An Evening With The Lust Doctor

The trouble with Harry (and some Spurs fans)

2011-05-22T13:55:00.000-07:00

Some people think irony is a Greek island. A quick peak at an atlas suggests otherwise. Harry Redknapp has delivered some of the greatest moments in Tottenham’s recent history, but he can be an over-sensitive and inarticulate so-and-so. So it’s an amusing double-standard when his critics rage at his comments in an over-sensitive and inarticulate manner.

Are the people who ring radio phone-ins the gibbering fools Harry suggests? It’s not for me to say, but it’s unlikely they will be curing cancer anytime soon.

Two sweet strikes from Roman Pavlyuchenko secured a fifth place finish that would have been unthinkable for Spurs in 16 of 20 Premier League seasons. It secured our joint second best Premier League performance. While that does not merit a DVD and open top bus parade, it is something worth appreciating.

You only have to look at the agony etched on the faces of the relegated Birmingham fans and the boundless joy in the eyes of the Wigan faithful to understand that this is something that should never be taken for granted. There is no divine right to success, but if there are any disillusioned Spurs fans who want to guarantee glory, Manchester United season tickets are available for next season.

This season has delivered some magical memories. God knows how many dismal, fruitless hours I have spent drinking crappy Fosters at those temples of dark arts – the Emirates and Library – without reward. But in November we were ‘hanging out the back of them’, turning a 0-2 deficit into a mad 3-2 orgy of jubilation. The European and World champions Inter Milan were swept aside 3-1 at White Hart Lane; Italian champions elect AC Milan were also defeated at the San Siro in the Champions League and Spurs saw off Kenny Dalglish’s rejuvenated Liverpool at Anfield for first time since 1993 as the grim spectre of ‘Fair Play’ qualification loomed large.

At times, Spurs played truly scintillating football. When fit, Gareth Bale was mesmeric and won the ‘Players’ Player of the Year’ award for an astonishing 12 months. On the verge of loan football at Nottingham Forest in early 2010, Bale suddenly became one of the most coveted players in world football. Rafael Van der Vaart arrived and added another stamp of world class alongside the virtuoso that is Luka Modric.

My own ‘Player of the Season’ was perhaps, unsurprisingly, Monsieur William Gallas. A bargain free transfer, poor Bill withstood some awful stick at The Hawthorns and Britannia Stadium early on, but provided the leadership and defensive nous that was mercifully lacking at our great rivals this season. It cost them trophies. Again.

There have, of course, been disappointing performances, especially at White Hart Lane where most visitors are loathe to attack. A well-documented failure to secure a clinical striker probably denied Spurs another season of Champions League football. But if that extra dash of class up front can be delivered by the end of August 2011, we can hit those heights again.

The gap between Arsenal and Spurs is now paper thin. Don’t lose sight of how far Spurs have come after the dark Sugar years where the Nethercotts and Tramezzanis ran wild. West Ham’s implosion and relegation brought light relief when it was needed. To the obnoxious Gold, Sullivan and Brady, you will not be missed.

This will be the last ‘Evening With The Lust Doctor’. My thanks to those who have enjoyed and endured these blogs. For one season, and one season only, I wanted to shine a positive light on all things Spurs. I hope it’s brightened your experience.

We’re all Spurs fans. And, for whatever reason, a mad love beats in our hearts that defies commonsense yet defines who we are.

Embrace it.

Return Agent Keane

2011-05-15T10:07:00.000-07:00

Return Agent Keane. The target was secured at 18:01 hours on Sunday 15th May with minimal resistance. Mission: Claret and Blue Murder is complete.

We appreciate your sacrifice. Four months of jellied eels and baying lunatics has broken men before (see Agent Boogers), but you stayed strong as the caravans circled.

You will be mentioned in despatches and awarded the Silver Star of David. The record will show that, behind enemy lines, Agent Keane crippled enemy personnel Parker and Upson by taking them to his wife’s spinning class and impersonated a pub player with astonishing accuracy.

Immediate evacuation is essential to avoid incoming laser pen fire. Enemy Agent Cole’s defection request has been denied. Please ditch him at Hilton Park motorway services, Wolverhampton, on your return to base.

Return Agent Keane.

Mission complete.

*Oh and Spurs won 2-0 at Liverpool today, thanks to the return of Ledley King and a Howard Webb penalty! You couldn’t make it up!

Game? What game?

2011-05-10T15:58:00.000-07:00

Was there a game on tonight? I didn’t know. I was helping out at the local soup kitchen. Seeing a glimmer of hope in the eyes of the desperate reminded me of Spurs' last home match. Maybe a cup of minestrone and a buttered roll is the answer. Then again, Luka Modric would probably drink the soup too hot and be out for six weeks.

Spurs’ hopes of fourth place had ended long before Wednesday’s 0-1 reverse at Manchester City, but it was encouraging to watch a patched-up Tottenham side dominate the game (16 shots, 63% possession) yet receive no reward for their endeavours. Acknowledging the recent fallow period, it has been a luckless time for Spurs and I am responsible.

In April, I had the opportunity to buy some ‘lucky heather’ from an old gypsy gal on Regent Street, but bypassed the charmed lady by masquerading as a deaf mute. I apologise for costing Spurs another season of Champions League football as since then we’ve lost by a goal that didn’t cross the line and an offside winner at Chelsea; a player who should have been sent off subsequently scored (Charlie Adam); conceded a freak own goal and been thwarted by a Joe Hart wonder save despite bossing City and lost key men Gareth Bale and Benoit Assou-Ekotto to long-term injury.

And bizarrely the underused Niko Kranjcar has barely kicked a ball. Dark forces at work surely?

Mind the soup, Luka. Bollocks.

Section me!

2011-05-07T15:07:00.000-07:00

“Oh what an atmosphere! I love a party with a happy atmosphere. Oh let me take you there....”

Russ Abbott would have found little to enjoy at White Hart Lane on Saturday evening. Spurs 1 Blackpool 1 was a dire, lifeless spectacle played before a strangely sterile, near lobotomised, crowd until a fractious second half where all hell broke loose.

It was a painful game in every sense. Spurs conceded two penalties (the first harshly), Charlie Adam decapitated Gareth Bale (no punishment, obviously), Blackpool tried to get Jermain Defoe sent off (the classic 'hold on to my head and lay still' routine) and I was briefly ejected from my seat for swearing at the referee and an opposition player (whilst goaded by the neanderthal in front and his chavvy son). “You are always f**king swearing,” they complained without irony.

Gomes made a sensational penalty save only to be suckered into conceding another spot-kick seconds later. It was a minute of sheer madness that defied all logical reason. What do you do with the big galoot? Sandro, apparently subject of at least one major bid, was again the star turn in a listless home performance where, at least, Danny Rose impressed in an unfamiliar left back role. Other players seemed borderline disinterested. Our season fizzled out together.

The night ended weirdly for me in Archway McDonalds with a woman, who looked like she’d copped a pound of pure, flinging her body against a bolted staff door and screaming: “I’m gonna get sectioned! Call the police, girl. This is my night! They will be sectioning me tonight, aiiight?”

We know the feeling, love. We know the feeling.

For legal reasons.......

2011-04-30T15:54:00.000-07:00

An interesting online insight from today’s Assistant Referee Mike Cairns.

What is the best game you have officiated and why?

“8th May 2002, Manchester United v Arsenal and my first visit to Old Trafford. What made the occasion so memorable was the whole season hung on this one game. Manchester United needed victory to take the title race to the last game of the season and should Arsenal win then they would be crowned Champions at Old Trafford. Arsenal won the game 1-0 and the title on the night.” (http://refworld.com/referee/35/2/mike-cairns)

Presumably, Spurs’ contentious defeat at Stamford Bridge on Saturday will not be knocking Arsenal’s 2002 title win off top spot. Cairns’ memory is clearly sharper than his 20/20 vision.

I was perfectly placed behind the right side of Heurelho Gomes’ net on Saturday and surrounded by Spurs fans genuinely celebrating when the big Brazilian recovered from another gaffe. The ‘goal’ was somehow awarded. There was genuine shock. Were we naive?

You may remember that a ball several feet over the line was not deemed a goal for Spurs at Old Trafford in 2005. Both officiating errors took place at the homes of the two most successful teams of the last decade. What are the odds? It has been 21 years since Spurs last won at Stamford Bridge – is it any wonder why?

For legal reasons, it’s hard to articulate what most Spurs fans were feeling after one of the most controversial games I can ever remember attending. That the second ‘goal’ was clearly offside detracts from a positive Spurs performance and another wonder show from Sandro.

For all the millions lavished on Chelsea, there is little difference between the teams, just a few suspect officiating calls and that’s nothing some Specsavers vouchers can’t cure.

In a positive development, there were suggestions tonight that technology will be in place next season. The goalline will be marked out in Braille.

The Sixth Sense

2011-04-23T14:07:00.000-07:00

I can see dead people. Or rather Spurs’ defenders with dead legs wheezing into a sixth place finish. I’d burn my season ticket if it wasn’t made of plastic.

I'm joking, of course, but an element felt that way after a 2-2 draw against a useful West Brom side. If they tossed a season ticket on the barbie, they might benefit from the toxic fumes. The Baggies’ late equaliser was, without question, sublime and unsaveable.

Spurs have had more draws than a Spaghetti Western, but somehow lost only twice in 22 league games. Yet it feels like the worst run in living memory. There is an overreaction now to every result, good and bad, that makes me pine for the football-free summer months.

Today’s scoreline was disappointing, but a poor result can often be overcome by a good one in the next game. Should Spurs win at Chelsea next weekend (as likely as a Katie Price marriage lasting, but not impossible), then fourth is still on. Believe or, at least, enjoy the delusion while it lasts.

Any of Tottenham's likely final positions carries an upside. If Spurs finish fifth they could realistically win the Europa League in 2012; if they falter and finish in sixth behind a resurgent Liverpool, the lighter schedule might lift the club into nosebleed territory next season.

West Ham, meanwhile, cling desperately on to football's trap door. Sometimes it pays to look down to raise a smile.

The Benoit Assou-Ekotto appreciation society

2011-04-21T04:08:00.000-07:00

He looks like he should be shifting crack vials on The Wire, but you will only find forwards in Benoit Assou–Ekotto’s pocket. The only product he deals in is world class performances.

Benoit was simply magnificent against Arsenal, replicating his outstanding display against Real Madrid last week with a display of pace, timing and guile. His exquisite throughball released football whippet Aaron Lennon for the crucial equaliser.

When Spurs’ pedestrian backline was caught flatfooted by the pace of headless chicken Theo Walcott in the first half the nimble Cameroonian was always there to cover. He grew in stature in the second period, adept in defence, incisive in attack; the complete defender and, without question, the best left-back to play for Tottenham during my tenure as a Spurs fan.

We used to fold like origami against Arsenal, but no more. They are a psychologically brittle outfit, flat-track bullies who excel when a game is tipped in their favour, crumble at the first sign of resistance. Tottenham have gobbled up three two-goal deficits in 2.5 years against the red and white infidels from around the corner and I always felt we could claw the game back at 1-3. An eel has more backbone.

Our latest revival was aided by the renaissance of Rafael Van der Vaart. For the first time in months, the Dutch master was fully fit and he conducted Spurs’ attacking forays with swagger and verve. Only a superb display by Polish builder Szczesny in the Arsenal goal staved off another stirring Spurs victory like November’s 3-2 triumph at the Emirates*.

When Arsenal fail to win the league in May by a handful of points, it will be these games they remember. Theo....shhhhhh.

*The Emirates is the nation’s designated quiet stadium (please refrain from using mobile phones, personal stereo equipment or talking loudly when seated).

Being there

2011-04-14T04:03:00.000-07:00

It’s all about being there. To make the most of life (and football), you have to grasp and appreciate the moment before it passes. I’ve been fortunate enough to attend all 12 of Tottenham’s Champions League games this season and I wouldn’t have missed this ride for the world.

We’d gone through too much to be here. Spurs were on the verge of Champions League qualification in 2006 when an ‘accidental pre-match poisoning’ barred our path. So we waited. We hoped. We dreamed. And then, guided by Harry Redknapp, everything fell into place.

Competing against billionaire owners in the Premier League and established giants, Spurs qualified for the world’s elite club competition and took on the continent’s finest with a refreshing, swashbuckling style of play and a never-say-die spirit that won admirers and games. More fancied teams underestimated us and were duly eliminated.

There were moments of breathless magic; Gareth Bale’s one-man crusade at the San Siro against holders Inter before dry-roasting Maicon in the return game and steely defiance; epitomised by William Gallas’ critical goal-saving clearance to deny seven-times champions AC Milan at White Hart Lane.

New stars were born (Sandro, Van der Vaart) and old heroes barely featured (King, Keane). There were four clean sheets, three red cards, two missed penalties and one plastic pitch.

The odyssey started there at the wonderfully named Wankdorf Stadion in Berne. At 0-3 down in 28 minutes against the unfancied Young Boys, my dad, who has a heart condition, was slumped face forward in his seat cradling his head in his hands. The dream seemed over in the starting blocks. But it wasn’t. The adventure had just begun.

Tottenham Hotspur, 2010/11 Champions League quarter-finalists, we salute you.

See you there next season?

'Adventures' in babysitting

2011-04-10T15:21:00.000-07:00

Like Jermain Defoe, I missed the Stoke game (due to essential babysitting rather than missing sitters).

It’s weird not to be sat at White Hart Lane on a matchday (and without mobile coverage). You imagine the worst…Ben Alnwick is playing after Carlo took Heurelho out for a spin on the Ducati….Benoit’s hairdressers’ appointment overran….Tom Huddlestone entered Chicken Cottage and failed to return.

But something more improbable took place in N17….Tottenham scored T-H-R-E-E (III in ‘Pavlyuchenko’ numerals) goals. Cue five crows in funny outfits dropping down from the branches and singing ‘When I see an elephant fly’. Who would have believed it after blanks in the previous four games?

It was fitting that Peter Crouch scored twice and was a key figure at the other end in repelling Stoke’s desperate search for a late equaliser. Two-metre Peter gained a small measure of redemption after the madness in Madrid and it was great to see the positive reaction he and the team received from the White Hart Lane faithful after Tuesday’s 0-4 snafu at the Bernabeu.

The national press had predicted a hostile reception. But boos from armchairs don’t count. Just ask a babysitter.

The devil of Madrid

2011-04-07T02:55:00.000-07:00

To protect the innocent, the identities of some people have been changed in the publication of this story.

A devil walks among us. This master of the dark arts is responsible for the greatest debacles in Tottenham history. I pray you do not know him. His name is 'Satan Spur'.

I was introduced to this bad omen during Tottenham’s bleakest years. For some reason, Satan would often be sitting next to me at away games. He would always be moaning. The weather, the motorway, the team, the price of Farah slacks...he droned on without pause. I took a noose to the Britannia Stadium to alleviate my pain (it was sadly confiscated and is now a fixture at Staffordshire Police’s annual tug of war event).

Whenever I saw this man, Tottenham lost and lost badly. Surely this was a coincidence? I paid attention more closely. My suspicions were soon confirmed - every matchday sighting of Satan Spur resulted in a Tottenham defeat (and another of his mind-numbing monologues). Bizarrely, if our paths did not cross, Tottenham won or drew. The conclusion was obvious. Avoid this man. So shortly before Juande Ramos’ sacking, fellow Yido ‘Person A’ and I formed a desperate plan with Spurs hurtling towards the Championship.

'Person A' rang THFC ticket office to request we be moved as far as humanly possible from Satan at away matches. The effect was immediate and astounding. With Satan Spur nowhere to be seen, Spurs were rejuvenated and within two years the team achieved the unthinkable and qualified for the Champions League.

But then this week, of all weeks, horror showed its face once more. On Tuesday, ahead of the first leg versus Real Madrid, we turned a corner tower at the Bernabeu and there he was....the angel of Tottenham death, his grey cowpat hairstyle gleaming in the Madrid sunshine.

“That’s it....we’re fucked!” exclaimed 'Person A' as Satan Spur ran towards us, armed with more tales of bore. He had been out of the UK until...you guessed it...Spurs' poor run started.

Our Champions League dreams were over. Anyone know a good exorcist?

*Those who doubt Peter Crouch was targeted by Real Madrid need only look at the telltale photo in yesterday’s Metro. A crestfallen Crouch is shown the red card while the 'injured' Marcelo is sitting on the ground pumping his fists with a broad smile on his face. The immediate reaction of every injured player (please imagine sarcastic tone). Give the Brazilian mop head a good ‘waxing’ next week, Spurs fans.

Joe Jordan statement

2011-04-02T13:23:00.000-07:00

Tottenham’s striker crisis has been solved by veteran forward Joe Jordan’s shock return to football aged 59. The former Scotland and Manchester United hardman, currently a coach at the North London club, decided to come out of retirement after watching misfiring Spurs draw 0-0 with Premier League strugglers Wigan.

Jordan made this brief statement shortly before headbutting a low-flying bird.

“Aye, the tartan big man willnae take this goolless crap lyin’ doon, ah tell yae. Ah’m back yae drizzlin’ shites. Nae longer will ah watch dose mincers fannae aboot in frontae gools. I cannae wae tae mix it wit dose Stoke boys. Ah’ll wear that Shawcross leek ah mink scarf. Huth? He’ll havetae.

“Delap cannae throo long balls innae box if tha fooker got nae hands. Aye Pulo, ahm’ comin’ for youse southern shite-tasters. That cap willae beh sticking oot youse bum cheeks next Sat'day tae time. Shite mae troosers! A fookin’ bird!”

Jermain Defoe vs Sandra Redknapp

2011-03-19T10:43:00.000-07:00

Loyalty is a wonderful thing. This admirable virtue cements marriages and bonds lifelong friendships. It is also frequently misplaced.

If Harry Redknapp had as much faith in Roman Pavlyuchenko as he showed the shot shy Jermain Defoe, Tottenham would probably have beaten West Ham on Saturday. An inspirational display from Luka Modric merited as much.

Instead, the Russian sub was brought on (far too late) with just 20 minutes remaining and caused havoc around the West Ham penalty area while Redknapp favourite JD proceeded to fritter away chance after chance. Every striker has matches like this, it‘s part of the game, but the likeable Defoe seems to have little but these days.

Apparently, Jermain has been watching DVDs of Jimmy Greaves to improve his goal tally; presumably this was ‘The Best of Saint and Greavsie’ or a drunken home video from a 1979 Greaves family barbecue where the finishing related to pints.

The recurring criticism of Darren Bent was that he contributed nothing apart from scoring. Oh for that problem now. Bent’s relationship with Redknapp deteriorated after the manager famously ridiculed the striker for missing a simple headed goal in a 1-1 stalemate with Portsmouth. The criticism was myopically selective when you consider Defoe’s continued profligacy and Bent’s outstanding career goal record.

How many of Defoe’s chances today would Sandra Redknapp have converted, I wonder, Harry? We’ll never know because Redknapp, a wonderful manager in every other respect, has a worrying blind spot when it comes to the misfiring Defoe.

Yeah. Sandra would have buried them.

Say hello (Spurs), wave goodbye (Arsenal)

2011-03-10T07:41:00.000-08:00

I don’t have fingernails. My fingers are but a memory. There’s just a stump where my left hand used to be. That’s the price of tension. Apparently Spurs’ 0-0 draw with AC Milan lasted around 94 minutes – it just felt like an eternity.

Arsenal crashed out of the Champions League, but Tottenham roll on into the quarter-finals. It’s called 48 hours in football dreamland.

I really feared for Spurs ahead of the second leg with the seven-time European Champions. Too many supporters were worryingly complacent. Seasoned European performers Milan would undoubtedly perform better after underestimating Tottenham at the San Siro. Could a defence pierced three times by Wolves withstand a desperate assault from Ibrahimovic, Pato and Robinho?

How did Spurs survive? Sandro was again imperious. The Brazilian, still only 21, has this wonderful knack of effectively harrying and continually getting a crucial foot in. He was Milan’s nemesis again and helped Spurs desperately hold off wave upon wave of Rossoneri possession.

