I once saw Harry Winks in a fairly discreet, local, steakhouse in South West Hertfordshire. This was when he was an England regular, along with Dele, Dier, etc. Peak Poch.

He was, at the time, Winksiesta. An amazing young 'own of our own' midfielders, who could pick a pass and recycle possession in a fashion not dissimilar to Luka.

We had great hopes and rightly so. He was part of a system, a way of playing, a vibe that either played to his strengths or at least allowed his strengths to shine.

The latter months of Poch don't need revisiting, nor does the Mourinho period. The style didn't allow his attributes to shine and nor has anything since.

He is a boyhood Spurs fan. I've indicated a region in which I may live and he may frequent. I've spoken to people who purport to know (of) him, over the years. Never a bad word said: nice boy, club loyal and taking to fame reasonably well. Unlike 'creative' midfielders from other North (South) London clubs.

We may have seen the Amazon documentary and drawn conclusions from the limited appearances. Do we really feel this was fly on the wall or more 'fly in the trap' documenting of the time.

We remember the Barca game. Getting Zinchenko (was it?) sent off. And the occasional game changing goal.

Was he the media 'leak'? Who knows. Who cares. At the time anyone could have been celebrated for stirring the shit happening in their boyhood club , to whistle-blow against the toxicity of shit we had on a weekly basis. The mind remembers goals, the heart remembers something more.

Harry Winks was always one of our own.

The system may have changed, the requirement of a Central Midfielder changes from manager to manager. He was a victim of circumstance, an undoubted talent, like Dele, whose form peaked in a system, that was the best in the land for a time, but dropped off when the peg no longer fit the hole.

A boyhood Spurs fan that lived the dream of many, Spurs & England, and made it on merit and not because he had a 'big money move' to Manchester or Liverpoo. Or had a shit haircut and an aversion to shinpads.

When you see a tenured famous person outside the theatre of their fame, they tend to acknowledge the recognition: normally a raise of the eyebrows or a wink, no pun intended. The boy, and he was one, in his early 20s, looked past me towards his table as he was ushered through. My wife said: 'go and ask for a photo'. 'No' I replied. Let him be and enjoy the dream he is living. It wasn't going to last forever, and nor was my steak: I took a bite of my ribeye and was pleased we were able to see another boyhood fan making the first team and England's too, living a life outside the hedonism and conjecture of a prat like Wilshere and probably just taking his girlfriend for a nice dinner on a Saturday night.

Can't wish him anything but good luck and thank him for respecting and honouring the club. Anyone that has an issue with that can fuck off.