DATING has its rules.

No. 1: Don't ask him to wear the Martin Jol mask the first time you ask him back for coffee.

No. 2: Don't kid yourself. If you're a Grimsby Town in the dating stakes, don't waste time sniffing around a Manchester United.

So when Dimitar Berbatov first graced White Hart Lane I knew the whole sorry tale would be like my mate's date with Kylie. Shortlived, unfulfilling...the grandkids will never believe it really happened. Berba was smoother than a pint-sized popster's costume change, more mouth-watering than a peachy sequinned buttock.

What was a guy like him doing at a club like ours? When he sashayed across a pitch, supporters stared open-mouthed, dribbled a little and spilt their drinks on their crotches.

Naughty treat

Let me share a secret. Don't tell anyone or I'll have my Tottenham season ticket confiscated. On my list of Quality Spurs Players I Have Watched (I keep tally on the back of a postage stamp) he went straight in at No. 1.

Above David Ginola.

I'll outline my case before the Spurs establishment come to take me away. Wingers are football's naughty treat, a sugar rush, a fast hit. It's all about speed, shoulder feints and Michael Flatley feet. These tricksters skulk out wide, hugging the touchline like a five-year-old's snotty comfort blanket.

For a player like Berbatov there are no hidey holes. He doesn't have brute strength, he doesn't have searing speed. Hell, he looks like he lives in a Transylvanian basement and hasn't seen a juicy jugular pass his way for a few centuries. He's hardly a model athlete.

But his touch is so dainty it's effeminate. His vision would win a Nobel Prize if he was holed up in a physics lab.

Brazilians and Italians put players like him in No. 10 shirts, play them behind the strikers, and kiss their boots. (The English traditionally call them luxuries, stick them on the bench, and screw over their careers. But I think we're starting to see the light.)

We're talking pure footballing genius. Apparently he grew up wanting to be Alan Shearer, so that makes him something of a modern miracle.

Ain't no sunshine when she's gone, Bill Withers once sang. Our Berba's been absent from the Spurs team and there's been nothing but grey skies over London this August.

Last weekend the Spurs faithful snivelled into their hankies as they watched Darren Bent flounder up front on his own against Sunderland.

Juande Ramos said Berba had been left out of the squad because his head wasn't in the right place.

Frankly I believe he'd have improved Spurs' display if his head had been sitting on Alex Ferguson's desk with a pen between its teeth and a contract in front of it (don't have nightmares, kids).

It's desperate when your team is this poor this early in the season. But you don't need to hear about my troubles.

I read a quote from Chris Waddle the other day. A true Spurs legend, but misguided on his views on Berbatov. He thought players had too much power and accused Berba of going back on his vows.

'Was his intention always to play for one or two years and move on?' asked the man who once bore football's most famous mullet.

'Fifa should bring a law in that says if you sign for five years, you cannot leave unless you have not played a certain amount of games.'

And there was me thinking clubs made players sign five-year contracts so they could ensure they made a hefty wedge out of them if they turned out to be good enough to play for a better club. Spurs have never made a secret of their recent policy of buying with one eye on an eventual profit.

It's because I love Berba that I'm prepared to let him go. I can barely bring myself to type the words, but he'd be better off without Spurs. He's too good for us; we'd only clip his wings.

Go skip through the tulip fields hand in hand with Sir Alex, Berba. It'll break my heart, but I know it's right.

ALISON RATCLIFFE