We were outpassed, but hung in there. The ageless Seedorf, anonymous at the San Siro, bossed the midfield. The ball seemingly attached to his feet by an invisible string. Attacks were repelled with a gritty steel not associated with a Tottenham side. The rearguard action was almost Italian in its nature. William Gallas was a key figure. A former Arsenal and Chelsea stalwart, Gallas’ football redemption is now surely complete after his brilliant goal line clearance and battling display alongside the outstanding Michael Dawson in the heart of Spurs’ defence.

Gareth Bale’s introduction may not appear to have had an impact, but his mere presence suddenly committed two or three Milan players to defence when they might have been bombing forward. We dug in as the seconds painfully counted down. The jubilation at the final whistle was only matched by the sense of relief.

Then a wonderful thought dawned upon the breathless Spurs faithful. 'Are you watching Arsenal?' The Champions League must look wonderful from the sofa.

Howard Webb goes AWOL at Molineux

2011-03-06T12:29:00.000-08:00

If only Howard Webb had refereed Wolves vs Spurs. It could have been oh-so-different. The West Midlands marvels might have won 5-3! But sadly England’s finest referee can’t be everywhere. Don’t believe propaganda from the Star Wars Universe...human cloning is not yet a reality, just a dream. Until that joyous day we will have to make do with just one Howard and I will have to wait to entertain Natalie Portman II and III.

Thankfully, Webb’s gleaming dome was nowhere to be seen at Molineux. While Howard was probably enjoying a selection of sliced meats at the Rotherham Harvester, 'less capable stand-in' Mark Halsey failed to send off two Tottenham players, allow a bundled Wolves goal or award a penalty when a ball struck Alan Hutton’s back. We can’t all be Howard, but don't worry, he'll get us in his next game!

Meanwhile, Spurs’ strikers embarked on a veritable goal orgy! Jermain Defoe lamped in two wonder goals (the first inexplicably labelled scrappy by Sky stooge Chris Coleman) and the under-appreciated Roman Pavlyuchenko scored his 11th under-the-radar strike of the season to give Tottenham a tantalising 3-2 lead in the second half. Unfortunately, we couldn’t quite hold on despite numerous second-half chances and another wonder show from Sandro in midfield, which went over the heads of the Sky commentators.

I don’t subscribe to the opinion that the press are against Tottenham (that’s just paranoia), but for two, odd hours Sky Sports morphed into Wolves TV. Every Wolves foray was greeted with breathless delight. Highlights included Martin Tyler’s moan of disappointment when Wanderers' ‘first 3-3 equaliser’ was disallowed and Coleman’s unerring ability to erase Tottenham’s superiority in possession (56%-44%) and 10 shots on target compared to 4 from his memory. I know a rather incendiary secret about Mr. Coleman, but I will keep my own counsel because everyone is entitled to an off-day, right?

Stearman’s ‘equaliser’ was interesting. Neither Tyler nor fellow cheerleader Coleman noticed referee Halsey immediately pointing for a Spurs free-kick and embarrassingly tried to make their oversight appear like a Halsey late decision. I’ve always rated Halsey and it’s wonderful see him officiating again after his serious health problems. There was a great tribute to former Spurs and Wolves star Dean Richards who sadly died, too young, at 36 last week. But it did seem ironic to me that the Wolves fans applauding Richards’ memory also abused recent cancer survivor Halsey for not siding with their team ('You're not fit to referee' and worse) on several crucial decisions. Humanity only stretches as far as your own team, it seems.

Gomes was perhaps fortunate on the disallowed 'goal' (he undoubtedly flapped), but the Wolves players were trying to rough him up; that they failed to make more significant contact probably reflects on their general lack of co-ordination. Ebanks-Blake certainly appears to own a pair of paper ankles.

The pitch was predictably dismal and I felt Spurs played far better than they were given credit for. It was still an away point gained where Chelsea, Man City and Man Utd have failed to pick up any this season. The return of 'Welsh Wonder' Gareth Bale provided welcome encouragement ahead of Wednesday’s crucial Champions League second leg clash with AC Milan. Another glory. glory night?

Dean Richards: A tribute

2011-02-26T07:52:00.000-08:00

It was sadly confirmed today that former Spurs defender Dean Richards had passed away after a long battle with serious illness. He was just 36-years-old.

Dean first sprung to prominence at Bradford City and Wolves before impressing for Glenn Hoddle’s free-flowing Southampton where he looked every inch a future England centre-half.

When Hoddle took over at Spurs he bought Richards for a significant £8.1 million fee, the highest at the time for an uncapped player, and the big defender marked his debut with a goal in that epic 3-5 encounter with Manchester United. Between 2001-2005, Dean made just 73 league appearances in Spurs colours scoring four times. He also featured in five FA Cup and three League Cup ties.

I’d like to recall one of Dean's best performances in a Spurs shirt where he marshalled the Tottenham backline superbly in a 1-0 win at Aston Villa. He punched the air at the final whistle before paying tribute to the celebrating Spurs away support.

Unfortunately, Dean's Tottenham career was blighted by injuries and illness before drawing to a premature close in 2005, but that’s how I’d like to remember him.

Sincere condolences to the Richards family and his loved ones. Next Sunday two of Dean’s former clubs Wolves and Spurs will meet at Molineux where a fitting tribute can be expected.

RIP Dean.

I am glad we lost to Blackpool

2011-02-22T13:54:00.000-08:00

No, I’m not. Just trying to get your attention like a podgy Geordie girl in a boob tube during -5 temperatures or every other misleading, lazily-posted football headline on the internet.

It would be easy to be overly negative after a 1-3 defeat to a woefully out-of-form Blackpool, but I won’t fall into that obvious trap. You have to lose well and win well in life. And Spurs have won a lot recently and enjoyed a fair slice of luck here or there. It was probably due.

If you can’t take a defeat and a bit of ill-fortune with good grace then you probably shouldn’t be here and, if you are going to lose to any side, there are worse teams than likeable underdogs Blackpool who play the game in the right spirit and have frequently appeared luckless this season.

I am sure there are people on Twitter, Spurs messageboards and football call-ins petitioning for Redknapp’s sacking, British jobs for British workers and the return of capital punishment. We’ll leave them to it. If you follow Spurs for easy victories, textbook demolitions, bragging rights - the pub football sofa experience complete with replica shirt sans match ticket - this is probably the wrong gig for you. But remember it’s still a good gig.

I was unable (thankfully) to make it to Bloomfield Road tonight, but I was – as ever – entirely bemused by the BBC website’s slapdash coverage of the match. Only at the weekend they claimed AGAIN that a Crawley win over Manchester United would make them the first non-league side EVER to make the quarter-finals of the FA Cup. I reminded them that Spurs won the cup in 1901 as a non-league side. Did they correct this error? Did they fuck. Your average cokehead has less arrogance. I can only assume they are on something a bit stronger. Roll on the government cuts.

Intriguingly, Blackpool were one-nil up but had no attempts on target, according to the stats on the BBC website. A fascinating insight into statistical accuracy. The half-time report said how much Blackpool had ridden their luck, but were yet somehow good value for a 2-0 half-time lead. If this makes sense to you, I look forward to your appearance on ‘The Jeremy Kyle Show’ tomorrow. We await with interest the results of your obese wife’s lie detector test.

Unfortunately, the true criminal of Spurs season is rapidly shaping into Jermain Defoe. JD has less of a kick than his alcoholic namesake. Thirteen league games without a goal in a season admittedly disrupted by injury and suspension. Maybe a new chant of “Jermain Defoe, you owe us a goal” would be appropriate. I hoped being surrounded by orange-chested individuals might have fired his enthusiasm, but sadly no.

It’s not too late for Defoe to fire us into the Champions League next season, but it is certainly overdue.

Tottenham are mugs (angry emoticon)*

2011-02-16T14:03:00.000-08:00

Oh. We used to be mugs. They regularly saw us coming and rolled us over with almost comic effect. Newcastle scored seven, Leeds six, Sheffield United six, Chelsea six. We grew disillusioned, angry. Our eyes bulged with mindless rage like a Nick Griffin devotee. The bitterness sustained us in the bad times. We always had an angry song. Other teams had the glory. We didn’t care. Our boys would have their boys in a scrap. Yeah, great.

Now it’s different. The glory, glory nights (and days) are back. And how. If you were there with me last night in Milan, you will never forget the experience. And if you are a true, grizzled veteran of the bad times, the fallow years...if you bit your lip and clenched your fist as you shipped abuse in offices, pubs, wedding receptions and burger bars then Spurs’ quantum leap forward should bring you more pleasure than most.

When the under-appreciated Peter Crouch stroked home the winning goal after Aaron Lennon’s breathtaking run, madness erupted in the upper echelons of the Curva Nord; a place with the equivalent toilet facilities of your local Primark (but for 4,500 people). It was no less than Tottenham’s steely show, expertly marshalled by reformed Gooner William Gallas, deserved. There was not one poor Spurs’ performance on the field. Even ancient, former Scottish international benchwarmer Joe Jordan rolled back the years with some classic eyeballing of a tiny, bearded Neanderthal.

Who is this Sandro bloke? He previously resembled an out-of-sorts tourist who needed an all over grade 3 and a good eyebrow pluck at Boots. But he owned the Milan midfield on Tuesday night. The bushy Brazilian seemingly covered every blade of Italian grass with wonderful verve and considerable bite. Tellingly, the ‘Sandman’ was La Gazzetta Dello Sport’s ‘man of the match’. Such plaudits were justified.

And what about the reincarnated Wilson Palacios? The beast is back! Dear Wilson has suffered a torrid time in Spurs colours since the tragic news of his young brother’s horrific demise in Honduras. His performances were deteriorating at an alarming rate. However, wise heads like Spurs die-hard John Ali confidently told me: “Wilson will be back, the player we once knew.” Thank god, John was right. The Palacios-Sandro tandem, overwhelmed in November at the Reebok, somehow excelled and dominated at the San Siro. Work it out. And what a return for the artist formerly known as Jonathan Woodgate. ‘Woody’ left a baptism of fire without a scorch mark in place. Just a strained abductor muscle!

This was the greatest away result in Spurs’ European history. I told everyone who was there to cherish it, love it, never forget it. We weren’t exactly hanging out the back of it, but we still gave it a good, old-fashioned squeeze with our tongues out.

The tie is by no means over, but we enter an intriguing second leg on the front foot. Never forget the wonder of Milan, my friends. If you were there, the journey back may also stay with you. But that’s probably best forgotten!

*Applies -1996-2005

Exit Sunderland, enter Milan

2011-02-12T15:59:00.000-08:00

A few tasty facts for you.

*Tottenham’s record in the last fifteen league games is 9-5-1 (W-D-L) including three league wins on the bounce. Our strikers have only contributed four goals in this run. It doesn’t matter if your midfield scores like Casanova.

*Spurs last won at the Stadium of Light almost 10 years ago with Christian Ziege and Teddy Sheringham the scorers in September 2001. Katie Price had not even popped out a kid yet.

*Match winner this week, match winner last week, the Croatian Saint Niko Kranjcar and his good lady wife Simona are expecting a baby in March 2011. We wish them all the very best. It’s unlikely Bolton and Sunderland are being considered as Christian names.

*The visit to the San Siro this week will be my 22nd European away trip following Spurs in either the UEFA Cup or Champions League. There have been many weird, wild and wonderful scenes on this journey. I can still vividly recall my first trip in Rotterdam....standing on my seat, clutching an Oranjeboom aged 10 as Tottenham and Feyenoord fans rioted in the adjacent stand. Spurs won 2-0 in the famous De Kuip beating a side fielding former great Johan Cruyff and future one Ruud Gullitt. The latter a legend for the Rossoneri.

*An away goal is absolutely critical in Milan. This season in the Champions League Spurs have scored two in Berne, two in Bremen, three in Milan (vs Inter) and three in Enschede including two own goals (any more charity on Tuesday night will be most welcome). The presence of the man dubbed Incredibale by the Italian press is critical. Enjoy the moment.

Stratford: White elephants on parade

2011-02-10T13:13:00.000-08:00

White elephants. David Sullivan and David Gold are quite familiar with them. I understand they once published a magazine featuring ‘big beasts’ au naturelle if that’s your thing. So the Olympic Stadium seems a perfect fit for these former porn magnates turned protectors of Olympic values. But it won’t take long before West Ham discover that an athletics track is an impossibility in a football stadium and make moves to tear it down. It’s a white elephant waiting to happen. What price the precious legacy then? Sebastian Coe (Lord....of what exactly?) better start running.

A football stadium with a running track doesn’t work. I have sat in one and watched the colourful ants on the field perform wild zig-zagging patterns. When the ants move to the centre-circle, you know there’s been a goal. Despite our intense (er, and local!) rivalry, West Ham are a great club with traditions not unlike our own. The Hammers always play football the right way and have a passionate hardcore and legends like Bobby Moore and Geoff Hurst who we can all sit back and admire.

But the continual rants of Sullivan and Gold and their double-chinned puppet Karren Brady do these fans little credit. I went from being ambivalent about the stadium move to hoping Spurs would win the bid having been antagonised by the non-stop media diatribe from these unpleasant people and the recognition that a redeveloped White Hart Lane sadly isn’t going to happen. I reiterate, if a club fails to sell out a home cup semi-final with a 36,000 capacity what hope is there of them filling 60,000 seats? The London taxpayer will eventually bear the brunt of West Ham’s failure to make the Olympic Stadium a success. Keep Talksport on speed dial.

You know a sport has limited interest when Sky Sports haven’t bid for it and that’s athletics to a tee. It’s a sport that has historically attracted steroid users and drug cheats extraordinaire. If you’re fast enough...maybe they won’t test your piss. The Olympics is a supposedly noble four-year sporting event but invariably invites jingoism and foul play. It’s always been a filthy, political plaything and little has changed. Think Hitler saluting the crowds in Berlin 1938, the dreadful massacre of Israeli athletes in Munich 1972 to smaller but unpalatable wrongs like hometown boxer Park-Si Hun being awarded a farcical points victory over the mercurial Roy Jones in Seoul 1988. At least the South Korean had the decency to apologise to Jones afterwards.

The Anti-Stratford movement chose to use the ‘news’ (the now classic cut and paste ‘BBC has learned/Sky Sports understands’) to crow, but they need to understand that no-one who supports Spurs has won - the Northumberland Development Project won’t happen. Daniel Levy has said as much and, with the new financial rules relating to club turnover soon to be implemented, a Spurs selling 36,000 seats has a significant disadvantage compared to an Arsenal selling out 60,000 seats. Even a club like Sunderland boasts 49,000 bum spaces. We are falling behind – this is no time to rejoice. Certainly not for the meagre 7,635 ‘Spurs fans’ (including West Ham supporters and many anonymous agitators) who signed the high profile, low take-up ‘We are N17’ petition. Supposedly this is a majority, but I was under the illusion we had more fans? And am I the only one who finds the irony in those Spurs fans who don’t support their local team talking about roots, tradition and community?

What makes me sick about football today is not Spurs looking to move from White Hart Lane to Stratford to compete against the corporate juggernauts who one has to defeat in order to win silverware...it’s the angry, rent-a-mouth fan, always agitated, wide-eyed with seething rage, but nothing constructive to offer. He can’t enjoy Spurs in the Champions League or the wonder of Bale, Modric and Van der Vaart. He’s on Twitter or Spurs messageboards perpetually unhappy and his sole purpose in life is to pass this negativity on like that swarm of black flies in ‘The Green Mile’.

This usually surreal, offbeat and light-hearted blog has always been intended as an antidote to the non-stop moaning on other blogs and messageboards by keyboard warriors and those who probably shrink in size when their wife or partner grabs the remote control. They scream so loudly and with such passion you might think they outnumber the sane ones among us, but they don’t. They merely have the time and inclination to shout. Following Spurs is supposed to be entertainment, not an endless source of misery and complaint. Try to enjoy it, please.

West Ham may win the Olympic Stadium bid tomorrow (subject to the inevitable legal challenge by Daniel Levy ;-)!!), but in four months the ‘winners’ may be toiling in the Championship and Spurs facing another decade in an ill-equipped, under capacity stadium with a restless 35,000 plus waiting list. That’s a victory for no-one.

Willie’s wind-ups - Part Trois!

2011-02-09T15:45:00.000-08:00

Bonjour, mes amis, c’est William Gallas! These international breaks, the time stands still, non? It is a time of solitude and contemplation at Chez Gallas since my international ‘retirement’. I might read Sartre and scribble thought-provoking existential notes on the page or breathe in the magic of Truffaut on my home cinema system while sipping a frothy Kronenbourg from my home bar. But my everyday pleasures are no more...lost in the slipstream of international football.... I can’t calm myself by platting Benoit’s hair or telling Luka a bedtime story. Long dark nights of the soul are not uncommon in these times.

There is only one thing that can lift my flagging spirits amid this bleakness. What is it, mon William, you ask? Why it is ripping le piss out of Samir Nasri!

Le set-up: Arsenal are 4-0 up in 26 minutes against a forlorn Newcastle outfit sans Andy Carroll. It is an embarrassment for the Cheryl Cole fanciers. But non! Voila le comeback! Un, deux, trois, quatre! The game finishes 4-4 and the most noble of draws. Your William pretends to be a clueless Thierry Henry and asks Samir the final score.

‘Thierry’: Bonjour, Samir, c’est Thierry! Le Arsenal legend Thierry Henry!

Samir: Ah, Thierry. Ca va.

‘Thierry’: Samir, I call with grave news. My wife has died.

Samir: Oh no, Thierry, this is dreadful. I was unaware you had remarried.

‘Thierry’: You dwarven fool. I said my wi-fi has died! But before le blackout my fading iPhone brought me great news...my beloved Arsenal were 4-0 up against Les Toon after a mere 26 minutes!!! The title is ours surely! Tell me, Samir, what cricket score did we rack up today....sept? Huit? Ah, it was dix!!! We beat the Tottenham record, I know it.

Samir: Thierry....I....Rosicky.

‘Thierry’: Merde.

Samir: Oui, Rosicky. It started to go wrong with Diaby’s tackle.

‘Thierry’: You are pulling my baguette? Diaby's tackle? Is this the guy celebrated, 84 times capped French international legend William Gallas used to laugh at in the shower?

Samir: We no longer speak of this man.

‘Thierry’: It is better days now Squillaci is here, I understand. But his run....it is a little girlish, you must admit. Premier League football is not a salad bar.

Samir: (A sobbing Nasri hangs up and watches the Twilight trilogy).*

Le merk!: In 2010, seamstresses in Peru created the largest ever pair of jeans measuring 141 feet tall (approximately 25 Samir Nasris) and 98 feet wide (approximately 32 Pat Rices) and weighing in at 7.5 tonnes (approximately 1/2 Nicklas Bendtner’s ego). I purchase and send these record-breaking jeans directly to the Emirates Stadium with a special touch. On the pocket stitched in lilywhite: ‘Property of William Gallas - will all Arsenal players form an orderly queue and climb in! 3-2, 3-2, you pansies!’ Ha ha!

*Actual conversation/events did not take place.

Tottenham: sex, lies and videotape

2011-02-05T17:28:00.000-08:00

Lies and mistruths are wonderful. You can make up anything in the UK and people will believe you if you repeat it often enough. I used to be married to Jose Dominguez’s younger sister, but the relationship broke down after we went on a fishing trip in Portugal and Jose pinched my sardine.

History is rewritten every week. A non-league side has never gone as far as Crawley in the FA Cup apparently. Except when non-league Spurs won it in 1901 (we have played like amateurs since – see last weekend), but don’t be burdened by the truth. Just say what you want. Chances are the person reading will be too lazy or ignorant to check.

Meanwhile, Ryan Babel, Fernando Torres and Pele III are in a helicopter somewhere circling your club’s training ground, football was born in China and Joey Barton is the best midfielder in the country. Those gems from Sky Sports, Sepp Blatter and, er, Mr. Barton. More truths; Jermaine Jenas is crap even when he plays well (see Saturday), Michael Dawson was suspended for three games after his red at Fulham (it was one) and Jermain Defoe is a practicing monk. Hopefully, the off-field scoring will rub off soon, JD. Please.

