Something I did write though was that, whatever the score, this game was a celebration – a celebration of that memorable day a year ago when we cried tears of joy at Wembley. No matter what I felt about the season as a whole, the behaviour of Owen Coyle, the discontent; I wanted the final game to be untainted by anger and disappointment. I wanted to feel good things about my Burnley team and think warm thoughts of gratitude. I had a lump in my throat when they came out, and when they left the field. They gave us a season in the sun and a taste of the best league in the world. This would not be the time to criticise. That might come later when we pick over the bones of the season.

In truth I expected this to be another routine defeat. I expected to see the usual bad luck that has blighted so many games. I expected the Spurs superstars to comfortably put the Burnley underdogs in their place. ‘Arry was in town, many peoples’ choice for manager of the season and the players on his subs bench would have walked straight into most first teams.

This was no warm May Day with sunshine streaming down. This was a dull, chill afternoon but on a pitch that was once again lush and green, perfect for football on the ground. It was another near full house which was pleasing. You might have thought a couple of thousand would stay away now that the season was as good as over. The mood was good. It was clear that this would be a day of mellow feelings and appreciation not abuse. Little Burnley had endured some lowspots but no humiliations save for Man City and that was just a one-off.

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