(or is it the other way round? I can’t decide)
Let me start this with a confession.
For two whole weeks in the spring of 1988, I became a Nottingham Forest supporter. My ten-year old fickleness was seduced by the charisma of Brian Clough in the dwindling twilight of his managerial pomp and the general attractiveness of their football. Thankfully though, the flirtation was a brief one. Common sense naturally prevailed. What business did I have supporting a team from a town I had never (and still haven’t) visited when there was one that played within earshot of my house? And what would my mum have made of it, having scrimped and saved for my first proper Spurs kit that wasn’t bought off some wheeling and dealing Del Boy clone from the local market?