The misinformation continues to flow like house red in your local Pizza Express. Bolton manager Owen Coyle somehow transformed into the Scottish Steve Bruce in his post-match interview following Spurs’ last gasp victory, describing Daniel Sturridge’s pea-roller that squirmed under ‘He-Ho’ Gomes as a ‘good goal’ and Niko’s thunderbolt as a ‘mistake’.

Certainly, Gary Cahill (who superbly shackled Spurs' misfiring strikers) was clipped by Steven Pienaar in the box in the second half. It 'could have been a penalty'. But equally Spurs second spot-kick initially converted by Van Der Vaart 'could have been a goal'. I didn’t notice Mr. Coyle referencing the blatantly offside goal Kevin Davies scored at the Reebok Stadium in November. He needs to review the video (okay, DVD, Blu-Ray, M-peg) and change out of those disturbing shorts.

Oh, the sex? That was Spurs pin-up boy Niko Kranjcar’s sumptuous 92nd minute winner. Hopefully, Harry will give the Croatian boy a chance now. I'm a fan. He has talent and a welcome eye for goal. Want a laugh? According to a Bolton fan in The Observer, referee Mark Clattenburg deliberately added on enough time for Spurs to score the winner.....!!!

Spurs striker scores goal!

2011-02-03T04:49:00.000-08:00

The Mayan prophecy was true, the world is doomed. It is written in ancient scripture that a Tottenham striker will score on the second day of the second month in the 11th year of the third millennium. And so it came to pass.

The second part of the prophecy will see our world consumed in hellfire but until that toasty day let’s just enjoy a surprise Spurs win.

A striker scoring? The mere notion was dismissed as sheer fantasy by Spurs fans, but just as the Mayan soothsayers predicted two thousand years ago Peter Crouch netted and an injury depleted Tottenham triumphed 1-0 at the ‘Chicken Cottage’, Blackburn.

It was only Crouch’s second league goal of the season alongside a ‘handful’ for Roman Pavlyuchenko and a big fat zero for tiny lady magnet Jermain Defoe. Failure to secure a big name striker in the January transfer window had left Tottenham fans restless. Injuries to Luka Modric, Gareth Bale, Tom Huddlestone, Steven Pienaar and Younes Kaboul did little to lighten the mood.

Even manager Harry Redknapp expressed his concern at the striker drought as drastic measures were taken by the coaching staff.

“Bondy said to me on Sunday that our front men couldn’t score in a brothel so I told him to prove it,” confessed Redknapp. “He took Crouchy, JD and Pav to a ‘how’s your father’ establishment in Soho and Bondy was right. They all came out with frowns and IOUs. Thank god for those old Mayan fellas. ”

The alternative transfer window deadline day (Bryan Swanson free)

2011-01-30T16:05:00.000-08:00

11.33pm A last gasp snafu. Spurs miss out on Charlie Adam by a couple of minutes after two Blackpool shareholder signatures could not be found in time. The window closes, the madness ends. Phew! Goodnight and thanks for joining me......

10.54pm Spurs try to sign Blackpool midfielder Charlie Adam with six minutes to go in the window. 1 hour 6 minutes on Levy's naughty fax machine! Genius.

10.34pm Desperate times require desperate measures. Daniel Levy resets Spurs fax machine clock to 9.33pm. Not looking hopeful....

10.16pm The bars of Santander rejoice. Alcohol sponge Giovani Dos Santos has joined Spanish outfit Racing Santander on loan until the end of the season. Can 'Desperate Dan' pull a late rabbit out of the hat? Just don't be a Harewood......

9.02pm Emile Heskey fails Spurs medical after tripping over running machine.

8.34pm Kevin Bond wakes up and reality flips on its head. A mysterious helicopter lands at Spurs Lodge.

7.20pm Daniel Levy looks in his pocket for a small plastic cockerel he keeps as a 'totem'. It's not there. He suddenly considers this deadline day may not be real but part of Kevin Bond's mad dream.

7.07pm Rossi talks break down. Daniel Levy opens another pack of Match Attax for signing ideas. Worringly, Carlton Cole is in the packet along with Lucas Fabianski.

6.52pm Emile Heskey's helicopter is circling Norwich. "Don't land here," stress local airspace officials. Farmers with pitchforks take to the fields.

6.32pm Daniel Levy is deep in transfer talks with Rossi's agent in a local tapas bar. He is served anchovies on toast by none other than former Liverpool manager Rafa Benitez!

6.10pm Unconfirmed reports that Francis Rossi of Status Quo is in advanced talks with Daniel Levy in Villareal. Kevin Bond is having a nap.

5.51pm Never underestimate the power of the white wine spritzer. 'Desperate Dan' Levy has flown to Spain to sign someone who is good up front. Penelope Cruz's agent is unavailable for comment.

5.41pm Reports that Spurs have swooped for Porto's Colombian striker Falcao have been lost in translation. Sky Sports understands it is former hitman Mark Falco, 50, who impressed Harry Redknapp in a recent trial (doing his laundry).

5.15pm Tottenham's bid to sign Everton captain Phil Neville is foiled following a dispute over image rights.

4.28pm Spurs fail in late bid for Carroll. Veteran Vorderman turns down offer after dispute over add-ons.

4.04pm It's a no-go. Mido is rioting in Egypt. Nothing to do with the political situation. His local supermarket has run out of houmous.

3.51pm El Hadji Diouf is arrested on arrival at Stansted Airport for 65 separate offences. Emile Heskey's helicopter is refused permission to land in Birmingham. Carlton Cole enjoys a roast at the Dorchester. An intoxicated Daniel Levy makes a desperate bid for Tottenham old boy Mido.

3,35pm Sensational new Spurs striker target revealed at http://oi54.tinypic.com/160xut1.jpg

3.24pm Emile Heskey's helicopter is refused permission to land in London. Kevin Bond loses to Stipe Pletikosa in a tense game of 'Connect 4'.

3.20pm Inspired by Ian Holloway's 'bag of carrots' comment, Daniel Levy tables bids for a number of auburn-haired players including James Collins, Paul Kitson and former White Hart Lane hero Gary Doherty.

3.15pm On board his flight to London, El Hadji Diouf's gold lamé dressing gown is caught in the plane toilet door. Fortunately, a carefully placed toblerone protects his modesty. Daniel Levy orders another white wine spritzer.

3pm Carlton Cole 'mercs' West Ham newboy Robbie Keane by using his mobile to bombard Karren Brady with suggestive texts.

2.58pm Daniel Levy orders a white wine spritzer in Stansted Airport business lounge. Where is El Hadji Diouf? Emile Heskey's helicopter is refused permission to land in Newcastle, Sunderland and Glasgow.

2.41pm Richard Keys signs for Werewolfsburg Over-50s team in Germany.

2.38pm Emile Heskey is refused permission to land in Manchester, Liverpool, Blackburn, Wigan and Blackpool.

2.23pm Emile Heskey's helicopter takes to the skies. Stephen Bywater denies rumours of a move to Tottenham. "See you next Tuesday," he tells the Derby County tea lady.

2.07pm El Hadji Diouf tells an attractive BMI stewardess he is a pilot. "That's handy," she says, "because I'm shooting you down." A furious Diouf waves his toblerone.

2pm In a desperate attempt to force a transfer, new EDF energy customer Emile Heskey rents a helicopter.

1.54pm Jermain Defoe takes 'Showgirls' on loan from the Loughton Blockbuster.

1.45pm Carlton Cole tells a red-faced Robbie Keane he can't wait to meet David Gold's 'world class striker'.

1.41pm Emile Heskey's phone rings. A customer service employee from EDF Energy explains their winter price freeze.

1.38pm Daniel Levy changes the time on Tottenham's fax machine.

1.29pm El Hadji Diouf books into Manchester Airport wearing a gold lamé dressing gown. He is not searched by airport security. Diouf buys a toblerone for Daniel Levy.

1.09pm Emile Heskey waits anxiously by his phone. It does not ring.

1pm A fully nude El Hadji Diouf drives to Manchester Airport at 140mph. Daniel Levy thinks it would be fun to have an entirely bald team and tables bids for Andy Johnson, Brad Friedel, Stephen Ireland and Phillip Senderos among others.

12.53pm Spurs Olympic Stadium charm offensive backfires. A call to athletics legend Sally Gunnell accidentally leads to a bid for lookalike Diego Forlan.

12.40pm Richard Keys is told by his wife that he will not be 'hanging out the back of it' for some time. Andy Gray 'fools around' with a cucumber at his local Waitrose. "It's just banter," he tells a young female employee who arms herself with a can of Lynx.

12.31pm El Hadji Diouf takes off his shirt and walks into a strip club where he is stopped by a bouncer. "This is a topless bar, no?" rages Diouf.

12.23pm Carlton Cole walks into a door distracted by Robbie Keane's pointing and shouting. David Gold looks up from his copy of Razzle.

12.14pm Bryan Swanson understands basic algebra. Spurs ITKs say move for Turkish international 'Algebra' is a done deal.

12.02pm Back at the Spurs training ground, a terrified Heurelho Gomes is chased by a wasp. A Spurs ITK 'spots Benzema'....it's Alan Hutton in a ridiculous coat.

11.56am El Hadji Diouf winds down the window of his Mercedes SLR McClaren to spit at an elderly nun.

11.53am Gregorz Rasiak's agent receives a phone call and high-fives his client in jubilation. 'Welcome to the McDonald's family!'

11.46am Daniel Levy is nervous. He always gets this way before Bargain Hunt is on TV. He receives an obscene text from El Hadji Diouf.

11.37am Wilson Palacios gives the ball away to Steven Pienaar in training. Pienaar then gives the ball away to Palacios. This pattern continues for three straight minutes.

11.35am Blackburn immediately accept Spurs surprise bid for Diouf and the Senegalese shirt-puller heads to London for talks. He stops off at his favourite 'restaurant' Greggs to moon at the women behind the counter.

11.26am Harry Redknapp tells bemused homeless man he 'doesn't expect any business' before the end of the window. Giovani Dos Santos looks disappointed.

11.23am Daniel Levy goes into a newsagent and buys a pack of Match Attax. He opens the foil and lodges official bids for every player including Senegalese bad man El Hadji Diouf.

11.18am All around the country ITKs begin their arduous climb up trees near Premier League training grounds.

11.16am Carlton Cole misses an open goal in training.

2.22am Daniel Levy falls asleep soothed by Phil Collins' astute life commentary. What will the next 21 hours bring? Check back later for further updates and disappointment.

2.08am Daniel Levy plays 'Against all odds' by Phil Collins on his iPod. Ponders bid for Andy's 'younger brother' Carlton.

2.00am Daniel Levy turns off Babestation.

1.52am Harry Redknapp accidentally calls his wife 'Sandro' during pillow talk.

1.38am Wilson Palacios makes successful pass. It's wind.

1.27am Daniel Levy bids £17m for Andy Cole and is politely told he has retired by Cole's bleary-eyed agent. "For the night?," asks Daniel.

1.26am Phil Dowd makes bacon sandwich.

1.15am Joe Jordan headbutts bedstand.

1.11am Andy Carroll leaves bar, punches passing pigeon as it 'reminds me of a southern shite cockerel.'

1.08am Kevin Bond's nightlight goes out.

1.04am Daniel Levy turns on Babestation.

12.57am Daniel Levy sings 'East London is ours' in the bath. His wife banishes him to the sofa bed.

12.54am A worried Diego Forlan visits the toilet. His pee hurts.

12.50am Sergio Aguero sends bewildering SMS to Diego Forlan. 'What is a Hotspur? Is it contagious?'

12.46am Christian Gross' famous travelcard 'of dreams' is listed on eBay.

12.41am Karren Brady has 'sexist' dream.

12.25am Kevin Bond fills hot water bottle, accidentally burns hand.

12.23am Sergio Aguero Googles 'Tottenham Hotspur'.

12.21am Kevin Bond considers filling hot water bottle.

12.18am Robbie Keane kisses wife goodnight after joining 'boyhood club' West Ham United.

12.15am Kevin Bond makes ovaltine.

12.12am Super-agent Willie McKay adds Harry Redknapp to speed dial, beats Domino's deadline to order pepperoni pizza.

12.07am Daniel Levy bids £3.11 for an iPad on bid.tv. Sadly, this was not a unique bid as Kerry Katona bid the same.

12.02am Spurs linked to Ajax's Belgian centre-half and defensive midfielder Jan Vertonghen. His best mate is Thomas Vermaelen. Hopefully, his football skills are greater than his character judgments.

12am Check here for live updates throughout transfer deadline day. Bryan Swanson ist verboten!

Fulham were ‘hanging out the back of it’

2011-01-30T13:01:00.000-08:00

Will the easily offended please look away. Fulham ‘smashed it’ on Sunday and after 90 minutes they were ‘hanging out the back of it’. No doubt, former Sky Sports commentator and ‘werewolf-in-progress’ Richard Keys would approve.

This was a game where a toothless Spurs ran out of luck and lacked the strength in midfield or cutting edge up front to make inroads against an improved Fulham outfit. The long-term absence of Tom Huddlestone and temporary unavailability of Gareth Bale left Spurs’ midfield with an array of midgets who would be better served protecting the confectionery-related interests of William Wonka. The continuing omission of Niko Kranjcar is curious. Is Harry Redknapp (deep intake of breath) displaying ‘tall-ism’?

This cup tie was over as a spectacle within 15 minutes following kamikaze defending by the usually reliable Michael Dawson. Sadly, our likeable captain had an absolute shocker. His sloppy pass played in the paper-ankled Clint Dempsey for the first penalty. Hutton’s challenge merited a spot-kick, but Dempsey’s theatrical tumble made sure.

The hapless Dawson then clearly pulled back Dembele’s shirt in the area (having fortuitously got away with a carbon copy offence against Newcastle last week) and the portly Phil Dowd was so excited the red card literally flew out of his pocket, presumably because his chubby fingers were unable to negotiate such a small space. We wish the blubbery official luck in his continuing battle with obesity. By the ‘letter of the law’, Dowd was correct, but it’s a shame referees regularly fail to spot this infringement when Nemanja Vidic is the perpetrator. He could probably murder and receive a booking.

I had to blink a few times to make sure Gerry Francis wasn’t in charge. Tottenham’s tiny midfield was swamped and a nervy Gomes overwhelmed. The Brazilian’s hesitancy led to an unnecessary corner which the Norwegian behemoth Hangeland converted before Dembele finished superbly as Spurs players backed off in injury time.

There was no Gareth Bale and therefore no rip-roaring comeback. And so one dream is over, but amid the disappointment it’s important to remember a few others remain.

Luka Modric (fly like a G6)

2011-01-29T08:13:00.000-08:00

Spurs play Fulham on Sunday and hopefully our FA Cup will overfloweth with joy rather than fall flatter than Keira Knightley’s (A Cup) pancakes. A visit to Craven Cottage is one of the highlights of the away fan’s calendar, this compact stadium has great character (it’s rumoured Hansel and Gretel live in the cottage in the corner) and the view across the Thames is like no other in domestic football. It’s a lovely spot to sip a beer and devour a foot long hot dog.

The travelling Yid Army will be in good voice thanks to the many fine watering holes in close proximity and a skinful tempting 4.30pm kick-off, but our lack of original songs continues to grate. The same two or three chants are used again and again to celebrate new heroes and old. Where are our working class Lloyd-Webbers? Let’s have some fresh Tottenham tunes with a contemporary feel and sing Spurs into the fifth round (see suggestion below). “Bill Gallas, you’re a firework!?!?!”

'LUKA MODRIC' (FLY LIKE A G6)

Croatian spraying passes, like a wizard.
He could make goals in a desert or a blizzard.
Took us to the Champions League from the Top Six.
Oh how we love Luka, Luka Modric.
Luka Modric! Luka Modric!
Oh how we love Luka, Luka Modric.
Luka Modric! Luka Modric!
Oh how we love Luka, Luka Modric.

Redknapp toys with 'dwarf formation'

2011-01-23T11:27:00.000-08:00

Four-time Tottenham manager David Pleat analyses his former club’s tactics on the Premier League stage.

"Tottenham Hotspur’s last gasp equaliser at Newcastle United was a vindication of Harry Redknapp’s new ‘dwarf formation'.

"Steven Pienaar, Aaron Lennon, Jermain Defoe and Luka Modric are refused entry on most fairground rides, but they are also small enough to enjoy a bird’s eye view up a Geordie lass’s criminally short skirt. This was naturally unsettling for the passionate home crowd who are proud of the local ladies’ streetwalker fashion sense. The tension on ninety minutes was palpable.

"It is often said Peter Crouch doesn’t make the most of his height, but those in the game know he’s actually two players, one small man standing on another’s shoulders. Look for the kneecaps poking out of ‘Crouch’s’ match shirt. The less attractive man is at the bottom with the swarve Abi Clancy puller on top.

"It’s a fiendishly clever tactic perfected by two celebrated dwarf acrobats and inspired by the pantomime horse in 1980s kids programme Rentaghost. It also explains Crouch’s lack of basic co-ordination in front of goal. It’s hard to shoot with a small man on top of you. However, against Newcastle, the top Crouch ably backflicked a header to prowling lady magnet Defoe to tee up the zigzagging Lennon’s delightful equaliser.

"Speculation mounts as the transfer window closes and it has been suggested Redknapp is eyeing yet more little people including veterans Kenny Baker and Verne Troyer. Anyone who can stick a spherical leather object past a gloved man standing in a net would be most welcome."

Strat’s the way, uh-huh uh-huh, I like it!?!?

2011-01-21T06:34:00.000-08:00

Many of the Tottenham vs Stratford arguments have been inarticulate and prone to the kind of pointing and shouting you might expect between obese family members on The Jeremy Kyle Show. Those hoping for a calm, intelligent discussion between differing viewpoints have often been sorely disappointed. One brainiac even threatened to smash up anyone involved in Spurs' potential move to Stratford: “We will come round your houses,” he said darkly. That pink blur you saw was a toy being thrown out of a pram. At least, I hope it was.

I expect this 'supporter' was cheering wildly when that bint with a bedsheet interrupted half-time pints and pies during last Sunday’s game against Manchester United. I was less than impressed. There is no room for such protests during a Spurs match. Support your team in the stadium or wait for the next spontaneous fire extinguisher drop at Millbank.

The more angry the anti-Stratford movement becomes, the more they push me and those in the middle ground or wavering Eastwards. Few arguments are won by pointing and shouting (Google ‘free kicks won by Robbie Keane’ on the internet, if you don’t believe me). I have total solidarity for those who were born or have roots in Tottenham and the surrounding area. Their sincerity and reasoning in wishing Spurs to remain in N17 is beyond dispute.

There are many coherent arguments for staying in Tottenham, but too few have been articulated. Screaming 'You're not Tottenham!' at anyone with an opposing view does not present a compelling case. I heard a rare, fine point on ‘The Spurs Show’ where one fan talked movingly about Bill Nicholson’s ashes being sprinkled at White Hart Lane and asking, ‘Would he have wanted to move to Stratford?' Emotive, but in a positive and poignant way. Why is White Hart Lane so special? I like to think back to one of my greatest nights as a Spurs fan. I was a young whippersnapper at the 1984 UEFA Cup final second leg when Graham Roberts lifted that big silver vase after an electric night at our famous stadium. The hairs stand up on the back of my neck when I remember that epic shoot-out, the Spurs supporters proudly singing Danny Thomas' name seconds after he missed a cup-winning penalty. Did the Chelsea fans do that for John Terry at the Champions League Final? You know the answer.

Identical twins were sat behind me on the final Anderlecht penalty. One could not bare to look, the other kept his eyes firmly on the pitch as Tony Parks prepared to face the crucial spot-kick. Seconds later, absolute bedlam; Eidur Gudjohnsen’s dad missed the penalty and Eidur Gudjohnsen’s mum duly burst into tears in the row in front of me.

