My attempts to pass myself off as a mysterious female sports journalist extraordinaire went down the pan. The game went the same way. It was a depressing performance on both counts.

It all started so well. Marching towards White Hart Lane with the rest of the fans I was on a complete high. We were going to win. My first trip to the home soil (as a fan) could only ever be to watch Spurs propel themselves, in spectacular fashion, to dizzying heights at the top of the UEFA Cup table. Fate would see to it.

Right, now where's that main gate?

Putting on my best hack-face (the same don't-mess-with-me face I give the schoolies in the morning rush) I approached security. I kindly informed the young chap that I was with the Independent. Of the Haringey variety, of course. While he struggled to find my name on the list, a man encapsulated in black trenchcoat, swept past. "Independent", he barked. His voice left no room for negotiation. Through he went.

In the press room the real sports journalists got out their fancy gear. I got my free portion of chili con carne. They looked nonchalant. I looked shifty. They were working. I was feverish with excitment.

The noise in the stadium was glorious. No, really - it was glorious. It echoed round the stadium binding the sea of people by that one shared desire - to see Spurs win.

Getting to the press box, of the overflow variety, I decided to pull out my trusty shorthand notebook so i could make a few squiggles everytime something significant happened to keep up the facade that I was there as a serious sports journalist and not as a fan.

But I don't think my desperate neck craning to get a glimpse of the players as they came out the tunnel helped. Nor was the cry, "Move forward, move forward!" which popped out of my mouth without prior notice. I was as shocked as the by-standers.

My cover was well and truly blown, in the style of a nuclear holocaust, when I let out a yelp of joy when I "saw" the ball hitting the back of the net. Some might cite wishful thinking, because, in case you didn't know Spurs lost last night. There were no goals.

As it happened, I'd forgotten my glasses. I could hardly see a thing.

Which was just as well really because I saw enough. I saw eleven men looking completely desperate as they danced (badly) around with the ball, throwing chances away with bad cross after bad cross.

PSV in their candy-cane striped socks played a steady game. They were in the right place at the right time. I didn't even know PSV fans were in the house until that fateful movement (in the first 15 minutes) when the Ducth fans burst into song. Again. And again. And again. My face burned.

We weren't singing anymore.

But as I'm learning, there's stages in dealing with defeat.

First, there's the extra-time hope that your team will come back. Then there's the gut punch when you realise you've actually lost. Rubbing salt in the wounds is the sad sight of fans trickling out of their seats early to beat the post-match rush.

Then the anger. Then the blame.

Then the synopsis as you tell all who will listen what the players should have done, who should have been where and which plays should have been a goal. You do this with so much authority that, in fact, if Ramos was sacked you're utterly convinced you'd be more than adequate as his replacement.

Finally, acceptance. You win some, you lose some. You remember your team's last big win to give you that final boost. Ours being the Carling Cup. Not a bad effort. Then you look to the future. Then you find it in your heart to sing again.

We love you Tottenham, we do! Oh Tottenham we love you!

We're going to murder West Ham on Sunday.