Planet's twitchiest fans are starting to believe

In the minutes after various final whistles saw Spurs through to the FA Cup semis, Wembley opponents Portsmouth crushed by Chelsea and two of their three rivals for that lustrous fourth place in the Premier League dropping points, the texts from friends leaving White Hart Lane came thick, fast and uniformly morose.

All were modelled on the classic Michael Frayn line, from Clockwise, about it not being the despair that does us in but the hope. One, picking up on an earlier complaint about the players' sadism in keeping the flame of optimism alight so long, read simply thus: "As I said, bastards."

Such is the fatalism that bedevils us. Partly it's a Jewish thing, one key distinction between non-Jew and Jew being that, on hearing the worst from an oncologist, the former screams "Why me?" and the latter shrugs "So who else?" More than that, though, it's a Spurs thing. All the texts came from goyim disorientated by the apparent renaissance and fretfully awaiting the death of hope.

The collapse could well have begun at Fulham's hand and perhaps it should. For 45 minutes, the slayers of Juventus dominated and deserved to head off for the half-time cup of char leading by more than the goal with which Bobby Zamora pressed his unlikely World Cup claims to the watching Fabio Capello.

To this point, Fulham had been tremendous. Compact and sharp in midfield, shapely and disciplined in defence, smart and dangerous on the break, Roy Hodgson's unflashy heroes belied their dismal away form to restrict Spurs to the odd half chance and looked the likely winners.

Alas for them, the worst possible moment to concede isn't just before half-time, as cliche holds, but immediately after it. All the tactics and strategy discussed during the break are obliterated and bereft of any game plan players tend to panic.

Spurs were famously brutalised by this syndrome at White Hart Lane in 2001, when they led Manchester United 3-0 at the break, conceded within seconds of the restart and eventually contrived to lose 3-5. Yesterday they were its beneficiaries.

The prawn sandwich and smoked salmon bagel brigades hadn't yet returned to their seats when substitute David Bentley's first touch - one of those fiendish, flukey free-kicks that paralyse keepers and sidle unaided inside the far post - acted on Fulham like a pin on a balloon.

Visibly deflated, perhaps emotionally drained by all the Europa delirium of last week, they ran out of puff and were steamrollered.

There was no surprise about the winner, clinically volleyed by the resurgent Roman Pavlyuchenko from another gorgeous Bentley cross, or Eidur Gudjohnsen's insurance policy third.

If this was a crackingly old fashioned night of brio and passion in a degraded competition, the managerial niceties also had a pleasingly retro flavour.

Watching Hodgson and Harry Redknapp shake hands at the end brought to mind a 1950s detective inspector brusquely greeting someone he long ago nicked over a warehouse raid at their Masonic lodge. Regardless of which veteran represents which character, both are staking a claim for Manager of the Year.

If Hodgson can add a Europa League final to another top-half league position, he will deserve the prize. Again I must apologise to this immaculately blazered throwback to a gentler footballing age for flippantly dismissing him as a sub-Erikssonian second-rater when he arrived at Craven Cottage.

Such a sensational job has he done for Chairman Mo, that doyen of stadium announcers 'Diddy' David Hamilton, the memory of Tommy Trinder and all you lucky people who follow the Cottagers that he would, but for one thing, now be favourite to succeed Don Fabio. The sadness is that, what with being English, he is technically disqualified from becoming England coach.

As for Harry, his ability to keep Spurs winning despite the mandatory injury crisis (most notably the prolonged absence of jewel in the crown Aaron Lennon) continues to impress.

Bentley's instant success may have been more luck than judgment but as a great military leader observed (Napoleon, I think, or Donald Rumsfeld), rather a lucky general than a good one. Happily, Harry seems at present to be both because while Spurs were rampant late on, without that game-changing, 47th-minute slice of fortune they might have lost 2-0.

The thing about luck, of course, is that it has a tendency to run out. Today, surveying the near-certainty of a first FA Cup Final since 1991 and the growing prospect of a Champions League debut, the planet's most fatalistic fan base twitchily asks itself not if, but when?