Can this place of such magical memories be laid to waste? Sadly, it will be torn down regardless. Football is a business now, of course. It’s not Daniel Levy’s job to regenerate a rundown North London wasteland. He is, however, a renowned ballbreaker around the business table. His brinkmanship in the transfer market is legendary. Opposing chairmen must dread a Levy phone call. Indeed, former Spurs Chairman Alan Sugar (who has also backed the Stratford move) described Levy as the hardest man he has ever done business with. ‘Praise’ indeed. If Levy can save £1 million on the stadium build, you know he will. I have heard arguments that the revised plans for the Northumberland Park Development will ‘only’ cost a further £X million* (*the true figure is in dispute and open to debate)? Would these fans spend millions of their own money when a cheaper alternative was viable? Probably not.

This is a case of business interests versus self-serving politicians with cold logic and over-heated emotions torn somewhere inbetween. Let’s look at the positives again. We finally have the wonderful team we deserve after countless years of dross and underachievement (epitomised, for me, by a £5 million Ben Thatcher). It’s no coincidence this rise in fortunes has happened on ENIC’s watch after the dark Sugar years. When Levy and co took over Spurs in 2001, the club was choking on its own underachievement. Rafael van der Vaart would have only stopped in Tottenham to buy a kebab after driving back from Highbury. Now we are competitive again and trailblazing in the Champions League; I no longer have to hide my Spurs programme inside a copy of Razzle on the tube journey home. I love it.

Spurs have unfortunately been drawn into the murky world of sport-politics. A single serving athletics venue for the only London Olympics in our lifetime is a farce of a ‘legacy’. Great word that ‘legacy’, one FIFA loves to band around while hawking the World Cup to the highest bidder. The Olympic Stadium is the biggest architectural embarrassment since the cringeworthy Millennium Dome. That white elephant was eventually revitalised and turned profitable by AEG and now stands as the glorious O2 Arena, arguably the best entertainment venue in Europe. And who are Spurs’ partners in the proposed Stratford project....none other than AEG. Could lightning strike twice? Should it? I don't pretend to know the answer.

West Ham’s proposal including an athletics track in a football stadium is laughable, but what would you expect from former porn impresarios Davids Gold and Sullivan, a two-day old sandwich has more substance. Part of me would like West Ham’s ‘Chuckle Brothers’ to lose the Olympic Stadium bid just to watch the life drain from their smug faces like the baddies in 'Raiders of the Lost Ark'. You never know, Karren Brady may be forced into a glamour shoot to ‘make ends meet’. I won’t be buying that issue.

The Hammers can’t fill a 35,000 stadium for a home cup semi-final at reduced prices. The fanbase is just not there. West Ham moving into the Olympic Stadium would be like a gypsy living in a six-bedroomed house with similarly damaging results.

That’s not to say Spurs should win the bid either. A serious reservation for me is leaving South London club Arsenal as the only remaining North London club. However, those who live in North London (like I do) know that the majority of fans in the area already support the Gunners. So the effect would be most pronounced in the inevitable (and justifiable) mocking songs from our great rivals.

So what’s the solution? Either path leads to unhappiness and unfortunate friction between our fans. First of all, local MP David Lammy needs to consider his words more carefully and let positive actions do the talking. Haringey Council has to see Tottenham as a privilege and not a right and come to a middle ground solution on the additional costs of the new stadium. It is borderline arrogant to suggest that a private enterprise such as THFC, which is the financial lifeblood of the area, should be held to ransom to regenerate it in the midst of a recession. Businesses run on sentiment last no longer than a year.

I would like to see Spurs remain in Tottenham but not at the risk of the club’s long-term financial health and ability to compete at the highest level. Whatever is the best cost-effective option, I support whole-heartedly. None of us truly know which stadium best fulfils that criteria as the air is heavy with political bluster and overblown sentiment.

It would have been better for Spurs fans had Paris, the logical choice, won the bid for 2012 Olympics. The plan for the Olympic Stadium and its legacy was poorly conceived at best. In an ideal world, Stratford would probably remain as a deserted 60,000 athletics venue with tumbleweeds instead of West Ham fans. This way the politicians and self-serving decision makers would be crushed under the weight of their own white elephant.

This won’t happen though. What will, is my undying support of Spurs, be it in Tottenham or Stratford. I hope you’ll join me there.

Rooney ‘blanked’ in Tottenham

2011-01-16T13:18:00.000-08:00

The grandfathers of the nation’s capital breathed a collective sigh of relief on Sunday night as Wayne Rooney left London.

“We don’t like him and his sort,” croaked local pensioner Alfie Cornwallet, 77. “We call ‘em ‘silver surfers’. They nick our best birds because they have a bit of cash and a working immune system. The bastards even join SAGA and turn up on senior coach holidays wearing grey wigs and Brut aftershave. It ain’t right.”

Rooney’s lack of success on and off the pitch led to a petulant yellow card and bout of foot-stomping as mop-headed Brazilian Rafael saw red for the type of desperate lunge you used to associate with Ritzy’s nightclub at chucking out time. He should have been dismissed earlier for attempting to mount Wilson Palacios without the offer of dinner and a movie.

Spurs were marginally the better team, but the United defence, expertly marshalled by Nemanja Vidic and Rio Ferdinand, stood firm in the face of persistent pressure rather than clearcut chances. Veteran William Gallas was again majestic alongside skipper Michael Dawson in what looks like our preferred partnership at the back. Since Dawson’s return from serious injury, we’ve seen more clean sheets than a Persil ad. It feels good for those of us who remember the human sieve Stuart Nethercott.

Luka Modric, as always, was the sublime prompter and passer (he is the heartbeat which makes Spurs tick) whereas Aaron Lennon showed encouraging spark on the right flank, but Tottenham lacked the slice of fortune or brilliance that would have claimed an overdue three points against the league leaders and title favourites.

There were no Manchester United penalties, offside/rule-breaking goals, Tottenham red cards or unnoticed Spurs shots over the line. Howard Webb and Mark Clattenburg were tonight unavailable for comment.

Modric mistaken for God

2011-01-10T05:29:00.000-08:00

If you see Luka Modric, bow down and genuflect. Apparently, the mini-Croatian can turn water into wine and produce enough loaves to put your local Greggs out of business. He might visit your foxy daughter in a shower of rain and seal an immaculate conception. Keep her indoors unless you fancy a mini-playmaker of your own.

Yes, it was Charlton, but the simple introduction of Modric turned Sunday’s FA Cup encounter on its head like a Joey Barton lunge. The qualities of Rafael Van der Vaart and Gareth Bale are undeniable, but with far less fanfare the Croatian schemer is Tottenham’s player of the season to date. The midfield flows through him like the reincarnation of Ossie Ardiles.

The starting midfield was, until that point, unbalanced; the defensively minded Wilson Palacios and rough diamond Sandro did not have the offensive ability or inclination to be brave and take risks against lower league opposition determined to defend en masse and hoping to sneak a goal on the counter.

You might think Palacios would gain some confidence or show some quality against inferior players, but there was no discernable difference. The king of the misplaced pass still managed to find opposing players with his poorly-conceived delivery. It appeared significant that the experienced Honduran was subbed at half-time rather than the rookie Sandro and the young Brazilian looked bright alongside Modric and livewire debutant Andros Townsend in the second half where Spurs suddenly threatened to score a hatful.

The transfer window is wide open and the associated hysteria in full flow and it seems Robbie Keane, David Bentley and Giovani Dos Santos will be heading out. With Tom Huddlestone and Sandro more reliable 'defensive' options alongside the magician Modric, I think it’s time for Wilson to follow.

Police hunt for Bale attacker

2011-01-06T04:46:00.000-08:00

Police in Liverpool are searching for a man after superstar footballer Gareth Bale was assaulted near Stanley Park on Wednesday evening.

Superintendent Billy Burns, Merseyside Police, picks up the story: “At around 9.20pm, we received a call from a very distressed Brazilian gentleman claiming his friend’s life was in danger from an ‘angry blue man’.

“The photofit of the suspect is quite frankly hideous,” continued Burns. “He has a face like curdled milk with scarecrow hair that has been combed down to present the illusion of humanity, and a dead look in his eyes which suggests he has witnessed hell itself. The person of interest was wearing a blue short-sleeved top and white jogging shorts featuring the numbers ‘1’ and ‘8’.

*** Merseyside Police Update *** “Following exhaustive enquiries we have identified the suspect as footballer Phil Neville and found he has no case to answer,” confirmed Superintendent Burns. “We can’t send someone to prison for being a simple wanker....as much as we’d like to. Matchdays are a busy time for us already as robbing footballers’ houses during games is an important part of the local economy.

“It seems the witness of South American origin is easily worried. He also claimed a member of the 'Real IRA' had chucked a handgrenade at him on the very same evening. We have CCTV footage that clearly proves this was nothing more than a tame header from Seamus Coleman.”

# In a Premier League football match on Wednesday, Tottenham Hotspur succumbed to relentless second half pressure against an inspired Everton side. However, despite the 1-2 reverse, the Londoners remain well-placed in fourth.

Angry scenes mar Fulham game

2011-01-02T04:27:00.000-08:00

Tottenham’s 11th match unbeaten was marred by trouble in the away end.

A member of the Fulham firm, who is also a regular poster on Mums.net, explained. “Tensions were high. Those seats at the front didn’t have cushions or drink holders. The wheels of two Bugaboo prams got locked on the concourse and then all hell broke lose. Even the babies were arguing in their own high-pitched language. St. John’s Ambulance had to tend to one Cottager who was struck down by a flying dummy.

“The refreshment facilities were a disgrace. We asked for Patatas Bravas and they said he wasn’t working today. Many of us decided to boycott the match and return to Putney in protest. Unfortunately, it took us two hours to find a black cab, let alone hail one.”

Spurs' performance lacked the sparkle of previous games, but like all good teams they got the job done despite a bright display from the visiting side. The returning William Gallas slotted in seamlessly at the back and won the free-kick which goal machine Gareth Bale converted with an adroit header.

The rock-like Michael Dawson showed admirable composure with a crucial goal-line clearance when Fulham seemed destined to equalise while Luka Modric excelled once more in the middle of the park. Often Modric is surrounded by a forest of three or four players, but somehow he always skips through them and finds a Spurs player in a dangerous position.

The transfer window is now open and a desperate Robbie Keane is stuck in the frame, halfway in, halfway out. This game illustrated yet again Spurs' need for a top class replacement. Matters will improve when Jermain Defoe returns from suspension, but the sky is the limit if we can conjure up a Benzema, Suarez or Fabiano in January. Over to you, Mr. Levy.

Spurs 2 Newcastle 0: Cheeky’s clean sheets

2010-12-29T03:01:00.000-08:00

My mate Cheeky comes to two Spurs games a season. Bizarrely, this always coincides with a Tottenham clean sheet. No-one knows why this happens, but it does. It’s a natural phenomenon like the Northern Lights or the image of Jesus appearing on a sour cream Pringle.

Cheeky chooses a random match to fit in with his hectic schedule as an EU human rights lawyer in Brussels and bosh...Spurs don’t concede. Considering Tottenham’s sieve-like backline and no Premier League clean sheets since the opening day of the season....surely this freakish statistic would be tested against a feisty Newcastle outfit spearheaded by the dangerous man-mountain Andy Carroll? You know the scoreline.

Even with 10 men Cheeky’s clean sheet record remained untouched. Younes Kaboul’s foolish, if understandable, reaction to Newcastle’s persistent and unpunished fouling could not affect the outcome and for the second game in succession Spurs triumphed with depleted numbers as Joey Barton’s family tree was debated at length in the stands.

The superb Luke Modric, yet again, pulled the strings in midfield. Boy wonder Bale grabs the headlines and virtuoso Van der Vaart the glory, but the tireless work and ever-present guile of the pint-sized Croatian makes Spurs tick. It’s a delight to have these three genuine world class players at the club. Tottenham’s unbeaten run stretches to 10.

As Cheeky left White Hart Lane reflecting in the glory of yet another clean sheet, our steward tapped him on the arm and pleaded: “Please, please come again!”

*** The Lust Doctor would like to wish a Happy and Healthy New Year to the loyal readers of this blog. Let’s hope 2011 can emulate the joy and wonder of 2010. Come on you Spurs!

Villa 1 Spurs 2: James Collins poleaxed by tiny, tiny man

2010-12-27T03:29:00.000-08:00

A 27-year-old man is recovering on his black leather sofa after being mugged in Birmingham on live television last night. 6ft 4ins Welshman James Collins was struck down at Villa Park by the cat-like Jermain Defoe by what is known in kung fu circles as the ‘pop tart’ technique.

There were concerns that Collins’ milky good looks might be permanently damaged by his 5ft 7ins attacker’s tiny, child-like arm.

Collins' agent Ivor D’enjin said: “James does a lot of modelling, airfix and other pop-in plastic sculptures, but he’ll be going nowhere near a Sherman crab tank after this attack. Defoe is quite intimidating. Look at his list of previous girlfriends...Danielle Lloyd, Imogen Thomas, Charlotte Mears, the entire female clientele of Faces and your average ginger Taff can’t compete. James would be happy with a 39-year-old divorcee hairdresser from Swansea. And yes, that’s an open invitation to any interested parties. Ladies with facial tattoos will be considered.”

Last night a friend of Defoe’s leapt to his defence without using a flailing arm. “Jermain is used to handling orange women, but this is the first time he’s got to grips with an orange-haired man. He discovered they go down just as easily.”

*** In the match, Premier League title chasers Tottenham (ahem) won 2-1 with two deft finishes from returning Dutch master Rafael Van der Vaart. Ironically, Defoe’s dismissal meant Spurs defended deeper negating the pace of the dangerous Agbonlahor and they looked tighter at the back with 10 men. The Tottenham keepball at the end of the first half was a joy to behold as was the renaissance of Wilson Palacios as a midfield enforcer. The Defoe sending off was harsh as was Kaboul's disallowed goal after Hutton's astute cutback. Yet top teams come through adversity and find a way to win. And that's what Spurs are now, a top team. Enjoy it.

John White homage released by 'The Branco Heist'

2010-12-14T05:35:00.001-08:00

John White, one of Spurs' greatest ever players and star of the legendary double team of 1960/61, has been immortalised in music by band-to-watch 'The Branco Heist'. The brilliant Scot was tragically struck down by lightning in 1964 aged just 27 years old.

The song 'Ghost' is available on iTunes from December 16th. The band have already sold out their launch gig at the O2 Islington Academy ahead of a tour in early 2011 with an album due in the Spring.

Spurs fan/bass player Al McHardy said: "This isn’t a track about football, but more about a unique tragedy of someone who was cut down in their prime, and there’s something very simple for anyone to take from that."

Gomes, you crazy diamond

2010-12-13T07:32:00.000-08:00

Heurelho Gomes is not a brave man (he’d probably wimp out in an arm wrestle with Christopher Biggins), yet you can’t help but love the big galoot. Gomes is pure theatre. One minute he is writhing on the ground in agony from a challenge that would require the application of a band aid for the average six-year-old, the next he is plucking a goal-bound effort from the sky.

Gomes' flakiness often (unfairly) draws more attention than his excellence. But while his form has not hit the dizzy heights of last season his saves still far outnumber his bloopers. During Sunday’s 1-1 draw with Chelsea, ‘Gomo’ made two fine stops (a ridiculous own goal attempt by Wilson Palacios and a fizzing effort by Didier Drogba), before the familiar eccentricity kicked in.

Spurs were holding the resurgent blues 1-0 twenty minutes from time when Michael Dawson appeared to have dragged the impressive Drogba too wide for a goalscoring opportunity yet the Ivorian’s shot somehow cannoned off the big Brazilian keeper and looped painfully into the net. The madness wasn't over.

Deep in injury time, Gomes needlessly brought down child-like compatriot Ramires in the box for what felt like the 100th penalty awarded at White Hart Lane this season. And it went the way of most of the rest with Gomes diving superbly to palm away the bemused Drogba’s spot-kick. Amazingly, dozens of Spurs fans in the Paxton End were streaming for the exits as soon as the penalty was awarded. Oh ye of little faith.

And so a draw that felt like two points dropped became like a point gained and another madcap chapter was written in Gomes folklore.

Heurelho, you give us heart attacks and CPR in equal measure, but we still love you. Shine on, you crazy diamond.

Match of the Day exclusive: Bale joins United!

2010-12-10T16:50:00.000-08:00

I like browsing the shelves of my local newsagent. I often look out for the piles of unsold Arsenal magazines and place a rival publication over the top of Theo Walcott’s gurning, underachieving mug to dissuade potential purchasers. It’s a simple case of re-administering karma.

So imagine my surprise when I noticed the cover of the latest 'Match of the Day' magazine featuring none other than Gareth Bale wearing a Manchester United shirt! I’m so glad the BBC and its affiliate magazines continue to spunk our license fee money up the wall with joyful abandon. It’s Saturday...so bring on Brucie and the dancing tarts!

The offending magazine was sealed in plastic so I couldn’t tell you if Nani was pictured inside wearing a girl’s blouse or whether Sir Alex Ferguson’s head had been pasted on to Rab C. Nesbitt’s body. I do know Fergie is more likely to be wandering the streets of Govan pissed in a string vest than Bale playing for United in 2011.

So Spurs fans, don’t buy your kids 'Match of the Day' magazine, bury all copies under bags of Werthers Original and drive those feckless photoshoppers to the local job centre, where they belong with Rab and the rest.

***Meanwhile, Gareth Bale ‘the Tottenham player’ is in the running for the UEFA.com Team of the Year 2010. Unfortunately, he is up against the rather useful Andres Iniesta! But you can still make a difference by voting for the Welsh wunderkind at http://en.uefa.com/community/teamoftheyear/index.html

***The Lust Doctor was in Enschede this week (preserved in ice briefly). Brutally cold weather and an eccentric referee could not deny Spurs top spot in arguably the toughest of Champions League groups. From the madness of Berne to the brilliance of Bale with an avalanche of goals and a humbling of the European champions, this has been a journey like no other. And it ain't over yet....'Wembley, Wembley, Tottenham Hotspur are going to Wembley'?

Wikileaks: Stunning revelations from White Hart Lane

2010-12-04T11:27:00.000-08:00

In his most shocking revelations to date, Julian Assange lifts the lid on some truly incredible events at Tottenham Hotspur FC.

***This is not William Gallas’ first season on Spurs’ payroll. Agent Gallas was working undercover at the Emirates for four years. Bill was instrumental in creating four straight trophyless seasons at Arsenal before returning home in triumph to his parent club.

***Former Spur Lee Young-Pyo ‘aka Wipey’ was, in fact, a North Korean intelligence officer sent to report on the English way of life. Wipey was often bemused by what he saw. He observed in 2007: “Life here is curious and unexplainable. The one known as Mido regularly eats his own weight in kebabs. Keane suffers from severe Tourettes and can often be seen pointing and shouting uncontrollably at no-one in particular. Chimbonda has the mind and motor skills of a three-year-old child.”

***Harry Redknapp has engaged in no financial irregularities or tapping up of players and is a fine tactician. He is the best Spurs manager since Keith Burkinshaw. However, the proposed Joe Cole deal was a despicable red herring to seal the Rafael Van der Vaart transfer, according to long-time government mole Kevin ’007’ Bond.

***Roman Pavlyuchenko often appears to be slow and uninterested in games. This is a clever ruse often used by Russian spies. Roman (nicknamed at home ‘The Rocket of Mother Russia’) can actually run 100 metres in 10.24 seconds, but moves slowly so he can secretly video watching diplomats in the West Stand via a tiny pinhole-sized camera inserted in the eye of his cockerel motif.

***Birmingham have lost once at home in their last 28 games, spanning 14 months and defeated Chelsea in their last league game at St.Andrews. They are harder to crack than a walnut from the previous Christmas. A 1-1 draw was not a bad result for a Spurs team in fine form (unbeaten in six games) and with 10 injured players mumbling on the sidelines. Tottenham are one point behind last season’s tally at the same point last year (where we also sat, hawk-like, in fifth place) and our Champions League odyssey will continue in 2011. All is going according to plan, comrades.

