Born On The First of July

Hello Tottenhamers

Muchos excitmentinados! The 1^st of July is fast approaching, which means that we can start getting some commitment ink onto some legally binding paper very shortly. Word on the cyber streets is that AVB is to be named el presidente of Tottenham Hotspur v20.12 slash 13, but the identity of his posse of gringos is providing some interesting side stories.

Apologies for the fluent Spanish being spouted above. The missis made me a rather nice Mexican style breakfast this morning, and I think it’s affecting my word combobulations. And Spain are playing later. I’m so on trend.

To Spain! and it’s understood that that’s exactly where young Modders will be plying his trade next year. Jose wanted David Silva to add to the attacking luminaries currently on show, but it’s little Modders who’s now been identified as the man to come in, and in turn, make them a bit more Barcelona-ey. All that keeping possession and finding a team mate nonsense is over rated anyway. The lad’s in need of a move, and if his half-hearted efforts last season on the promise of an escape this summer were to be stone walled again, I shudder to think what we’ll get this term. Even though player part-ex deals seem to exist only in Champo 97/98, it hasn’t stopped young Sahin’s name being thrown in as part of the deal. I won’t lie, I know nothing about him beyond him being Turkish, quite promising, and having no chance of ever appearing in a Spurs shirt.

Gylfi Sigurdsson! Gylfster, Gylfo, The Big Gylf. El Glylferino. He must have impressed the newly promoted Tim Sherwood on his trips to keep an eye on young Ledley 2, Steven Caulker, as he’s poised to spurn the advances on Swansea (because Brendan Rodgers isn’t there anymore), and Liverpool (because Brendan Rodgers i…), to join AVB’s White Hart revolution. There have been quite a few Liverpool fans doing great impressions of wet hens on the Twitbox at the very idea that he should choose the Spursers over their club. Presumably they are all still discussing the Berlin wall coming down as ‘potentially good’ as well.

Aaaaaaaaand Jan Vertonghen. This one’s dragged on a bit hasn’t it? My theory is he actually signed weeks ago and it’s just a lot of chat to keep things interesting by the print media until 1^st July. And by ‘interesting’, I of course mean ‘Michael Owen twitter timeline watchingly dull’. First we were stalling over a couple of mill’, then it was Ajax who were playing hardball, and now it’s Jan who’s sulking over a transfer fee percentage. It’ll be our fault again tomorrow and the deeply unpleasant merry-go-round of blame stories will continue to rotate until a bemused Jan arrives to pick his shirt up and asks why everyone looks wee wee’d off with him.

Right, I’m off to enjoy my birthday.

What? Nah, 23!, 25 at a push, but… aaaah, embarrassing. You guys are too much. Thanks, thanks very much. Cakes on Pete’s desk.

What Do You Mean Harry's Gone?

Hello everyone.

I’ve been in France for the past week, hope I haven’t missed mu…

Oh my.

The ‘well this is MY view on the Redknapp tinning…’ has been done to death, so rather than saturate the market further, I’ll attempt to soak it up and squeeze the analysis sponge over your tired eyes and ‘on the one hand’ brain scales, and put forth the following.

The people whose blogs and opinions I find myself largely in agreement with through the rough and smooth of following this mob of ours, have presented essentially the same conclusion. Namely, thanks for the good stuff, but I’ll be shedding no tears for a man who valued personal gain over doing his job properly. I can only agree.

A squad containing so much quality, we shouldn’t have been concerned by a sorry excuse for goalkeeping at West Brom or a shambles of a Champions League final. A second late-season collapse in a row, this time with a tangible distraction to pin it on. Not good enough, and we can do better than this self-serving window blabber. If Harry walked into Apple and colour coded the bins, he’d claim credit for making it into a market leader.

So it looks like failed expensive Wimbledon Chelsea badger AVB or crab-mouthed boursin-botherer Matt Le Blanc seem to be edging ahead in the managerial gallop. Quite how Laurent would have found time to have had any form of discussion over our vacant recaro I don’t  know, but gun to the head… I quite like the idea of AVB striking back at the football world, wielding Tottenham Hotspur as his mighty staff (ooh, er), smiting doubters and building an empire where a load of garages and fried chicken shops once stood.

