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There’s another question that I believe needs answering: How good (or bad) is Ange Postecoglou? The problem is, it’s almost impossible to tell from his 24 months at the helm. His stunning entrance to the Premier League, taking Tottenham to the top of the pile following that unbeaten 10-game run, seems to have worked against him.

For those that don’t remember, the 1991 FA Cup Final came amid rumours that Spurs could go out of business after a run of poor business decisions, with the sale of superstar Paul Gascoigne looking to be the only way of keeping the banks happy, and with manager Terry Venables engaged in a lengthy boardroom conflict with then chairman Irving Scholar.

As I type it’s almost a fortnight since the final and I’m still on cloud nine, still enjoying watching clips of Sonny lifting the trophy and still reliving the open top bus parade down the High Road.

This wasn’t about silver. This was about weight. About lifting something off our backs that’s been welded there for decades. The trophy was the reward. The release. The antidote.

You see people you only know through Spurs — maybe just their first name — then suddenly you’re on flights together, sharing hotel rooms. Drinking foreign lagers in sunlit squares, serenading confused locals with the full back catalogue, some only sung on European nights.