***The Lust Doctor has sanctioned the immediate capture and torture of enemy operative Samir Nasri, in contravention of the Geneva Convention. Agents Freund and Van den Hauwe have been despatched.

Spurs 2 Liverpool 1: ‘Afternoon delight’

2010-11-29T05:56:00.000-08:00

Spurs come from behind more often than Ron Jeremy. Sixteen precious Premier League points have been secured from losing positions this season and the rip-roaring, Bale-inspired comeback at the San Siro illustrated that Tottenham remain dangerous at virtually any scoreline. Whisper it, sides are beginning to fear us. Let's dare to dream and reach for the sky.

These are heady days for Tottenham fans. The injury list to key players lengthens, but still the team finds ways to win. On Sunday afternoon, the mercurial Luka Modric was at the fulcrum of Spurs’ resurgent second half showing against an improved Liverpool outfit. At the back, Bill Gallas has had more partners than Kate Moss yet new BFF Sebastian Bassong was outstanding, twice denying the off-colour Fernando Torres.

Like any top side, Tottenham rode their luck. At 0-1 just before half-time, Liverpool twice sauntered through the Spurs backline via Maxi Rodriguez and Torres yet failed to capitalise. It was what I always call ‘The Moment’...the missed, gilt-edged chance(s) where fortunes shift. Helder Postiga’s two botched one-on-ones at Highbury in the Goons’ ‘Invincibles’ season are a textbook example of ‘The Moment’. Already 1-0 up via Darren Anderton...we should have been out of sight. But, as we know, that Post-man rarely delivered.

And so it proved to be another ‘Moment’. Spurs took full advantage of this fortune and somehow managed to squander another spot-kick into the bargain. Maybe we should let Gomes take the penalties. At least there would be some comedy value and, you never know, he might actually score (all wives of mating age must then be made available to Heurelho after the full-time whistle).

Little Luka is in quite scintillating form and it was no surprise that the diminutive midfielder sparked the comeback. The Croatian schemer surged through a red crowd of players to deflect the ball off the flailing Martin Skrtel before Aaron Lennon scampered away in the game’s dying embers to slot past Pepe Reina. Cue bedlam!

Arsenal have always been the self-proclaimed kings of football entertainment. ‘Second to Barcelona’ is the line you often hear parroted on gastropub leather sofas by men with unfeasibly small hands. But for pure adrenalin and breathless entertainment, you know where to come.

Sky rockets in flight.....afternoon delight!

‘Yes to Stratford'

2010-11-25T03:31:00.000-08:00

We are most likely to hit a ‘double dip’ recession next year. Therefore paying top whack for a new stadium to regenerate a rundown area in north London with no public money (unlike the Emirates and Wembley) makes little sense in the current economic climate.

The fact that White Hart Lane is often less easy to access than the South Pole explains why Captain Scott never became a Spurs fan. He wouldn’t have made it past Bruce Grove.

The weekly frustration of a suspended tube line, substandard rail services and mind-numbing traffic and the 25 minute zombie procession to Seven Sisters Tube Station are testing enough with 35,000 plus fans...how could this ramshackle infrastructure possibly accommodate 56,000 supporters?

Spurs now have a successful team, three genuine world class players (Bale, Van der Vaart and Modric), defeated Arsenal in two successive league games and qualified for the last 16 of the Champions League. A shift in power is looming. Is it really worth mortgaging a bright future and dropping into greater debt to stay in Tottenham (where so few of our fan base actually have roots)?

Is the ‘No to Stratford’ campaign an intelligent use of time by Spurs fans? ‘Stratford’ is still most likely a bargaining chip by Chairman Daniel Levy. Do you really think he would reveal that to local MP David Lammy or the media? That would be like playing poker with your cards 'face up'. Mr. Levy is simply exploring the best option for our club...why not wait until a concrete decision is made before starting the ‘lillywhite revolution’?

Wherever Spurs go, I will follow. I support the team, not the stadium.

Yes to Stratford. If that’s what’s best for our club.

*** I have had a few supernatural experiences and witnessed a possible UFO in Belsize Park, but last night at White Hart Lane my eyes took in something far more unlikely. A clean sheet. And not the type with a Scooby Doo ghostie floating inside.

That’s right. Remember where you were on 24th November 2010. TOTTENHAM DID NOT CONCEDE A GOAL. Heurelho Gomes did not injure his back stretching to pick the ball from the back of his net. He can probably shag your wife now.

Goons 2 Spurs 3: The best ****ing game ever

2010-11-21T04:19:00.000-08:00

I must confess....I am still fairly pissed right now. But I am seriously loving it. I think it’s the feeling of something special, wondrous, alien. We’ve been through some major crap in the North London Derby as Spurs fans. Not the fakers, the real die-hards who turn up week in and week out with dreams in our hearts and fear in our bellies.

We’ve been taunted in pubs, mocked at Barmitzvahs, lambasted at Burger Kings. We’ve furtively tucked our Spurs programmes inside copies of Razzle and we’ve been bitterly disappointed in this fixture, again and again and again. But stand proud and tall, my beloved Yids, look life in the face with a gleam in your eye because...this was OUR day.

I told you Bill Gallas was a nutty legend. And I was right. He’s le grand croissant. Respect and love to the French maestro. Gallas looked the weasel-faced Nasri in the eye and thought, ‘I will not let this bastard win.’ He marshalled rough diamond Younes Kaboul through the mad periods and in a wonderful irony it was our French players who creped all over Arsene’s doorstep.

In 2008, Spurs drew 4-4 with two last gasp goals and I recalled a small kid who stood with us like a lucky mascot and revelled in the glory. Two years later, the same, almost mystical, child was sat bang in front of me at the Emirates and I yammered incoherently at my girlfriend: “It’s the kid! It’s the kid! He’s here! It’s an omen! Something special is going to happen!”

At 0-2 down at her first ever football match, I looked like a fool and spookily, almost knowingly, she smiled at told me Spurs would win 3-2. You know the joyful madness that followed. I was calm at 0-2, hopeful at 1-2, hyper at 2-2, gibbering like a loon at 2-3 and pointing at the sky.

When Kaboul glanced in the third pandemonium broke out. A 13 stone guy flew through the air and landed in the row in front of us. He continued celebrating flat on his back blissfully oblivious of the bruises to follow. The whistle blew and all hell broke lose. Crestfallen Gooners chucked coke and tiny objects, but we didn’t care. North London was ours. We will make a DVD.

We refused to leave the Emirates. Instead, we composed new songs like working class Lloyd-Webbers, hugged friends old and new. We puffed imaginary cigars and danced provocatively to the fury of the Arsenal’s well-to-do fan base filtering out of the stands in an agonised, almost deathly procession.

Eventually, some thirty minutes later they kicked us out. A marketing company gave us free deodorants outside the Emirates and delirious Spurs fans ran down the surrounding streets spraying them in the air. Deep in Arsenal territory hidden Yids somehow emerged from top windows dangling Spurs flags. A policeman suddenly stopped, smiled and shook my hand. It was Jason who sits directly behind me at White Hart Lane. What are the odds?

The celebrations will last until at least Wednesday afternoon and beyond to the next North London derby. Treasure every last moment. Live a little. Buy some champagne, treat the missus or mistress to a fancy meal, donate something meaningful to the charity of your choice. Mark this grand occasion in whatever way you will. But hang on to that feeling.

But remember not every Arsenal fan is a soulless fool. After the mayhem, some pals and I were stood in a pub packed with Gooners, drinking in the majesty of the occasion and chanting Spurs songs. The atmosphere was convivial, non-confrontational. A guy in a red and white scarf sauntered over and extended a friendly, congratulatory hand as he left the pub, “Well done, fellas, you deserved to win.” It was a sporting touch, fitting of such a victory.

Thanks mate. We did. It was the best fucking game ever.

Where is the Lust Doctor?

2010-11-15T14:54:00.000-08:00

The man with boy band hair and psycho shades is unbelievably busy at the moment. He freed that couple held by Somalian pirates with his own moolah in a murky Mogadishu coffee house. He's also moonlighting as Andy Carroll's legal representation and, in his rare spare moments, is working wonders as Wagner's singing coach. But your Lust Doctor is able to take a brief interlude from his manic lifestyle to bring you these latest headlines.

Chicken eater crocked

So Tom Huddlestone is out for three months. Great news for Loughton KFC, bad news for the rest of us. However, Jermaine Jenas' lung-busting performance versus Big Sam's 'Blackandblueburn' is a cause for genuine encouragement. The fully fit JJ is, somewhat surprisingly, a man reborn this season...the 'marmite' midfielder has never looked so consistent in Spurs colours. The arrival of new fall guy Bill Gallas has surely taken a weight off his colt-like shoulders. Jenas was the MOTM on Saturday so Hudd's loss may not be as crippling as some doom merchants believe.

Special privileges

Roman Pavlyuchenko bewilderingly missed an open goal against Blackandblueburn and moments later the crowd were chanting his name. The enigmatic Russkie was then (somehow) psyched out by ex-Spurs loon Pascal Chimbonda and sliced a penalty haplessly wide. Still Roman never lost the support of the lillywhite masses...which is as it should be for all Spurs players. Yet had 'Two metre' Peter Crouch blundered in similar circumstances it is unlikely the lanky loverman would have experienced equivalent man-love. Football, like life, isn’t fair.

Spurs are on their way to..Stratford!?!

2010-11-10T04:19:00.000-08:00

Go East! To where the pikeys roam!
Go East! Yidos and make your home.
Go East! Life is, er, peaceful there.
Go East! A breeze ruffles Nick Griffin’s hair.

(Together) We’ll pop those bubbles flying high.
(Together) V-sign Haringey Council goodbye.
(Together) We’ll eat our weight in jellied eels.
(Together) Laugh at Dave Gold’s agonised squeals.

(Come on, come on, come on)
(Go East)

As Haringey Council flutters like her eyelashes like a girl who prefers the chase to the 'slap and tickle', Dan ‘The Man’ Levy and his hip hop pal AEG are at the bar nursing Courvoisiers and eyeing up that Essex girl from Stratford. The old bird in North London just doesn’t cut it any more.

The new girl looks mighty fine. Renowned East London geezers Dave ‘Second Hand’ Gold and ‘Dildo’ Davey Sullivan might not like the sharp-suited North Londoners stepping to their local attraction, but they don’t have the game to make an impression.

The North London bird allows limited access. She’s always blocking entry via the Victoria Line, North Circular and White Hart Lane Station. But the new Essex lady will allow 60,000 plus geezers freedom to roam if they can bear her dodgy postcode.

Is the old North London bird (as sources suggest) about to be binned? Will we miss her?

Spurs vs Sunderland in a nutshell. Frustrating 1-1 draw on a bitterly cold night of transport chaos. Spurs peppered the goal like a new steak without joy in the first half. Sunderland scored with their first proper shot on 67 minutes after a mind-numbing defensive gaffe. Sunderland players were required to murder to earn a booking. Howard Webb was Howard Webb. Don’t blame individuals. We need a striker. Jog on.

The Hangover II

2010-11-07T04:35:00.000-08:00

How is this for a movie pitch? Synopsis: Set in picturesque Bolton, where the wind from the Pennines blows down your neck like a drunken bint in a mini-dress, our heroes go for a crazy afternoon in the North West still trying to piece together how they got there. Mike Tyson’s tiger fails a late fitness test (it’s a shame...he would have added considerable bite to the midfield) and the guys spend the rest of the afternoon looking for the missing Wilson Palacios. Unfortunately, Lee Chung-Yung is released from a car boot and wins a penalty.

It’s okay to be disappointed, but to lose perspective is less clever. Spurs' pulsating win over European Champions Inter Milan cannot be overshadowed by Saturday's reverse against Bolton. A fairly predictable hangover cannot spoil the greatest night out of your life.

The defeat comes with a few asterisks for me. The ‘we lost, we were shit argument’ belongs in the playground. Sandro was poor losing possession on the first goal, but Davies was still clearly offside (add that to the Nani farce and Mike Jones' comedic refereeing performance against Everton and Spurs are on a run of poor decisions). Where do they find these officials – Moorfields Eye Hospital? Are these the guys seeing-eye dogs refuse to work with?

Assou-Ekotto gave away a clear penalty for a push on the underrated Lee, but frustratingly this is the same foul that is perpetrated every week against Peter Crouch and waved away by the men in black. Two great goals by Hutton and Pavyluchenko provided late hope...it’s just unfortunate we were caught on the counter for the fourth goal while pushing everyone up for the equaliser. Winning and losing high-scoring games is Tottenham football....you have to embrace the madness or go elsewhere. It’s in Spurs' DNA and has been the same since the black and white days.

Overhearing some Spurs ‘fans’ simplistically pinpointing Bill Gallas for the defeat is tiresome and ill-informed. He was excellent on Tuesday yet the praise was not quite as forthcoming. I’d understand to a degree if Gallas lost the ball that led to a goal or gave away a penalty, but to lambast him and overlook the ever-woeful Wilson Palacios is perversely selective. Redknapp’s frustration at Wilson’s now customary slovenly display saw the Honduran hauled over to touchline in the first half and substituted for the second. I’m sorry, but for the last year Palacios has been taking money under false pretences.

Bolton, for their part, played well. They are a good team with a manager I believe is destined for great things. Owen Coyle performed wonders at Burnley and he is now energising Wanderers. Spurs could do a lot worse than install him as Redknapp’s eventual successor. This is, however, a 'win some, lose some' league this season (Chelsea apart) and incredibly Spurs are still sixth heading into Sunday’s games with two home matches ahead in the next week. So don’t be too downhearted. This half-empty glass will most likely be half full next Saturday night.

Tottenham are rubbish and other football facts

2010-11-03T18:48:00.000-07:00

One of my best mates said today: “Even Paul Mahorn would score with Gareth Bale providing the crosses” and I was reminded of a game we both watched back in September 1997. Spurs beat Carlisle 3-2 with Mahorn on the scoresheet in front of a paltry 19,255 fans at the Lane. Thirteen years later we are beating the European Champions 3-1. Recognise.

The Lust Doctor’s main man and yellow-booted marvel Bill Gallas had a bloody good game against Inter and nursed rough diamond Younes Kaboul through some tricky patches. Experience.

Tottenham are rubbish. No longer. This is not 1997 or 2002. Take your fading football stereotypes and bin them. They are not recyclable. Bale, Modric and Van der Vaart are genuine world class players. We were drawn in arguably the toughest Champions League group and we lead it with style. Believe.

Gareth Bale is a force of nature. He has humility to match. But we are lucky to have the hottest property in world football. Liverpool’s best signing since Fernando Torres, Damien Comolli, beat Manchester United (Norwich City) and Arsenal to the punch and signed the Welsh Wizard for a meagre £5 million. Maybe Damien should be working the stocks. Merci.

Nani is the name of a venereal disease in Burkina Faso. Once you go down, it’s hard to get up. But if you place one hand on a ball, Mark Clattenburg will give you a happy ending. Hope you are enjoying that groin injury, Nani. At least it’s in an area you are unlikely to use. Karma.

Tottenham 3 Inter Milan 1. One of the best ever games at the Lane. A deathbed memory if you were there and a source of justifiable pride. An occasion where prolonged man-on-man hugging is entirely acceptable. Milk the excitement for all it’s worth. 14 heroes and Harry.

Clattenburg invents 'Disadvantage' rule

2010-10-31T06:57:00.000-07:00

I still feel incredibly angry about last night’s latest, almost unbelievable, addition to the crimes in favour of Manchester United against Tottenham at Old Trafford. Maybe we should just award the three points to the home team and choose to no longer participate in this fixture. What’s the point? We can’t win...we can’t even lose 0-1 after a creditable performance.

It has been argued by some that Mark Clattenburg’s decision to award a Manchester United goal and overrule his lineman who was flagging for Nani’s handball (which clearly stopped the ball going for a goal kick) was incompetence. But surely the nature of incompetence is random? How is it that major decisions of this nature (like the Pedro Mendes goal in the Man Utd net) are ALWAYS given in favour of Manchester United? Isn’t it also insulting that Mike Riley, Head of the Referee’s Association, thought so little of the disallowing of the Mendes goal in 2005 that he deemed the hapless Clattenburg suitable to referee this fixture and return to the scene of his previous crime?

Tottenham missed out on a European place as a result of Clattenburg’s failure to see Mendes' goal at Old Trafford. Imagine if we miss out on Champions League qualification by a single goal via goal difference.

How is it that Ferdinand can be intimately involved in the decision to award ‘Nani’s goal’, shoving his head in an intimidatory fashion in the linesman’s face, and Modric is booked for complaining? Scholes shoves the lilly-livered Clattenburg (presumably boyish horseplay between close friends) and he is not booked? Even Fletcher goes through Lennon and is not booked when in copycat challenges Kaboul and Gallas are booked. Presumably Lennon should learn from Hernandez’s histrionics and roll around like a demented toddler?

Clattenburg has claimed he was playing ‘advantage’. A new and interesting interpretation of the rule. What advantage does a team have in its own 18-yard box? Last night Clattenburg invented something new in world football...playing ‘Disadvantage’.

What was the exact nature of the financial irregularities that saw Clattenburg suspended from refereeing in 2008? And what made him suitable to return to officiating?

Did he not prove in 2005, beyond all reasonable doubt, that he is out of his depth in a game of this stature?

The many crimes of Manchester United vs Spurs

2010-10-27T08:58:00.000-07:00

Spurs fans owe a debt of gratitude to Manchester United. ’The Red Devils’ have singlehandedly denied Arsenal a string of trophies over the years. Ryan Giggs’ mazy run in the 1999 FA Cup semi-final against ‘Les Gooners’ remains one of my favourite ever goals. United are such a good side that they don’t need a helping hand, but against Spurs they frequently receive one. Ahead of Saturday’s match at the ‘Theatre of Dreams’, the Lust Doctor recalls some of United’s most incredible injustices against our beloved team.

1) 4/1/2005: With the game deadlocked at 0-0 entering the final minutes at Old Trafford, Pedro Mendes' speculative long range effort flummoxes United keeper Roy Carroll to give Spurs an historic, last gasp victory. But wait...it’s at Old Trafford and referee Mark Clattenburg and leaden-footed linesman Rob Lewis are the only two people in the stadium who fail to ‘see the goal’. Despite the exultant cheers of the away supporters, embarrassed groans of the United fans and the fact that the 6ft 2ins Carroll is clearly leaning way back into the goalmouth as he sheepishly scoops the ball out of the net, no goal is given. Ironically, Clattenburg later awards Reading a goal that barely breaks the goal line after a Paul Robinson gaffe at White Hart Lane. Selective vision?

2) 26/4/2009: Spurs are leading 2-0 at Old Trafford with only 33 minutes left on the clock. A frustrated United side are unable to pierce the Spurs backline and the frustration is obvious. But wait...it’s at Old Trafford! Michael Carrick hopefully tumbles over Heurelho Gomes who has clearly won the ball and an excited Howard Webb, trailing 35 yards behind like an out-of-breath policeman, points to the spot. “That’s a prime example of a referee crumbling under pressure at Old Trafford,” laments Jermaine Jenas afterwards. Webb admits he was wrong the following day, too little, too late; his crucial intervention turns the tide in United’s favour and Spurs collapse. But at least Big Howard’s made up for the mistake since...oh wait.

3) 1/3/2009: After a goalless 120 minutes at Wembley Stadium, the Carling Cup Final is destined for a penalty shoot-out. As the Spurs players are deciding who will take a spot-kick, United keeper Ben Foster is illicitly watching footage of Tottenham taking penalties on his iPod. Minutes later, Foster ‘guesses’ the right way to dive to save Jamie O’Hara’s spot-kick having just viewed his effort the previous year vs PSV Eindhoven on video. The story is given extensive coverage in the post-match coverage. Mysteriously, given his successful spot of viewing against Spurs, Foster does not watch Everton players taking penalties on his iPod just before their FA Cup semi final shoot-out two months later and United crash out. Hmm, did someone at the FA have a word?