And how about them Oy-row Championisings eh? Greece, they are cards aren’t they? And funny little England. Haha, look at them there with their belief and flags and beer. Lovely stuff.

I’ve put money on Ukraine.

The Tottenham Tumble Dryer (or how I channelled Partridge to deal with this mess)

This is it. This is LITERALLY ‘IT’.

Finish third and the history books will have this down as a glorious campaign; a fight against all odds to secure a position behind the 2 teams that gave us a walloping in the first couple of rounds, only for us to dust ourselves off and fight off the challenge from the best of the rest. Perennial Champions Leaguers, the ‘South London Migrants Select XI’, and said competitions current finalists Nazi FC, while also seeing off the extraordinarily spirited effort of the Mag’s from Geordieland.

Finish fourth with Third Reich Rovers winning the champey pot (slash) finish fifth, and it’s been an unmitigated disaster. A lesson in exactly what not to do when poised for achievement. Salvaging utter incompetence from the jaws of very very unincompetence.

Inches, my friends. This game is measured in tiny margins, as Al Pacino sort of said in that film about Americanised Football.

There are those that will say that they and everyone involved at Spurs would have taken this scenario after the first 2 games ‘all day long’. There are others who, walking away from the Newcastle game with a conviction that this team could be something a bit special, now feel a bit guilty/stupid/angry for finding their hopes thrown into a big, sort of football related tumble dryer, with no idea what will come out. Will it be the warm, soft, automatic 3^rd place denim shirt (put on an ‘extra cupboard dry’ cycle and a sheet of ‘bounce’ which makes them smell really, really nice and easier to iron) that keeps us cool, and looking razor sharp over the  summer months, or will it be the shrunken, smelly (bounce-less) vest t-shirt that should have been thrown away a long time ago but I just haven’t got time to go shopping for under garments that nobody other than my wife ever see, that will intermittently embarrass us until it’s time to cross swords again?  

For what it’s worth, I think Woolwich will get a draw. I also think we’ll match that result, meaning we’ll need Everton to get a point at home to the Mag’s. Which they probably will.

Who knows what’ll get served up on Sunday. I’m almost beyond caring at this stage, but know it’ll be my only focus come 3pm Sunday. One thing I’ve learnt this season is that I have literally zero effect on the outcome of any match, there or not, watching or not. There’s always a tiny part in the back of each of our minds, a little ego perhaps, that tells us our attendance or our viewing of a game will somehow affect the outcome. Surely it’s not just me? We’re all just socks in the giant Tottenham Hotspur tumble dryer, thrown around at the whim of whether Gareth spent too much time in Faces the night before, or whether Harry thinks Parker for VdV is a good idea. Sometimes we win (warm jet of air- still with the tumble dryer motif), sometimes we lose (buffeted against other potentially wet/odoured socks), and sometimes we draw (collision near a warm air jet).

Another Typically Tottenham season.

Bayern Munich scarves at the ready.

Uncomfortably Numb

Wellity, wellity, wellity.

It’s everyone’s favourite Uncle, but at least Harry seems alright about it:

‘’Yeah, it was me all day weren’t it? Wasn’t it? I even had a tenner on meself. Not really. Or did I? Been on the blower to Frank loads over these last few weeks, was after JT’s autograph, wanted him to put in a good word with the other English Lions they’ve got there. He’s a lion isn’t he? Top, top pro. Nah, just kidding, not spoke to Frank in a while. We were knocking up formations when I was round there for dinner the other day. Great if they won the Champions League wouldn’t it? Although it might ‘urt us. Let’s hope we both win. Nah, but seriously, didn’t really want the job anyway, but I would have loved it. Nah, not really, I’ve got a great job here. Where am I?’’

He might not have said any much of that, but here’s a bit of the word nourishment he provided his starving press children from his Range Rover:

‘’I am very fortunate…, I am just so lucky to be working here with fantastic players… I will just get on with my job… Champions League… that’s where my focus is and always has been’’

Etcetera.

