The two teenage girls nattering in Polish on the bus yesterday morning can’t possibly have known why I was eyeing them so suspiciously. They continued their animated conversation, but both were acutely aware that just across the aisle from them, a strange man was glaring at them as if they were incarnations of the devil himself.
It was a good job I didn’t have to explain myself. The name 'Mark de Vries’ probably would have meant very little to them. I would have had to take them back to January 2006 and a miserable third-round FA Cup tie at the Walkers Stadium. That would have been unfortunate for everybody concerned.
Tottenham were, as I recall, 2-0 up against Leicester. Satisfied that progress to the fourth round had been wrapped up, I popped down to the shops to pick up two KitKat Chunky bars. When I returned to the television, Leicester were somehow level, and the last half-hour was played out in the most gut-wrenching yet deliciously milk-chocolatey tension imaginable.
