Some of you, I more than suspect, had your grubby, faithless little fingers hovering over the panic button after the Palace game. Even more of you will have lost a sizeable chunk of belief when, after seven minutes and some carelessly rank defending from our erstwhile indefatigable Club Captain, Spurs found themselves 0-2 to Burnley’s second string. But we didn’t ‘do a Spurs’, did we? Although, luckily, Burnley did.

The inspiration for the magnificent comeback came from some unlikely sources. Whisper it… Capoue was alright; early on in the game he nutmegged someone with the swagger of a player who hasn’t been there just to casually dish out the Lucozade to the first team players for most of the season, and he went on to score a magnificent long-range effort which pulled us level and swung the momentum back in our favour. This was after the much-maligned Paulinho superbly controlled a headed flick on from Soldado and poked home the goal that sparked the comeback – this was the Spaniard’s first of two very decent assists. The second one was a perfectly timed pass across the face of goal for Danny Rose to score a goal similar to his one against Chelsea, sending the Park Lane into demented raptures once again. The feeling that we were never going to lose this one had been in our collective conscience all along, it was just doing an excellent job of hiding itself like a shy ninja wearing white in a snow storm.

There were a couple of negatives on what was a generally encouraging, though not sparkling, performance from a team that was missing a lot of first team talent. It was sad to hear Kaboul get a bit of grief from the Spurs fans – but it wasn’t the usual random angry bilge that was directed at him; after Vertonghen and Kaboul had a spat over who was at fault for the first goal, the strength and volume of support from the home fans was right behind Super Jan. Despite the fact that in the song that demonstrated this, Vertonghen’s wife dies. But don’t worry, it’s for all the right reasons.

Also, and I’m sorry to bring out the familiar refrain, I love Soldado and I can’t let go of that… but he had a pretty mixed night. The pass for Rose to score and the flicked header for Paulinho’s goal will sadly be largely forgotten by most fans who were there because he missed a chance to slot the ball into a gaping, near-already-bulging-in-anticpation, wide open, moistened net. It was worse than the one Acimovic missed against Fulham a few years back. Don’t watch either of them again, your eyes will bleed as you scratch them out, screaming that there can be no God if things like this are allowed to happen to honest, hard-working players (and us). The Spaniard moped around the centre circle for the last twenty minutes like a lad who had managed to finally go out with the hottest girl in his year at school, only to fail to get beyond touching her breasts. Outside her top. After eighteen months of fumbling in the dark. His face was a picture of utter and hopeless despair. Still, he’s magic in the build up, bless him.

On a very positive note, being in amongst ‘1882’ in Block 35 was a welcome antidote to some of the negativity that sometimes rears its ugly, petty little head among followers of any club. At the home league game against Burnley in December, a fan in front of me declared ‘Yeah, but we’re still shit aren’t we?’, despite having just seen Spurs win thanks to a brilliant goal by Erik Lamela (not the Rabona goal, the other one). Unfortunately, it’s fans like him that make ‘1882’ necessary, or at least desirable, to those of us want to have a good time and create an atmosphere that embraces the fun aspect of supporting our football club. Being critical doesn’t mean you don’t love the club, but being a needlessly negative tool isn’t welcome either. Going to football matches is supposed to be fun, kids! Too many gloomy faces at the Lane and we’ll end up like the Monks up the road at the Woolwich Cemetery. We’re better than that.