I wonder if Harry reads those comments to himself as he cries himself to sleep, wiping his nose clumsily on his St Georges cross bed spread, lovingly clutching the John Terry and Bobby Moore collage he made himself from back issues of 'shoot'. ''I really love it at Spurs'' *sob sob*. ''I've got a great job'' *sniff*. ''It's a great club'' *bottom lip quivers*. ''Just focussing on getting back out there on the training pitch with this group of la...'' *drives off* *self harms*.

It’s most difficult to find the energy to concoct blogulations when the management and playing staff seem to have given up so completely on what promised to be such a successful campaign. There are some brave souls in the blogosphere that find the words, somehow, to summarise what the flip is going on; offering some wonderful summarisation of what us fantabulouses are feeling. Unfortunately, the bitter disappointment, manifesting itself as feelings of deception and being well and truly betrayed, make it difficult for this blogger with other ship going down, to lift my flaccid footballing spirit to the heights of rallying calls or even make sense of the collapse we’ve all had to sit and watch. Most frustratingly, with a reasonable grip on what’s going wrong and what needs doing to rectify it. It’s not rocket surgery.

Uncomfortably numb.

Us humans have a finite amount of energy we’re able to muster on a daily basis, and sometimes there are times when things like watching the team you love become so rudderless and left to coast off the edge of a cliff is just too much. I watched the first half of the QPR game only, safe in the knowledge that there was no way we were going to score in the second. I had a ticket for Blackburn on Sunday but didn’t go. I’m going to go kitchen shopping with my wife and child in an attempt to make real life more pleasurable, rather than tuning in for whatever is going to be served up by Tottenham at Bolton tonight. Energy needs redirecting to a more positive place.

Supporting Tottenham is life itself. Mostly really hard but the good makes it all worthwhile. When a metaphor for life encroaches on everyday reality and takes more than it’s fair share, just how hard is it to separate the emotion from the grand plan, and do you even want to? A football Succubus, as opposed to… a much nicer kind of bus.

Or we might just need to play 2 DM’s.

Whatever.

Pleasantville

An artists impression of Sunderland

Wotcha.

A double dose of easter eggcellence from our Hotspur-crossed bunnies on the way, and what better mood to enter the old 2 games in 3 days period, than the one we find ourselves in right now; swagger restored in the nicket of time, as we stare down the barrel of 7 league fixtures that will determine who lines up for us on the continent next season. Will it be the Tommy ‘Charlie Bucket’ Carroll dancing around the assembled might of FC Tyjxfryjjxxx in Romania, or Eden ‘Ed’ Hazard tearing the Catalans a new one at Camp Nou? What do you mean he hasn’t signed yet? Get ya faaaaaaaakin chequebook out Levy you onion!

I have a friend who went to Sunderland last year, and he’s not been quite the same since. A marvellous result failed to inject any colour to his world, and the once dancing, playful and wistful boyhood chum has gone and turned… well, grey. According to his harrowing tale, the roads were grey. The pavement was grey. The houses were grey. The sky was grey. I imagine it to be like ‘Pleasantville’, minus the ham fisted attempts at delivering a racial equality message. Oh Reece Witherspoon, what have you done?

From the harrowing tale my lost friend tells, Harry could do worse than sellotape kaleidoscopes over the eyes of our chaps as our fun bus travels through the streets of slumberland, removing them only for the game, where I have been reliably informed that the Sky Sports team have painted the northern grey grass a deep ‘southern’ green, in order that global audiences remain calm and avoid melting in their arm chairs. As for the result, a rejuv’d (I’ve been working on rejuv’d to replace rejuvenated for a while now. Hope the effort shows?) Sunderland away is no easy three-sy, and it wouldn’t be typical Tottenham if signs of recovery suffered an instant setback. The returning Lennon will play only one game, according to Harry, but I wouldn’t be surprised to see him do 45 in each. Late-ish equaliser and we’ll draw 1-1.