4) 1/9/2008: United’s interest in Spurs’ star striker Dimitar Berbatov was common knowledge. They could have bought him for £10.9 million two years previously, but decided to wait until he was in the £30 million price bracket. However, Spurs had not agreed a transfer fee with United when the Bulgarian flew to Manchester and was picked up at the airport by Sir Alex Ferguson in an aggressive (and successful) attempt to force through the transfer. Robbed of their star player, a demoralised Spurs team endure a dreadful start to the season clinching a meagre two points from the opening eight games. Imagine, Wayne Rooney turning up at Chelsea’s training ground in January after receiving a text from Carlo Ancelotti...do you think Sir Alex would approve?

5) 20/9/1961: A different kind of theft. Before Spurs’ European Cup tie with Polish side Gornik Zabrze, a procession of angels make their way around the pitch. Inspired, a wag in the crowd swiftly reworks ‘Glory Glory Hallelujah’(from ‘The Battle Hymn of the Republic') into the Spurs anthem ‘Glory Glory Tottenham Hotspur’. Around twenty years later, Manchester United shamelessly pickpocket the chant and record it as their 1983 FA Cup song.

And there are so many more indiscretions. The penalties Paul Scholes and Jesper Olsen received against Spurs at Old Trafford despite the fouls not taking place in the 18-yard box; Jurgen Klinsmann’s ‘offside’ goal at the Lane (clearly onside, bizarrely his enthusiastic celebration was even featured in that season’s ‘Match of the Day’ credits); the numerous body flops of United players in the Spurs penalty area (Ronaldo’s playful tumble, O’Shea’s dying swan); a petulant Ronaldo lashing out at Michael Dawson without punishment. Decisions generally even out over time, just not against Manchester United.

Sunday papers - THFC transfer round-up

2010-10-24T03:48:00.000-07:00

With Barry Pigg

Blundering Brazilian keeper Heurelho Gomes is closing in on a return to old club PSV Eindhoven. Gomes left a coffee machine on two-and-a-half years ago and is desperate to go back to the Netherlands to turn off the overheated appliance.

Harry Redknapp will be unveiled as the new manager of Liverpool on Tuesday. A source said: “We’re just waiting on the delivery of a giant red curtain so we can do the unveiling justice.”

Gareth Bale/Luka Modric/Rafael Van Der Vaart has been strongly linked with a [insert lower than market price here] transfer with Manchester United. Sir Alex Ferguson has been tracking Bale/Modric/Van Der Vaart for three years, but has been waiting for the Welshman’s/Croatian's/Dutchman's price tag to escalate beyond the Red Devil’s meagre budget.

Irish striker Robbie Keane will be put on public auction on Bid.tv. “Robbie comes with a free iPod touch and a two month guarantee,” said a hopeful Bid.tv exec.

Mexican World Cup star Giovani Dos Santos is interested in a move to Chiquitos. A stickling point is Spurs' Chairman Daniel Levy’s insistence on extra chimichangas.

Coach Joe Jordan is the new face of SAGA. “We’re looking for an edgier image to represent the angry old man. Our new ad campaign features Joe wrecking a wheelchair in the style of Pete Townshend,” said a SAGA suit.

William Gallas has accidentally signed for the French Foreign Legion. “He thought it was a big money move to Qatar. We’re desperately checking the small print,” said worried agent Papa Doc Diop.

Hail Bale!

2010-10-21T08:54:00.000-07:00

It's official; Gareth Bale walks on water and glides on grass. Last night at the San Siro, his drive and acceleration left world class defenders Maicon, Zanetti, Samuel and Lucio trailing in his wake. Bale's brilliant hat-trick could yet prove crucial if qualification from Champions League Group A is decided on goal difference.

Watching the Welsh wunderkind tear a new orifice in the Inter backline was a joy to behold. If someone had told me at half-time that the European champions’ fans would be desperately screaming for the final whistle, I would have thought they were on the verge of lunacy (see Case Study: Sulzeer Jeremiah Campbell 2006; Insania by Peter Andre).

But there was no mental breakdown at half-time from us Spurs fans in Milan, only thoughts of damage limitation. The guy next to me reckoned six would be acceptable, given Spurs' harsh reduction to 10 men in the 11th minute. I more optimistically tipped a 1-4 reverse, a marginal improvement on Bremen’s shellacking in the San Siro. But no, we were about to see something special (apologies to Mr. Tumble).

Enter the Dragon and three wonderful finishes that showcased Gareth's unearthly pace, skill and dead-eye finishing. The potential of Bale is like dear Ledley after a night out on the tizers – staggering.

So Spurs remain well-placed for group qualification at the halfway point in second spot behind Inter, having played their two most difficult away fixtures and scored a startling 15 goals in their first five Champions League ties.

The dream perseveres.

From Nethercott to San Siro

2010-10-18T04:02:00.000-07:00

Stuart Nethercott – where is he now? Probably doing some ironing. He had a turn of pace like James Corden and a shock of bright orange hair, not dissimilar to Beaker from the Muppets. Yet Beaker was more capable defensively; he performed every week with a hand up his arse. Nethercott only played with Sol Campbell occasionally.

Kazu Toda? He makes sushi in a Yokohama Benihana. Toda has problems cutting shrimp, but otherwise his slicing is first class. He still moves like a 97-year-old Gareth Barry.

Jose Dominguez has worked in a Chilean Mine for the last four years. He has been missing for three.

Paolo Tramezzani is a qualified horse whisperer. The new career was a natural progression after many years spent dealing with mares. Horses are often seen laughing in his company.

Jason Dozzell is asleep right now. Please, don’t wake him.

The purpose of these musings? This used to be our Spurs. Tottenham will step out at the San Siro on Wednesday in the Champions League, on the same points as Man Utd and Arsenal in late October with a team littered with top class players. Savour it.

Remember the dark days as we step into the light.

Willie’s international break wind-ups - Part Deux!

2010-10-12T01:50:00.000-07:00

Bonjour, mes amis, ce’st William Gallas! These days without a Tottenham game are dragging, non? Still four days until we meet ‘les Cottagers’ so enough time for one more crank call to a former Arse-nal ass-ociate! I bring you Willie’s international break wind-ups - Part Deux!

Le set-up: We all know Arsene Wenger cannot resist a French teenager. Your Willie pretends to be working ladies man Franck Ribery in a classic case of crossed wires*.

“Arsene, I have a hot French teenager for you.”

“Ah, bonjour Franck. What position?”

“Dominique is great at the back. Also good up top. And on either side. Goes down easily.

“Perfect for Arsenal.”

“Oh definitely. I can testify to that myself.”

“Any good?”

“The best I’ve ever come across. I know Benzema agrees. ”

“Who is the owner?”

“Breast.”

“Ah, the Ligue 1 side?”

“No, I was just thinking aloud. Breast.”

“Er okay. Franck, what fee is involved?”

“800 Euros. Pay as you play. I guarantee Bendtner will score every week with Dominique.”

Le merk!: French call girl Dominique Six signs for Arsenal and shows immediate promise up front alongside Robin Van Persie. She develops an incredible burst of pace due to continually running away from the forward Dutchman. Six is clever in the box, but rarely finishes. Her season is eventually ended by Nigel De Jong’s lunging tackle. Apart from Zoo Magazine's 'Sexiest Player of the Season' award, Arsenal finish trophyless.

*Actual conversation/events did not take place.

Willie’s international break wind-ups

2010-10-10T00:47:00.000-07:00

Bonjour, mes amis, ce’st William Gallas! So, you ask yourself, how does an injured, semi-retired international footballer cope with the loneliness of international breaks? I will tell you. He crank calls his former Arsenal team mates! I bring you Willie’s international break wind-ups.

Willie’s wind-up #1: Samir Nasri

Le set-up: Samir is self-conscious about his height. His mother bought him a beautifully illustrated growth chart as a child, but he did not grow beyond the cartoon giraffe’s spotted shoulders until he was 19-years-old. Your Willie pretends to be the manager of the dwarf national team.

“Bonjour Samir.”

“Er, oui. This strange voice...I recognize from somewhere?”

“Ce’st Monsieur Kenny Baker...manager of the dwarf national team. I am delighted to say you have been selected for the national side’s qualification match in...heh heh..Lilliput.”

“I am not a dwarf...I-I play for France.”

“There is a precedent. Toulouse-Lautrec also represented both teams.”

“Je ne comprends pas?”

“You qualify through a dwarf grandfather. We have checked. He met your grandmother in Montmartre via a hole in a toilet wall.”

“Mon dieu! Mon dieu! The final piece in the puzzle! It is like, how you say, ‘Who do you think you are?’ It will be an honour to represent ‘les petit bleus’!”

Le merk!: Samir, eager to reconnect with his past, flies to Auckland, New Zealand (home of the Lord of the Rings trilogy), for a dwarf international and misses Arsenal’s next five matches ‘running from goblins’.

Next time on Willie’s international break wind-ups: Franck Ribery and Arsene Wenger’s wild night out.

Gold: "West Ham are bigger than Tottenham"

2010-10-06T04:25:00.000-07:00

Confusion surrounds the destination of a groundbreaking new Sainsbury’s that will incorporate 200 luxury flats, a stunning hotel complex with views of an exceptional public square and a football stadium. It was initially believed that Tottenham, regarded as the halal meat capital of Europe, would host what experts have dubbed the world’s first ‘super-supermarket’; however a disused sports field in Stratford is now in the running. That’s pie and mash territory and the natives are restless.

“They’ve got no place around here,” seethed local rag and bone man Davie Gold who collects the crap no-one else wants in East London along with his faithful carthorse Sully. “Those north Londoners are tricksters, conmen. Earlier this year, I went to Iceland to pick up Eidur Gudjohnsen, but when I arrived he wasn’t there...it was just freezers of vol au vents and cheap party food. Tottenham and Sainsbury’s stitched me up.”

There were angry scenes in Stratford this morning as overweight locals in claret and blue smocks vented their frustration at Sainsbury’s spokesman Jamie Oliver inbetween bites of chocolate pepperoni pizza cake washed down by sips of liquid lard.

A visibly shocked Oliver was reduced to tears. “They don’t understand me because they don’t know why I’m here,” he weeped. “I asked a morbidly obese woman when she last had her five-a-day and she said, ‘Not since my wedding night.’ She did have a cucumber in her shopping bag though.”

A defiant Gold fired this parting shot. “West Ham are bigger than Tottenham. Our fans are all XXXLs and Size 20s. And we will never betray Lidl's frozen pizza range. Prepare for East London supermarket Jihad.”

Fears grow over missing Defoe

2010-09-26T02:37:00.000-07:00

Fears are growing over missing Tottenham boy Jermain Defoe. The popular lad was last seen leaving an Essex nightspot with an unknown blonde woman in the early hours of September 10th morning. He has not been seen since.

“We are very concerned over little Jermain’s whereabouts,” said Superintendant Dibble of Essex Police force. “There have been lots of sightings. Strangely, with more than one woman. The phone has been ringing off the hook. We’ve been busier than a Pakistani bookmaker. We suspect human traffickers and have contacted Interpol in case Jermain has been smuggled overseas in a small holdall or roller suitcase.

“CCTV footage has proved very helpful in this case. Two days after the first sighting Jermain was spotted with a heavy-chested brunette in a Loughton restaurant and then a slim redhead girl in a park in Romford. He was seen entering a boutique hotel near Canary Wharf with a pretty Indian lady before he dropped out of sight. His mother is absolutely hysterical.

“We believe he was abducted and escaped, only to be abducted by several different women soon afterwards,” continued Superintendent Dibble. “This is unprecedented in criminal history. We had no idea there were this many predators in the Essex and East London area.”

Defoe’s tearful mother has pleaded for her boy’s safe return. “This is so unlike Jermain. He never misses a roast on a Sunday. None of his friends recognise any of the women on the CCTV pictures. It’s horrible. Tottenham look like they will never score again without him.”

If you have any information about Jermain's whereabouts, please call 'Losing to West Ham is a crimestoppers' on 0800 555 111.

Editor’s note: The Lust Doctor will return after the Ryder Cup. He’s caddying for Tiger.

Furious Assou-Ekotto ‘stiffed’ by Redknapp

2010-09-21T17:47:00.000-07:00

The agent of Benoit Assou-Ekotto has blasted Harry Redknapp after the Cameroon full-back’s demotion to Tottenham’s third string side on Tuesday night.

“A transfer request is imminent,” raged Ekotto’s agent Papa Doc Diarra Diop. “Benny texted me at half-time...’I do not recognise these people. Who is number 45? I will not associate myself with bingo numbers. Stephen Hawking? Are you serious? Clearly our physios are better than I thought.’“

Sudden news of an infectious disease caused panic in the Spurs dressing room leading to disarray in the team’s makeshift defence in extra time.

“Someone told Benny he had Stipe Pletikosa and I was so concerned I rang NHS Direct immediately where they told me that was the name of a Croatian goalkeeper and not a contagious skin disease," confessed Diarra Diop. "We were relieved, but we had already conceded two penalties avoiding the virus.”

The Assou-Ekotto camp reserved praise for at least one new player.

“In fairness, Harry Redknapp’s wife Sandra put in a great shift in midfield,” admitted Diarra Diop. “She is a little manly and hairy for an African man’s taste, but you can’t argue with her workrate. She covered a lot of ground and must be exceptional with a dust pan and brush. Sandra is, as Harry says, clearly more able than Darren Bent.”

The agent revealed his player has already had two concrete offers. “Toni & Guy are interested. And Nicky Clarke has made an official enquiry, but we will have to wait until the January transfer window before the future of Benny’s incredibly versatile hair becomes clear.”

Editor’s footnote: Massive love to all the Spurs fans who stayed to the bitter end of Tuesday’s ‘reserve fixture’ and sang with such pride. Real fans, real support. You, my friends, are awesome. I love you and all you represent.

Parental discretion is advised

2010-09-19T05:09:00.000-07:00

WARNING: The following blog contains a swear word; if you are offended by profanity and enjoy the gentle antics of Mr. Tumble on Something Special...we strongly advise you stop here, you ****ing lightweight.

Swearing at football...should it carry the death penalty? Isn’t a game 90 minutes where all our problems seem insignificant in the face of our heroes struggle for three points? Sometimes the bottled up emotion pours out when you are trailing 0-1 to Mick McCarthy’s cloggers. Wolverhampton, where rape is legal, play with the subtlety of a kiddie fiddler on a bouncy castle. Last week Wanderers decapitated poor Bobby Zamora and yesterday it was our turn to face 'Mick The Kick’s’ boys.

So with another 0-1 defeat to a very ordinary Wolves side on the cards, I swore in frustration (more than a few times) at the Wolves fans and some outraged ‘fan’ complained to a steward anonymously. I wish I hadn’t lost my composure, they were the ridiculous rantings of a pissed-off supporter, but there were no fatalities. What made matters worse is the ‘fan’ wildly exaggerated my crime, saying I swear non-stop every week (apparently when Spurs are winning), presumably to get me into trouble. I don’t have a problem with swearing, but then I don’t spend my days making jam for the local Women’s Institute.

What I said wouldn’t have drawn comment at an away game, but in the fake sanitized home atmosphere in the eyes of this ‘supporter’ it equates to choking a meerkat to death on children’s television. The perversity was a few minutes later the entire end was singing '1-0 and you fucked it up'. ‘Supergrass’ was presumably softly weeping in his seat.

Bizarrely, you can still racially abuse Emmanuel Adebayor at White Hart Lane - as long as you don’t include a swear word. I have never sung that song and never will. I don’t agree with it, but I certainly wouldn’t complain to a steward. I have better things to do with my life than trying to shop other supporters.

A football stadium is not a place for the easily offended. Neither is life.

Plane stupid

2010-09-16T02:23:00.000-07:00

An unfortunate situation unfolded this week when Wilson ‘Crystal’ Palacios illustrated his travel information was as wayward as his passing.

An inaccurate tip-off from the likeable Honduran wrong-footed Brazilian new boy Sandro who arrived with a shiny new wheelie suitcase at a private terminal at Stansted Airport only to discover he was ineligible for the group stages of the Champions League. However, he was not the only one to receive a random travel invite from Senor Palacios.

“I discovered that Cheryl Cole was onboard the plane,” revealed gaffer Harry Redknapp. “I tried to sign her brother Joe. But she’s younger, fitter and offers better options in the box. And Bondy reckons she’s make a great right winger given her history. I wasn’t sure she could take the physical punishment, but Cheryl told me: ‘I’ve experienced the worst tackle you can imagine, alreet...for six years.’ JD can’t wait to link up with her; he texted me: ‘OMG! OMG! I think she can do an incredible job, er, for...the team.’

“Cheryl’s watched Bend it like Beckham nine times. That’s dedication. The game is in her head. Apparently, Wilson told her Will.i.am was on the plane...we all pissed ourselves when she found out it was Gallas. She’s on stand-by for Arsenal.”

An open letter from William Gallas

2010-09-12T03:37:00.000-07:00

Dear Howard,

For many years, I felt we shared a special bond. You were my white brother. I watched you proudly run out at the Emirates, your unfeasibly bald head gleaming in the north London sunshine, with the cheers of our fans ringing in your ears. I think it was the novelty of seeing an Englishman on the pitch. I was kicked to the ground and you ran over like a hairless Florence Nightingale clutching an invigorating Powerade.

But yesterday at West Brommich our relationship felt awkward, different. Like something has altered, non? I feel an uncomfortable distance. I fell over and you ignored me like the past meant nothing. What has come between us? I am still the same William. It’s as if...South Africa has changed you.

You pulled something from your pocket and showed it to me. I smiled and told you I don’t need an Oyster Card. I have eight high performance cars and a French circus midget who drives me everywhere (I call him Nasri for fun). “It’s not an Oyster Card,” you growled. “Is it Willie Wonka’s golden ticket?” I replied, hopefully.

During the resulting free-kick, my new team mate Kaboul (the one who wears eye liner) revealed I had been cautioned. I was stunned. The blood drained from my face and I sat down cross-legged and crest-fallen in the 18-yard box. I watched the ball fly over me with a festering rage.

I had flashbacks of the Eduardo incident. Except this time...there was only a broken heart on the field. You are no longer welcome at next week’s cheese and wine party at Chez Gallas.

Goodbye,

William

Exclusive ITK from ‘the tree’

2010-08-30T22:50:00.000-07:00

“It’s transfer deadline day and Sky Sports News HD can exclusively reveal that our very own Bryan Swanson is in a tree overlooking Spurs' training ground at Chigwell.”

“Bryan, any news from up there?”

“I am up here due to a restraining order granted to Charlotte Jackson yesterday. It states I must be 20 feet in the air at all times.“

“I think that was a joke, Bryan. You can’t believe everything people tell you.”

“My sources tell me that Spurs will be involved in two deadline day swoops, the first of whom is already here at their training ground. It’s an Italian, we believe from one of the Milan clubs. I didn’t quite catch his name. Espero, I think. We’ll have to check Wikipedia and Youtube as this story develops. The other is an experienced international from former Premier League champions....oh, there’s Harry now. Harry! Harry! Up here!”

“What the fuck are you doing up there, you muppet?”

“Er, ha ha. Can you tell us about this morning’s purchase....Espero from Milan?”

“Espero? You mean the espresso. That was for Bondy. He gets up so early to drive me from Sandbanks he can’t go to the khazi without one."

“Oh. Wait, who is that with you in the hoodie? I can’t believe it. This is a sensational return....that we can exclusively reveal live...on...Sky Sports.... H....deeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.”

Swanson’s fall is broken by Alan Hutton’s illegally parked Aston Martin. Redknapp and the mysterious hooded individual burst into laughter.

“That’s the seventh ITK this week!” chuckles Harry. “Oh well, there’s always another one. Come on, Pascal. Let’s get you signed up. We’re down to our last five right backs.”

Ladies night at Faces

2010-08-29T02:47:00.000-07:00

Faces is rammed. It’s Friday, ‘Ladies Night’. And the Spurs boys are in full-on party mode. They are in the Champions League proper and have every right to celebrate. If they can beat Young Boys, they can beat anyone. Now for the young girls.

