I’ll be Tottenham’s biggest fan against Man City, vows Piers Morgan

"I AM going to be the biggest fan of Tottenham ever on Tuesday," said Arsenal striker Kai Havertz after the Gunners victory over Manchester United. "We all are going to be."

Of course, by "all", he means all Arsenal fans - and he’s right.

If our biggest rivals down the road in north London can nick a result, any result, off Manchester City then they may help us win the Premier League for the first time in 20 years.

And if that means me putting on the dreaded white shirt and chanting "Ossie’s Dream" then so be it.

Watch Piers' explosive interviews on his Uncensored YouTube channel here

But Havertz got me thinking…. what’s it going to be like to actually BE a Spurs fan for the day?

Here’s how I see it going:

3am: Wake up petrified, screaming "NOOOOOOO!!", and shouting for my mother, who comes rushing in saying "Oh no, not another nightmare, son?!

"Is it about that terrible man Thierry Henry’s solo goal in 2002 again?"

6am: Breakfast is a bowl of anchovies, because everyone hates them and any contact with them leaves a nasty taste.

7am: Catch up on my favourite TV shows - The Biggest Loser, and Lord Sugar’s The Apprentice, which is also full of massive losers.

9am: Horrific scenes as I feel clumps of my hair suddenly falling out. Then I remember that my dad – a lifelong Spurs fan – went bald at 25. The stress is real.

1pm: Lunch is a plate of humble pie, because Spurs fans spend most of their tormented lives bigging up their team only to be constantly humiliated by its failures.

4pm: Work out in the gym listening to Spurs fan Adele’s music, which understandably is mainly very sad miserable songs about having her heart broken.

Then I remember that the first time they let a Spurs fan write and sing a James Bond movie anthem – Skyfall - he became a pitiful little emasculated wastrel who sobbed like a baby and let M die on his watch.

5pm: Walk past the Emirates Stadium on my way to Tottenham’s ground, and stand wistfully by all the statues, wondering what it must be like to actually win trophies given Spurs haven’t won anything since 2008 when, coincidentally, pig-urine plastic was invented.

6pm: Off to the The Bill Nicholson pub, named after the last Spurs manager to win the League back in 1961, and where tearful fans clutch half pints of shandy and chant pathetically: "We won the League… four years before Piers Morgan was born!"

8.03pm: Three minutes after kick-off, Spurs score, but it’s disallowed by VAR. Not for a foul, but simply because the VAR operator refuses to believe Spurs could score against City.

10pm: Spurs lose 8-0 but I feel oddly happy. "Could have been worse, we could have lost 10-0," I hear myself saying. "Couple of good signings and we might make the Carabao Cup semi-final next season!"

Midnight: Like Cinderella, as the clock strikes 12, I break free from the evil clutches of my wicked stepfather Ange "Aussie b******" Postecoglou and get saved by Prince Charming Mikel.

My hair grows back, my smile returns, I put on Louis Dunford’s joyous anthem The Angel (North London Forever) and feel like a winner again.

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