On Wednesday 4th February 2004, I was casually skiving in the staff room of the Bristol sports store that I worked in. 17-years old and full of satisfaction as I listened to a jubilant White Hart Lane faithful blast out one final cheer from a fantastic 45 minutes of football; we led Manchester City 3-0 in an FA Cup 4th round tie. As the players left the pitch, a young man by the name of Joey Barton decided to piss the referee off one time too often and landed himself a red card.

“This is our year”. A terribly overused expression. But I remember thinking it to myself with perfect clarity at that time. “I am going to see my club lift that beautiful trophy this year”

Only when I closed the front door of my house after one of the more pleasant hour-long bus rides home did I find out the full, apocalyptic horror of what had happened in the second half of that game. In that solitary hour, my relationship with the FA Cup was defined.

My Tottenham Hotspur education revolved around FA Cup triumphs and memories. Even my father, a Bristol Rovers fan, would mesmerise me with tales of Gascoigne’s free kick and Ricky Villa slaloming through Man City’s defence.

He used to put an orange on the floor of the kitchen, dribble it around the room, dipping his shoulder left and right before expertly finishing it by placing said orange into the gap between the door and the dog’s bed, whilst reciting the commentary from that special day. What a fantastic run…

I must have watched the “Ricky Villa” final, both legs, about a hundred times. Those games kidnapped my imagination as a child and have refused to release it to this day. I have an original programme from the 61/62 double winning year, and a signed photograph of Dave Mackay with the trophy that sits proudly above my desk.

My Tottenham Hotspur education revolved around FA Cup triumphs and memories. Even my father, a Bristol Rovers fan, would mesmerise me with tales of Gascoigne’s free kick and Ricky Villa slaloming through Man City’s defence

The yearn I have felt to see one of MY Tottenham captains lift that pot is indescribable. The specialness of the competition was ingrained into me. I say was — it still is. But the shine has been clouded by my living (as an adult, anyway – I was only 5 when we triumphed in ’91) memories; painful, frustrating memories.

The Manchester City comeback that I referred to earlier was one of the worst. I turned on the television fully expecting to see pundits waxing lyrical over Christian Ziege’s free kick prowess, Ledley King’s curling effort, or perhaps even more goal scorers in the second half that I had missed. Instead, I was presented with scenes of Spurs fans crying in the Park Lane end — I thought a bomb had gone off! Utter despair. Unique despair that only a football team can give you.

Then there was the Portsmouth semi-final in 2010. I remember celebrating our name being pulled out of the draw to face debt-ridden Pompey like — well, like we had won the FA Cup! Bottom of the league, shrinking horizons and shrivelled budgets, a shell of the team that had won the competition a few years earlier.

“This is our year!”

Then Michael Dawson slipped and Frederic Piquionne pounced. PIQUIONNE! Did he ever do anything else in English football?

I knew. I knew at that moment. That damn cup has done it to me again. It hit me hard. I walked home through the countryside of my West Country village in tears. Genuine tears that were only partly fuelled by alcohol and the ungodly amount of Manchester United “fans” for a Gloucestershire pub, that revelled in my sorrow.

Even more recently, my life long trophy crush decided to aim a swift blow to my dreams once again.

After beating Sheffield United last season in the League Cup semi-final, a double helping of glory was on my mind as we entertained relegation fodder Leicester City at the lane.

2016 will be the year that that beautiful, mystical and occasionally cruel cup will be lifted aloft in the safest of safe hands of Hugo Lloris, our captain as, at long last, The Football Association Challenge Cup returns to its spiritual home of Tottenham Hotspur Football Club

Andros Townsend had given us a first half lead and — with seven minutes left — I triumphantly sauntered into my living room to grab a celebratory beer and to check that the wife hadn’t left me after I’d been watching football for two days. Only when I returned, I heard a BBC reporter gasping for breath as he screamed that not only had “plucky” Leicester equalised, but Jeffrey Schlupp (seriously?!) had hit a 93rd minute winner to commit Tottenham to the humiliating statistic of not making the fifth round of the competition for the third season in a row.

There’s that despair again.

However, this season, things are different. Things WILL be different. We — yet again — entertain Leicester City on third round weekend, but with a Spurs team that fill me with more joy, empathy and excitement than I can remember for a long, long time.

A core of talented home-grown players, a sprinkling of solidity at the back and, perhaps most importantly, that never-say-die attitude that is required to succeed in the greatest cup competition of all time.

We owe the FA Cup a Tottenham Hotspur triumph. A victory smothered in style, hard work and desire.

It’s been over 20 years. She has had to put up with all manner of horrible winners and characters. The Scum in red kidnapping her in back-to-back seasons; having to be held by the grotesque hands of Jack Wilshere, John Terry and Steven Gerrard over the last ten years.

2016 will be the year that that beautiful, mystical and occasionally cruel cup will be lifted aloft in the safest of safe hands of Hugo Lloris, our captain as, at long last, The Football Association Challenge Cup returns to its spiritual home of Tottenham Hotspur Football Club – why not place a smart bet as well? Get the best news and odds from online-betting.me.uk