Inter? Managed by the ‘Spanish Waiter’...we know how he hates a trip to the Lane. Bremen? Lost star player Ozil...a shadow of their former selves. Twente? Play in a pony league and no longer managed by the talismanic 'Stevie Mac'. And it’s only Wigan on Saturday...Spurs knocked 12 past them last season...the boys can afford to party hard in fake tan heaven.

Everyone is drinking Moet, bar teetotallers Jermain Defoe and Gareth Bale who are incongruously downing Fruit Shoots. Peter Crouch is absent having been suspended indefinitely from such contretemps by dear Abi. Younes Kaboul drinks a Jagermeister out of a girl’s belly button. That’s the best shot he’s had since Villa at home in 2007.

The champers is flowing. And yet there is a familiar but not Tottenham face at the famed Essex nightspot. “I recognise you from somewhere,” drawls Tom Huddlestone at an odd, moon-faced individual trying to get the barmaid’s attention with a whistle.

Phil Dowd reaches for his wallet and a Weight Watchers DVD-ROM falls on to the bar; in his embarrassment, the portly ref tries to pay for the round with a yellow card.

A cluster of orange girls move away. He doesn’t play for Blackpool. He’s a fat bloke with strange, non-platinum coloured credit cards. An incandescent Dowd whistles furiously...but nobody listens.

Back in his Surrey mansion, Crouchie wears extra large marigolds while scrubbing the toilet bowl. At Sandbanks, Harry is impressing Sandra with his new Soda Stream. Nothing can go wrong on Saturday, right?

David Pleat’s Champions League Chalkboard #2

2010-08-26T14:51:00.000-07:00

In the second of an, er, eight-part series, four-time Tottenham manager David Pleat analyses his former club’s tactics on the Champions League stage.

"I love a Brazilian if it’s tastefully done, yet Heurelho Gomes’ orange strip was highly unsatisfactory. The Tottenham goalkeeper is a wonderful shot-stopper, it’s just unfortunate he has the pain threshold of a one-year-old child in a pillow fight.

"In the first half of Tottenham’s four-nil blitz of Young Boys, Gomes’ mental fragility was severely tested when the Swiss frontline took turns in pelting him with babybel cheese that had matured beyond its best before date.

"The stricken Gomes fell to his haunches. The hardened red casing left light bruising on his beach legs and he knew the club physio had run out of Mr. Men plasters at the previous fixture at Stoke.

"He immediately demanded to be substituted. Already two goals ahead, Spurs' defence briefly lost its composure. Michael Dawson became acutely aware that his fridge did not contain enough cheese for his traditional late night toastie and became sullen and belligerent.

"The mood changed when Gomes was substituted at half-time and defensive partner Ledley King informed Dawson of the 30 all-night Turkish convenience stores that pepper the Tottenham High Road. Spurs duly romped to a 4-0 victory.

"Gomes' fine ball-handling skills outweigh his courage. However, I am reminded of one Michael Jackson; a great pop star, but a dreadful babysitter. No-one is good at everything. See you in Bremen."

Full metal training jacket (Apocalypse Stoke)

2010-08-23T05:10:00.000-07:00

The horror, the horror. For Ho Chi Minh City 1970 read Stoke Ming City 2010. A barechested Tony Pulis prowls the touchline wearing a cowboy hat and a terrifying smirk that might just curdle all the milky teas in the away stand. As Younes Kaboul’s dismembered head rolls past the corner flag, Pulis inhales a lungful of the thick smog that hangs over the Britannia Stadium. “It smells like victory,” he puffs.

Second in command Gerry ‘The Badger’ Francis stares down at his feet, still looking for that £20 note he lost 15 years ago when manager of Tottenham. The candy-striped hordes bay for blood, broken bodies are strewn across the pitch, limbs fly through the air at impossible angles, the crack of bone is audible under Ryan Shawcross’ ubiquitous boot and those terrifying screams of the Tottenham fallen pierce the eardrum.

“Me foul you long time,” cries Shawcross with almost devilish glee. But from somewhere in the cocktail of mud and blood a hero emerges. A young Welshman with a crack shot and an absence of fear. As the howling natives shift restlessly in their seats, Gareth Bale bundles home a rebound before Ricardo Fuller scores and the baying crowd roars its approval, the scent of enemy claret burning their nostrils.

And then it happens, Aaron Lennon’s flighted ball drops from an acute angle, Bale dips a shoulder and arrows a deadly volley into the top right hand corner. Pulis jumps on his cowboy hat. “Charlie don’t surf!” he screams.

Vedran Corluka jogs past him with a bemused look on his face. "Yes, I do."

David Pleat’s Champions League Chalkboard #1

2010-08-18T10:01:00.000-07:00

In the first of a two-part series, four-time Tottenham manager David Pleat analyses his former club’s tactics on the Champions League stage.

“Young Boys Berne baffled their Champions League qualifier opponents Tottenham by replacing Spurs midfielder Wilson Palacios with a life-sized chocolate replica.

“The 5ft 10ins mocha doppelganger caused chaos amongst the chocoholics in the Spurs defence, allowing the Swiss outfit to play straight through the salivating back line and sail into a decisive 3-0 lead.

“Harry Redknapp eventually dealt with the Swiss trickery via an ingenious counter-move. Serial snacker Tom Huddlestone was sent on to gobble up the delicious Lindt chocolate statue while the real Palacios snuck on the field behind the departing Benoit Assou-Ekotto’s flamboyant hair arrangement.

“Huddlestone’s sudden sugar rush saw him gain a foothold in the midfield and Spurs found the precision and poise they had previously been lacking. Two vital away goals swung the tie back in their favour though Huddlestone unfortunately misses the return game with stomach cramps, prompting Redknapp into a desperate loan move for the untested James Corden.”

Eternal sunshine of the Gallas mind

2010-08-15T04:04:00.000-07:00

Paris in August. Is there any more beautiful place in the world? French international defender Bill Gallas spreads a glob of nutella on a fresh baguette during a breakfast meeting with his agent and breaks into an uncontrollable grin.

“I think I will join Tottenham. Les Lillywhites. It will be like Arsenal and Chelsea before..they will love me there. They adored Sol Campbell.”

“In 1999,” said the dumbfounded agent. “Seriously, have you been following football closely, Willie? Do you ever listen to the away fans?”

“I distinctly remember in April...a large section of the Tottenham crowd singing, ‘Gallas, Gallas, worth a punt! Gallas...worth a punt!’ They were aware my contract was winding down.”

“Er, I don’t think that’s what they said. You didn’t have the greatest world cup, maybe a few stress-free years in Greek football are what’s needed?”

“What do you mean? I had a wonderful experience in South Africa. The team spirit was tres magnifique! Former President Mandela specifically asked to meet me but I was undergoing the post-match drug test.”

“Willie...you are taking the piss?”

“Non, non, that was a FIFA official. I filled three cups. Too much Powerade! I want to join Tottenham. I want! I want!”

“I don’t like to see you upset, Willie. I remember how you reacted when Eduardo was nearly decapitated at Birmingham.”

Bill’s eyes moisten as he recalls the horror of St. Andrews. “Our wives were away that weekend so Eddy and I planned to visit Spearmint Rhino. When I saw him lying there seriously injured, bound for a Birmingham hospital, I knew...I knew...that dream was over. It’s settled. I am joining Tottenham.”

“Okay,” sighed the agent, speed-dialling Harry Redknapp. “Jermaine Jenas will be delighted to see you.”

Sheikhing all over

2010-08-12T03:09:00.000-07:00

Sheikhs are great. They’ll buy anything. I’d rather purchase a six pack of rolos and drop them in the penalty area than rely on Joleon Lescott, but the Arab ATM dispensed £22 million in seriously misguided cash for a man with a head like a split watermelon.

That said, Citeh emerging from the shadow of their devilish red neighbours is a good thing for football as well as their pasty-faced supporters (have you ever gone to Eastlands? It’s like an albino convention). The cosy four-club cartel was splintered in May by Spurs' Champion’s League heroics and at least Citeh this season should ensure this ghastly monopoly is consigned to the past. If Sky make any further tedious ‘Big Four’ references, you have my permission to head to their Osterley HQ armed with pitchforks and flaming torches.

Citeh, meanwhile, continue to buy without checking the terms and conditions. They purchased Wayne Bridge to provide a vital crossing over the Dubai River only to discover that the ‘Grade 1 listed brickwork’ was, in fact, a pedestrian left back who can’t hold the attention of a French lingerie model.

The sheikhs fancied a new yacht and accidentally ended up with a Boateng. They booked a luxury cruise and bought an injury prone Paraguayan. The gifted Moby/Stephen Ireland can barely get a game. Oh Lordy. So if you have a nifty pyramid scheme in the works...head to Manchester with a glossy media pack and a powerpoint presentation. These guys know a good deal when they see one.

“Hi Sheikh, yeah, it’s super-agent Willie McKay. Thanks for bringing French World Cup star Pascal Chimbonda to his boyhood club. You know ‘Gentle Ben’ Alnwick is available for only £5 million. You’ve never heard of him? He was Tottenham’s starting goalkeeper at the end of last season. 100% record. Ask anyone in the game...Peter Ridsdale...Mike Ashley...er, Sarah Ferguson....just don’t play the boy at Burnley.”

Crouch, that hurts

2010-08-09T15:39:00.001-07:00

I like Peter Crouch. There’s a connection with the big fella. We both love a sour cream Pringle, spontaneously break into robot impressions and enjoy the company of unfeasibly fit women. In May, 'two metre Peter' also nodded in the most important goal in recent Spurs history while making Kolo Toure dangle in the air like an Abidjan street puppet. What’s not to like.

Yet, according to those moral standard bearers, the News of the World Big Pete has gone and done the dirty on fiancée and Tottenham’s first lady Abigail Clancy (who stood in so admirably last season for the on loan Danielle Lloyd-O’Hara). I almost gagged on my coke. The Daily Mail claimed these unproven allegations of a highly personal nature had brought new shame to the England football team for which Crouch was not selected. My Lithuanian hooker and I both agreed, it was a dreadful state of affairs and immediately boycotted Wednesday’s England vs Hungary friendly.

Now dear Abi has apparently sought solace from tabloid tormented Toni Terry who has similarly suffered from unproven allegations in the French letter department regarding former 'Daddy of the Year' and 'hubby of the moment' John Terry. I bet Abi and Toni are on the Chablis now..half way into a Sex and the City boxset.

So will Abi ditch Crouchy and SMS your Lust Doctor for a Cheryl and Derek style vacation (sans malaria)? Will the big fella poke another one in against Manchester City on Saturday and give the Paxton an impromptu pole dance by the corner flag? Paul the Psychic Octopus’s mobile is engaged so I couldn’t tell you.

But let’s hope they make it away from the sleazy glare of the tabloid spotlight. The best thing about the breaking up is the making up. So Abi: “Whatever Crouchy said, whatever Crouchy did, he didn’t mean it (he was wankered), he just wants you back for good...wants you back...wants you back...he wants you back for good."

Cheap thrills

2008-07-09T10:13:00.000-07:00

Some people love to play the poor card. ‘I am skint’ they say, before cosying up to someone else’s girlfriend rather than pay for their own.

They are bad debtors. 'I’ll sort you out at the end of the month when I get paid.' They have bad memories. Five weeks later…you are still waiting. They all have 'pay as you' go mobiles and never make calls.

On eBay you will find them trading as hopeful salesmen. They hawk secondhand boxer shorts and used trainers. You can almost imagine their startled horror and bemusement as the clock ticks down and there are no bids. ‘I would have bought that’ they think. But they wouldn’t.

Their feet become leaden when they enter pubs or bars….they gently fall to the back of the pack without anyone noticing. They are always the last person to buy a round. Sometimes they miss the round. They never buy two rounds. Ever.

They shouldn’t be anyone’s friend, but they owe a lot of people money. So we stay in touch….until they sort us out at the end of the month.

Things fall apart

2008-07-01T06:54:00.000-07:00

….he almost flies past the bus stop, a jagged leaf on the breeze, grey boxers, three-quarters showing, rude boy in white, youngish geezer, good looking council, gets plenty, probably, purpose straining his sinews, angry cry poised in his lungs, target not immediately obvious, suddenly stops, a pear-shaped woman in a blue tank top, over-sized shades, older and mismatched, shoving her pushchair like a secondhand piano, suddenly stops, he leans in angrily, pushes his jaw right up to her face, she doesn’t flinch, his mean whispers inaudible, brief and nasty, he suddenly pivots, flies back past the bus stop, to his life more desirable, you’re not a dad you’re not even a man, she yells after him, he does not glance back at his medusa, his past, she pushes the baggage of their love forward, the only way she can, in the opposite direction….

The bump of the dice

2008-06-22T07:55:00.000-07:00

Scrambled eggs in a New York diner around 10am, long after the Wall Street rush and the tide of cell phones to ears and Italian suits immacolato, draining the black coffee refills too quickly without considering the gut, thoughts turn to home, the mess back there, confused like spilled spaghetti, lying misdirected and tangled.

Nearby a derelict in a red woollen hat, pulled right down to his eyebrows, a dead ringer for a 1977 Richard Pryor, opens the doors to a Broadway McDonalds for every visiting and departing customer, his easy charm soothing what could appear an aggressive panhandle. A dollar or more earns a “God bless you and America…this is gonna be your lucky day today...I can feel it.” No dollars earns a smile and no judgment. He is in all senses cool with the game, however unexpected the bump of the dice.

The hot dogs are sizzling early and there are plenty of takers, heartburn riskers and Weight Watchers dropouts, waiting in line with rumbles in tummies and rumbles in minds, yellow taxis swim through all obstacles like deep sea shoals darting this way and that, and it’s on to the next stop, for all of us, wherever that may be…..

Bare facts

2008-06-14T15:21:00.000-07:00

If no-one wore clothes there would be less lies. Push-up bra manufacturers would be among the first to go bust.

Extreme diets would be impractical. Over-skinny girls would no longer be the secret of their mirrors or boyfriends. You’d find one hiding behind every lamppost waiting for the pavement to clear.

Women would never drop keys. All men would carry newspapers. And there would be more truth understood in churches than ever before.

When 4 x 7 equals nothing

2008-06-09T03:31:00.000-07:00

They make sure you don’t get it at school. Sat in rows of four by seven being taught by experts in their second choice career. Malleable drones, having your ability to think for yourself erased and made redundant like Betamax. Your questions are not the answers the OCR Examination Board is looking for….so get in line or fail.

Ten years later those 20k-a-year jobs are still 20k-a-year; the details of your emails and texts are retained for ‘your own safety’; politicians step right in unison, the house keys of their subsidised London homes jangling in their pockets.

People complain on phone-ins, usually buoyed by prejudice rather than solidarity; their revolution ends as the radio presenter cuts them off in mid-flow or their girlfriend replaces her earphones….their wife replaces her earplugs.

The illusion of freedom persists until you stand up and hit your head on the glass ceiling.

Stand up.

Nun the wiser

2008-06-01T03:15:00.000-07:00

Where I grew up, good-looking women were like tornadoes; you hoped one might arrive to improve the scenery, but they never did. Local men were therefore forced to aim low…a peroxide blonde with a dirty laugh from the local council estate received much the same attention as Giselle strolling around St. Tropez in a day-glo thong.

In these barren times, I was set-up (possibly framed) with a Catholic girl called Mary. “She really likes you,” said her friend who I was more interested in. “Meet her on the bench outside the Women’s Institute at 8pm.”

With few sparks flying between young Mary and I, the relationship was over before it started, but with no number to call I had to turn up in person to break the ‘bad news’. Just as I was about to leave late at 8.15pm, my mother presented me with a meal she had cooked in near-secrecy….I had no choice but to temporarily abort my plans and eat while she sat on the other side of the dining table nodding in approval.

At 8.45pm, I arrived at the rendezvous point expecting to find Mary long gone, but she was still there, sitting hopefully in a conservative blouse and pointy shoes, fiddling with a conspicuously large handbag (big enough to conceal a crucifix and holy water should the need arise). She smiled at me for the first and last time. “Sorry I’m late….but this isn’t working out…….” Three minutes later the date was consigned to history.

“Her parents are strict Catholics. She is only allowed to go out once a month. Last night was it!” explained her friend the next day. “Mary’s very angry. You’ve put her off men completely. She’s talking about becoming a nun and her parents have said they will back her all the way.”

I have been filling convents ever since.

The wrong bar in Cologne

2008-05-19T07:25:00.000-07:00

Lust Doctor Memories 7: I am the hottest guy in the bar. The only other man under 50 is bucktooth ugly and almost Lilliputian in stature. He makes a whistling noise every time he talks, his sentences end with spittle rather than full stops. I am definitely hotter.

This dubious honour leads to attention. A tough chick with dreads comes over and asks me for some Euros…for the jukebox….she fixes her eyes on mine…there’s menace in there. She looks a fighter and I don’t fancy a fight so I give her some change. She says she is Brazilian and likes needlework, repairing dresses and other broken things. Claims her brother plays football for Belenenses in Portugal (I google him later and he exists, looks just like her with football boots and kinder eyes). She does a mad little dance, three inches from me (a lot of arm-moving) to a bad Snoop Dog tune and looks at me expectantly...until I nod my head in self-conscious recognition. There’s a lot of old men in there, drinking coffee, respectable looking granddad types, relaxed in their secret garden, away from their fraus. “Hotel?” asks a rough Turkish woman with too many miles on the clock. “I’m fine” I explain sheepishly. She looks dumbfounded at the refusal.

The tough chick keeps telling me this rough woman or that rough woman is interested in me and I should buy them a coffee to introduce myself. She keeps banging on about me buying coffee. I just sip my high strength beer and try to nod coolly at every weird turn the conversation takes ("It is I who makes the most fashionable dresses"), bat away the unwanted introductions until I finish my drink.

A hook-nosed girl with bird nest hair keeps checking me out and I find myself returning her gaze, double-taking, is she really that ugly and trading on her looks? It’s a flawed business vehicle, but who am I to tell her.

“I just came for a quiet beer,” I say to the tough chick as she tries to make the introduction.

“Yes,“ she says, “I can tell…. Would you like to buy her a coffee?”

Do ya think I'm sexy?

2008-05-14T09:19:00.000-07:00

Lust Doctor Memories 6: The Korean taxi driver hands me a microphone, cranks up his in-car karaoke machine and demands I sing Rod Stewart's "If you want my money and you think I'm sexy" or “no ride” as we speed down Las Vegas Boulevard to our destination, a low key boxing card at the Stratosphere. He is flashing his yellow teeth and talking about "sexy blonde ladies" while leering at the sea of silicone breasts outside…the taxi veers one way and the next as he grabs eyeful after eyeful…what a strange way to die this would be…singing Rod under duress in 114 degree heat….Tupac met his demise here, but not like this.

I love those brave birds

2008-05-07T02:47:00.000-07:00

Lust Doctor Memories 5: Yelena worked in an exclusive West End club that doubled up as a honey pot for wealthy, eligible, but near middle-aged men. Underneath the bar counter, she kept an extensive collection of magazines featuring every conceivable male hobby or past-time as she eavesdropped the conversations of the unattached and loaded.

After gauging a measure of her target’s wealth and the nature of his interests, Yelena withdrew from her bar duties to take a conspicuous break with a mineral water and a carefully selected periodical. After a few flicks of her shiny hair, she soon drew attention.

“I didn’t have you down as a pigeon fancier?"
"Oh yes, my father and brothers used homing pigeons when it was so cold in Siberia and the telephone lines froze. Many of them die, but they always try to help us. I love those brave birds. When I first arrive, I sit in Trafalgar Square and it makes me happy remembering those times, sitting amongst their droppings."

Dinner was the minimum expectation though jewelry and indecent proposals were not uncommon, but the holy grail of marriage remained elusive for Yelena. Elsewhere hopeful young girls buy shiny belts and shortish skirts from Top Shop to fit into the scenery, but twinkle just enough. It might never happen for any of us, but in our own way we are all on the lookout for something better.