Norwich and Paul Lambert (or budget Brendan Rogers) for a bit of Monday resurrection and a nice 2-0 home win would be marvellous. I have no Norwich related insight to offer (other than cheap shots about inbreeding and a fully stocked armoury of Partridge quotes of course), but on the footballing side, it appears they’ve been rather good, claiming the same number of points as Swansea, but without anywhere near the love-in that their Welsh fellow-promotees and manager have enjoyed. Like Swansea however, Norwich have gone about things the right way, and in so doing, set themselves up for a football match which we should have too much for them to cope with.

Merry Easter you marvellous little chicks.

***If I may be so bold as to turn your attention to the top left of this page, there’s a link to my JustGiving page. For you see, I am running this years London Marathon in aid of the Teenage Cancer Trust. If my sums are right, and if every visitor to the page gave just a pound… There'll be an extra twenty quid in no time.***

Just What We Swan-ted

Oh yes, I do word play too.

Like an estate agent trying to convince you to part with more money than you’re comfortable with, I’m here to tell you that the ‘green shoots’ of recovery have poked themselves through the wasteland of our March into the abyss. While all 3 evaded us at the Bridge, seeing the players trotting out with those most precious of commodities; a plan, and a clue; was a welcome relief, and Tuesdays professional looking job against the veiled Trotters was another step on the road to redemption.

We looked like the side we were at the start (not the VERY start, obviously, but post-Parker) of the season. The ability to pick off sides who came to stubbornly sit down on the goal line and not budge. It was the anti-Stoke performance, which was a horrible watch. Like going back in time… and not in a cool way, like going to the Enchantment Under The Sea dance, more like going to Jurassic Park when pea-brained monsters dicked over Attenborough’s fancy gizmo’s and human brain technology. That sort of thing.

As for Swansea, I don’t believe they’re capable of being horrible, and could be the perfect opposition for a Spurs team clawing their way back to form; a side that will come and play football. Brendan Rogers strikes me as a smart and hard nosed chap, but The Swans are set up to play; not usually a recipe for cooking up 3 points for an away side with a reservation at the White Hart Bistro. Owen Coyle, in charge of Burnley a couple of years back, was renowned for playing football despite the size of the opposition. We won that one 5-1. Pardew had sniffed too many fumes and begun to believe his ‘realistic candidate’ England manager talk to the extent that he sent out his rag tag mob to go toe-to-toe with what we had. He was wrong. This is why teams don’t come to the Lane to play football. Brendan Rogers will know this, but I can’t realistically see him having the personnel or the  wit to out do what we’ve got. Send the Lilywhites out with a plan of action and we should win this one at a canter.

4-1 to the Spursers.

Tottenham Do Football Good Now

You slaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaag

I've seen some shambles in my time, but the trip to woolwich, the limp-wristed efforts against manure, and last weeks bungle in toffeeland will take some beating. Saying that we've lost the plot recently would be a tad generous. It implies there was a plot line to be followed in any of these games, other than 'let's throw 11 footballers onto a pitch and hope they're better than the other lot'. Is that a plot? It's a really crap one if so. If it was a soap, it would be the equivalent of sending out a bunch of actors to shout at eachother until a storyline developed.

Basically, we were EastEnders.

We should at least be aiming to be 'The Bill', or something of equal calibre. Is 'The Bill' even on any more?  Either way, we were rubbish, and Harry's exasperated lamentations on how we didn't manage to win a game we were clearly so terrible in last week smacks of a man desperately trying to deflect attention from his rapidly fading allure, and recapturing his lustre of a month previous, when all and sundry had effectively clubbed together to make his 'Harry Redknapp- England Manager' gold plaque, and hang it on his Wembley office wall. I wonder how many 'We want you to staaaaaaaaaaaaay's we'll hear tomorrow?

Bolton then, and even the 'let's throw 11 footballers onto a pitch and hope they're better than the other lot' should work, like it did against Stevenage, purely because Bolton aren't very good at football. However, what would be even better, and just because I'm a fan of watching my team look like they've been dosed up with 'clue medicine', would be to see us set up with a plan of how we're going to go about winning. Even nicer would be to know that if Plan A doesn't work, that we'll have the wherewithal to try something other than wing switching and doing 'hoofs' up the line to their full backs. It's not exactly moon on a stick stuff, just a decent formation and properly instructed ball kickers.

Let's start doing football properly again.