragging baggage weighing us down...gone. You could almost accept finishing in a lowly position if you're distinctly average. You never wish for it. You support regardless and because of it and you hope your team gets its sh*t together and pushes on upwards. It's a struggle and a test. What has hurt in recent years is being as good if not better and yet still navigating through stormy weather only to hit rocks and sink with the port in view. Not this time. Allow it. RIP the monkey.

It isn't just a league brag we have over them. It's everything. They are lost, their fanbase fragmented. We've had our day and it's testament to the club that this will be nothing more than a footnote. We'll still drink in its honour for many days to come. They gave it to us time and time again, it's shameful they don't have the resolve to take it back but that won't diminish the enjoyment and efforts on our part to milk it. After all, you have to love to hate your enemy otherwise it's not really hate you feel.

It will be scandalous if this side does not win the title soon. Next season we're at Wembley. That will cause concern, especially with our home record being as good as it is currently. It's just another obstacle that needs smashing. My trust in Poch is relentless. I'm giving him what he's given me. Belief. He talks about us being a collective.

'Because we are Tottenham'

Swoon.

These are positively seductive words of unadulterated substance.

I can see how close we are. The players must sense it too. Keep it together Spurs. We're almost there.

Onwards you beautiful sexy beast.

And mind the f**king gap.