Carmen 13

2008-05-02T03:57:00.000-07:00

Lust Doctor Memories 4: Archie had been dating Carmen, 13, for a week or so. Every day after school she would meet him at his office holding a Spice Girls lunchbox.

Mick, a co-worker and proud father of three, soon made his feelings known.

“Aren’t you concerned,” said Mick, shaking with indignant rage, “that your girlfriend is only 13?”

Archie thought for a moment.

“No,” he replied.

“I’m not superstitious.”

Roots

2008-04-29T03:43:00.000-07:00

The wooden box looks too small to hold a woman of eighty-eight years and such a fearsome personality, but apparently it does. Just as the four solemn men lift the box from the hearse a small, grey aunt insists they replace it and move her tiny wreath on top in parity with my mother’s.

They’re all here; the flotsam and jetsam from one side of a family in name only, willfully dreaming of unlikely riches, the corned beef sandwiches (to follow) and the slower death of small talk.

My mother is the only person to cry during the service and that may be more than many of us receive or deserve. Just an afternoon back on the narrow streets of my youth, reminding me why I am somewhere else, not necessarily better, but different from here.

Saaarthsea Common (Football fanzine column circa 1989)

2008-04-27T10:05:00.000-07:00

Lust Doctor Memories 3: "Got up at 7.15. Johnno and Billy came over and Johnno was hungover. Drove to services and had a piss and fry up at Happy Eater. This bird in a red and white striped uniform (decent jugs) gave Johnny the eye. He couldn't be arsed. Went to a boozer a mile from the ground at 11.10 and had six pints. Saw Beardo in there and he told me Minty had to stay at home. Funny, thought I saw Minty at services."

In The Know

2008-04-23T00:58:00.000-07:00

Dean Martin knew, but if you asked him he just smiled and said, “Maybe kid, maybe.”

And Sammy Davis Jr knew, but he always shrugged with his usual jive “Don’t know nothing about THAT, man.”

Of course, Frank Sinatra knew, but he would screw up his eyes and shoot you a look that made you remember your place.

No-one said anything, but it was always understood.

And that, it seemed, was enough for everyone.

Free the Hawk Moth

2008-04-20T06:23:00.000-07:00

Lust Doctor Memories 2: The bar is absolutely rammed, jam-packed with unofficial alcoholics and prettyish girls with not enough money to buy drinks (or so they say). One lass told me her male friends don’t ever let her put her hand in her pocket. I just smiled at her and said, ‘Try’. At home these girls delicate purses are filled with pristine notes and disorientated moths struggling for air, the Queen’s face the last thing they see before they black out, breathlessly, into the abyss.

Loose ends

2008-04-18T03:08:00.000-07:00

On a Bank Holiday Monday those singletons of London not piggybacking on their coupled-up friends picnics or drinking themselves to a slow death on red leather seats in the capital's gastropubs can be found sitting badly on ergonomic chairs in front of high-res computer screens.

Their eyes straining to make out Times New Roman as they order themselves online gifts to fill the void or engage in truthless, tittle tattle in chatrooms with other lonely souls feigning self-confidence amid a vacuum of doubt. Keyboard warriors and hidden roses dancing an invisible tango.

And if no-one is out there they can always chat to I-God; the interactive deity based in Canada (clearly fearing global warming or a nuclear holocaust). Like most gods he is frustratingly cryptic allowing zealots to fill in the gaps as suits them best.

Asked to ‘define good?’
I-God replied: ‘the opposite of Evil’.

Did he mean Knievel? The opposite of that is a pedestrian in tan slacks.

Roll on Tuesday.

All bloke party

2008-04-17T03:19:00.000-07:00

Lust Doctor Memories 1: There are only guys at this party. If a Jimmy Sommerville CD starts playing I am jumping out the window...I don’t care how far up we are. Oh, there’s a girl….quite nice looking…seems to be enjoying herself….holding a baby. Doubt she’s even a girl. Oh really? Sorry, I just can’t wait 17 years for this party to get interesting. Thank you for the warm Hofmeister.

What’s The Time Guy

2008-04-10T08:54:00.000-07:00

Those within a five metre radius were acutely aware of What’s The Time Guy and his invasion into their body space. One could not ignore his blank, hard-boiled egg eyes, doughy face and hairless, melon-shaped head, the deliberate way he dragged his slovenly frame up and down Haverstock Hill on slow motion auto-pilot; a bizarre cameo appearance in the lives of those who were raised to look away.

The more savvy pedestrians would assess their escape route and instigate a subtle about turn or impromptu road-cross (often risking mild traffic and the enraged screech of 4x4 horns) or dive into the doorways of packed ethnic restaurants and ‘We saw you coming’ retail outlets to avoid uncomfortable interaction with the discombobulated mind of the man known by some of the local hip kids as ‘The WTTG’ (What’s The Time Guy) due to his habit of asking passing pedestrians the time despite the existence of an ostentatious dayglo watch strapped tightly on the chub of his bulbous left wrist.

His greatest thrill came by standing directly in front of his prey and allowing his blank gaze to wash over them in tranquil lunacy. Before his victim (often a single teenage girl texting or young mother encumbered by pram and limited in movement) could react he would ask ‘Could you tell me the time, please?’ Many recoiled or froze expecting the WTTG’s large, clammy hands to find a resting place around their neck or on their breasts; others toppled backwards with their cappuccinos into the eye of a brown frothy explosion or simply bounced off his blubbery frame as he refused (or was mentally unable) to give ground.

However dangerous the WTTG might be to the women of Haverstock Hill, his existence was derived by an undiluteable sadness; whatever it was that rested inside him and tortured his soul from within would never be tamed in this world by either touch or kindness until his timely oblivion. In his way, he knew and that was why he kept asking his question in perpetuity as, even faced with the truth, he had to make sure.

The writer and the lover

2008-04-05T02:29:00.000-07:00

“I just pitched a story about 24 hours in the life of a Victorian antique chair. It’s kind of like James Joyce’s Ulysses…but through the eyes of quality furniture. As if the furniture…wait for it…has feelings.”

“Sounds a-mazing,” drawled Tristan as the waitress lay down their lunch plates with a simple nod as if to underline a simple job done for apparently simplistic people. “What was the feedback?”

“They l-o-v-e it. Said my descriptive powers were a-mazing and that the sad finale in the auction room rendered them paralysed with emotion, plum-sized lumps in their throats. They apparently wept when it was discovered the chair was a 1970s reproduction and therefore worthless.”

“You mean despite its furnitureal hubris the 'antique chair' had no memory that it was a fake? Sounds confusing so it’s a powerful concept,” replied Tristan, successfully digging out a brown avocado stone with his fork.

“So how’s the love life this week? What was her name…Shona? Sharia?”

“Shindip, she’s Indian, even though I stated a preference for Caucasians at the dating agency, but they said they didn’t have that as a category so it was a racial lucky dip. It was hard work really. I felt like I was at a job interview when all I ever wanted was a temporary position.”

“I bet,” guffawed Hugo demolishing the Mozzarella first, out of respect for the buffalo who had grudgingly created it with a squat and a grunt. “Women in their late twenties become even more single-minded in their search for a mate…especially when they can get 50% of every damn thing. I should know. I wish my ex had got half of that herpes.”

“In-deed…so I tried to ditch and run.”

“Ah, what did you tell her you did for a ‘fake’ living?”

“Orange boiler suits.”

“Orange boiler suits? You said that?"

“As soon as I thought it wasn’t going anywhere. I told her I made them for the US in Guantanamo. Disturbingly, she seemed impressed.”

“What did she say?”

“Sounds profitable. You must be making a bomb. I told her we don’t joke about that…especially as our Business Development Manager looks like Richard Reid and wears Size 12 shoes. I told him, 'shave the beard or you’ll be cavity searched at every airport on the globe', but he thinks the chin fur makes him look distinguished. Well, let me tell you, no-one looks dignified with a gloved hand wiggling up their arse. Anyway, I'm taking her to the NFT next week.”

Domestic violins

2008-03-21T10:17:00.000-07:00

It’s 12.30am and he is screaming and hollering like a loon in the moonlight. Earplugs are reached for and weary heads sneak under pillows, others make love louder and harder, anything to drown out the dreadful noise of the rowdy neighbours' late night domestic.

It’s a regular deal for them and everyone in yelling distance lets them get on with it as he is the sort of guy who could just turn psycho and follow you to work if you interrupted him mid-domestic. He’s lean and ripped like a middleweight, good looking until he opens his mouth to let the swear words form. His body almost shakes when he walks as if the hate inside is fighting to get out.

She gives as good as she gets. I’ve heard her before yelling out the window at builders. 'You bastards! I want my f***ing money. I want my f***ing money.' 'I want my f***ing' the council house mantra. Her emotional pendulum always swinging between rage and tears.

Usually ends up with the police being called (by the builders, bemused or antagonised) and her pulling the old weepy woman routine – though she is anything but. She asks her man to take the rubbish out and locks the door. Throws his clothes out of a window in the rain. Pisses in his drink when he is too hammered to notice (or so she claims). Slams doors all through the night to underline her rage. Munch's 'Scream' on a loop for eternity.

And so she and her man are strangely made for each other – equal in their shared bile and devilishment. We are just the poor sods who have to listen.

Doctor No

2008-03-14T06:18:00.000-07:00

You better not contract the Ebola Virus on a Saturday. You won’t find a doctor anywhere. They are carving pheasant in rustic kitchen stroke dining areas, their perfect families looking on with expectant, hungry eyes. So don't fall ill at the weekend, your doctor always has something better to do.

Forget logging onto the internet and browsing the medical message boards for consolation – because, before long, you will be convinced you are about to die. Do not heed the warnings of international hypochondriacs…they will terrify you with their tales of medical malpractice and mysterious boils that go pop in the night.

It happened to Darrel from Maryland and it could happen to you. His right bollock dropped out of his hiking shorts while he was hillwalking. It was last seen heading south to Dixie pursued by three hicks in a blue Chevy pick-up truck. They don’t like strangers or stranger’s parts in them, there parts.

It’s Saturday night and you really don’t fancy waiting four hours in A&E with all the drunks and other hypochondriacs so you are going to have to gut it out until emergency surgery on Monday. Right now Death is sitting on your sofa, his skeletal hand rustling a packet of munchies as he peruses the latest Paris Match. He’s in no hurry, he can afford to wait a few minutes. You have just enough time to hum Jamiroquai’s…’We’re too young to die’ and send a few goodbye texts. Just don’t drink and dial. You may live to face the consequences.

Daft Vorder

2008-03-08T02:10:00.000-08:00

Carol Vorderman can correctly identify a vowel or a consonant. She can also do times-tables to a very high standard. This means that when she says all your problems will disappear with a quick and easy £20,000 loan….you should listen!

She’s not doing it for the money. She’s doesn’t want to see people who have fallen on hard times slip further into arrears and destitution. She is here to help. Not got enough money for a cab home….don’t worry, Carol will….hook…you….up!

A loan solves everything! Just ask Gordon Brown!

[Telephone rings] ‘Managing Director of Northern Rock here….you know, the Geordie bank….got a bit of a problem, Gord.’ ‘Okay MD, you’re on speakerphone. What’s that, Darling?’ [High pitched voice, very excited, interrupts] ‘How about a loan! A really big one!’ ‘What a marvellous idea! Pay it back when you like! I love rescuing failed business vehicles.’

Hey desperate, or easy-to-con, homeowners! Don’t worry! If you own a house, you can be as financially reckless as you like! You should release the money that’s ‘tied up’ in your home. What’s it doing in there, silly? You should get lypo! Botox for the kids! Life’s magic with a loan!!!!

[Concerned man fumbles in his wallet at a bar]. ‘I’m sorry I don’t have enough money. Wait, there’s Carol Vorderman! Excuse me, Carol, can you lend me a fiver?’

‘Consonant-vowel-consonant-consonant……vowel-consonant-consonant.’

'Oh.'

Download Knightley's pancakes

2008-03-02T03:54:00.000-08:00

DVD piracy has nothing to do with Johnny Depp mugging like Keith Richards and Keira Knightley pushing up her corset and hoping for the best.

If you download or purchase a pirate DVD you threaten the livelihood of billion dollar corporations. Thanks to you, the super-rich will no longer be able to buy townhouses in Hampstead or rent a small West Indian island for their wedding vows. It’s a terrifying thought.

If you believe the propaganda spun before every film, obtaining a pirate DVD transforms someone with time on their hands into a modern day Kray. All us squares who pay around £20 for a DVD (they cost about a penny to make) are forced to sit through some pretty laughable fear-mongering. You can wave your remote control all you want….the DVD does not permit you to fast forward.

One such insight involves a morbidly obese blacksmith (because pirating makes you fat) branding illicit DVDS with a hot poker. Is this how DVDs are pirated? I thought they just connected two DVD players with a scart lead. Looks dangerous. Let’s hope they have the appropriate accident insurance. Otherwise someone might call Injury-lawyers- 4-U.

Obviously you or I have purchased or rented our DVD so they are preaching to the converted. No self-respecting pirater would duplicate this drivel. Maybe the answer is to make DVDs affordable rather than labelling those who download or buy pirates as the next Tony Soprano (Subliminal message: Seires tsal eht daolnwod).

A five-step plan to keeping your man

2008-02-26T12:52:00.000-08:00

1) Do not try to change him (you will find him unattractive should you ever succeed).

2) Remember most conversations take place at chest level (stuff your bra with bubble wrap and start popping if you need to grab his attention).

3) Leave the toilet seat upright at all times; for speed of use and in case of urination from distance (a necessity if he is watching football ‘between rooms’).

4) One pair of shoes looks like another. Just buy a pair and leave Hobbs/Nine West/Kurt Geiger before the dawn of the next ice age.

5) Don’t invite him to a Winehouse after-party. Ask if he would like any of Amy’s crack and he will say no.

Last words

2008-02-22T03:07:00.000-08:00

'This vodka tastes a bit like paint thinner.'
'Why is your wife's head in the fridge?'
'Pass me more lighter fuel. Let's get this barbecue started.'
'The negotiations with the fundamentalists are going well. Oh look, they've sent us a parcel!'
'I strongly believe this cocaine is overpriced.'
'Let's happy slap that ninja.'

Council geezer (overheard in West Hampstead barbershop)

2008-02-19T10:36:00.000-08:00

‘You would not believe the drugs over there, man,’ riffs the council geezer. 'They got everything, coke, speed, meth, puff, crack, pills. I had a bit of everything over there, mate.’
‘How did you meet this Bulgarian....drug dealer?’
‘I saw a guy in a D&G t-shirt, but underneath the logo was printed 'I AM A DRUG DEALER’ in big ****ing letters. I was there pissing myself and this geezer come over to me and asked why I was laughing and I said your t-shirt is too much, mate.’
‘Actually, I am drug dealer,’ he told me. ‘The t-shirt never lies’. Serious. So he hooked me up for the whole time I was there with the bird in Sofia and I took everything that was on offer, man. It was a five star hotel but they hated the English people over there so we got a lift to Turkey for 500 Euros off this other geezer. No flights or anything so we had to take it. But [indecipherable place in Turkey] was the spot, mate. Mad weed over there, yeah?’
The council geezer’s mate leaves a tenner to pay for his pal’s haircut and they leave; the barber shrugs his heavy-set shoulders: ‘If he’d taken all those drugs he’d be dead, man.’

I'll house you

2008-02-17T08:04:00.000-08:00

UK bus stops feature in very few Hollywood movies. And for good reason, your local bus stop represents the routine and the mundane. The timetables are indecipherable and rarely kept to....the only people who understand them are older than Moses. But it's a good spot to sell life insurance.
'It just ain't the same nowa-days,' some toothless dear tells me at the bus stop while I'm squinting at the timetable in 6-point type inside the shelter.
'Wuh? Does this bus go to Havant?'
'It just ain't safe to leave your door open, love. Nowa-daaays.'
'Haavaant.'
'I'm glad you're havin' it, dear.'
The silver generation love to tell us that you could leave your front door open and never get robbed in the good old days. Truth is, if everyone in 1943 left their door open burglars would not have the sheer man hours to rob more than a few houses. It is strongly believed that burglar burn-out was a major problem in the 1940s. 'Looting a house is a knackering business - drink Ovaltine and go back tomorrow.' - a public health announcement poster reads in the National Museum.
There was also nothing worth stealing. But the old folks won't listen when I try to tell them...they just smile and nod and turn down their hearing aids....while I try to remember if I locked the front door.

Raspberry McCartney

2008-02-15T15:09:00.001-08:00

Most of you call it sugar....I call it white gold. Back in the day that's how the kids got high. Every break time, every lunch time, every end of school time, the ice cream man parked outside our gates and started peddling those sugary treats. Our pleasures were simple. Break a Milk Flake in half, stick a piece in either nostril and pour a can of Vimto down your throat in one go and you experience a euphoria, a giddy rush not unlike crystal meth while neatly sidestepping the psychotic behaviour and paranoid raving. Or so we thought. We were blinded by our sugary high, underestimating its grip and confusing the strange hallucinations that danced in our minds with lucid reality. We started to mess with our dealer....the silver-haired ice cream man...by requesting an ice lolly that did not exist. 'Can I have a Raspberry McCartney, please?' 'What?' 'The Beatles ice lolly...you must have sold me two or three last week.' 'Are you sure?' 'You sell 'em, mate.' The next kid asked for a Raspberry McCartney...and the next one....and the next one..and the next one. Our dealer got nervous....no-one was buying...the addicts no longer got off on Vimto and double flake...he made half his living off the sugar junkies and teen ice cream fiends....but now his business was on the rocks and he started to crack under the strain.....'N-next week. I've been searching everywhere,' he stammered the following day. 'It's all right,' said the kid at the front of the queue. 'I'll have a Lemon Lennon instead.' 'I-I don't...' 'Okay a Mango Ringo?' 'N-n-no.' 'An Aniseed Harrison?' "Uuuuuh.' 'Sod it, we're going to The Spar.' The ice cream man never came back again. I like to think he's still out there...looking for Raspberry McCartneys...wherever they may be.

Gifting the unfairer sex

2008-02-14T15:39:00.000-08:00

Love hearts fired into the skies by mini-cupids on a romantic weekend in Paris, miniature teddy bears holding 'I love you' balloons, flute after flute of inhibition-loosening champagne (cava, if you can get away with it), a charming potted orchid (for the senior lady) or a bunch of blood red roses (for the hot-blooded young nympho), racy lingerie (M&S does the trick), some Blahniks or Jimmy Choos (just get the right shoe size - 8 equals clown feet) , a mini-iceberg from Tiffany or 'vintage' jewellery as worn by that sentimental aunt......all are accepted graciously (or otherwise) on Valentines Day by the 'unfairer' sex.....but for the love of God...don't buy chocolate......its purchase almost amounts to a hate crime....she can buy it (on the down low), but you can't, my brother man...so drop that Toblerone and put your hands in the air...play hacky-sack with your Ferrero Rocher....a bit of blow football with those maltesers....and your love may live to bloom...for another day at least......

Things to do in London when you're dead

2008-02-13T15:07:00.000-08:00

Dream of long, dark nights of the soul, drinking wine (red or white, but never rose) with women of suspect virtue; decompose gracefully, smirk silently from beyond at the unpaid bills of EDF, British Gas, Thames Water, Camden Council, Plus.net, Sky and Setanta, your landlord or mortgage lender and the will no-one ever expected; prop up the bar at any trendy nightclub or drinking establishment and marvel at how no-one recognises your deceased status and lack of conversation (a wannabe actress describes you as 'chatty'); go to the Emirates Stadium and sit in a corporate seat with 'le fans nouveau' and become known as the 'wild crazy man who sings all the songs'; stand for Parliament, win a seat and slouch in the backbenches; date a woman who reads celebrity magazines and refers to pop and movie stars by their first name; ensure all your conversations involve the subjects 'money', 'property', 'jobs', 'schools' and 'weight loss'....understand death and death in life are not dissimilar. Pray for a favourable reincarnation and start again......