Anyway, Fat Man gave me some advice. "Use a spellchequer and always be respectful," he said. So here goes.

First, I reckon those people who were whining about Sean Dyche being a second rate stand-in should be made to watch this match with their faces pressed up against the telly and their head taped in place with that glossy brown tape that's used for sealing parcels and gagging people. Then they should be made to say "I shall not take the name of the Lord my Dyche in vain," with their teeth grating against the screen. That's what I reckon.

I'd like to talk about Sangare. I thought Sangare started the rout and finished it. He started it with that bullet header against the post which put the fear of Dyche in the Spurs defence and had them spinning like mechanical ducks for the rest of the match. Then, sharp as a razor, he nicked the ball off some youth to set up CHO's opener. He finished it with that blistering drive which rose and swerved into the top corner of Vicario's net to make it 3 - 0. And there he was, grinning like Bluto and enjoying every minute of his farewell performance. My mate Stabbo reckons there were only two things wrong with that display. First, his arms were too long, and second, he would probably come back from the African Cup of Soup in a wheelchair. Sometimes, my mate Stabbo can be a bit of a dick.

I suppose we have to talk about CHO's wonder goal. My mate Stabbo reckons it was a fluke, but what I say is that it was just what CHO always does - cut inside from the left and bend it inside the far post. It was just a bit more larger than life than his usual efforts. The thing is, though, that CHO is getting back to peak confidence, and that spells trouble for the opposition.

In fact, didn't they all look full of it? Hutch and Jesus giving their defence nightmares, Savona overlapping and crossing, MGW always probing, Sangare and Mister Anderson controlling stuff, the defence not giving the mechanical ducks a sniff, Grumpy Neco and the Serbinator unlucky not to score, Murillo drilling laser guided bombs through the midfield, and good old John Victor proving to be a decent stand in for Matz Sels. They were all great, but what was really great was how well they played together with a lot of understanding and hard graft, as if everything Old Gravelpit had been drumming into them had clicked in one gorgeous display.

The only thing that spoiled it was not my mate Stabbo griping about not seeing Jesus's power blast but, as usual, the social media reaction afterwards. Especially the dicks on YouTube. Have you noticed that when we beat a big (lol) club, it's described as a tragedy in which Forest earn no credit at all. Like when we beat Liverpool, some podcasting turnip called Craig reckoned that was grounds enough to sack Slot. And then we beat Spurs, and some whining cockney idiot called Henry reckons that being outplayed by Nottnam Forest (of all people) brings shame on his tosspot club as he calls for Frank's sacking. Who do these entitled idiots think they are? My mate Stabbo doesn't like football podcasters at all. He calls them fleshy bottle-feeders, whatever that means.

Mind you, Spurs were crap. They looked fed up from the start. Some put their troubles down to a toxic mix of players who don't get on (which is shorthand for saying Richarlison is a turd). My mate Stabbo reckons that a coach who can't even chew gum properly is not to be trusted. Whatever, their future looks a bit dodgy.

Ours, on the other hand, doesn't. That's what yesterday meant. Get well soon, Fat Man. You missed a cracker.