For Spurs, the end of one European dream could mean the beginning of another. It’s a perverse fact that elimination from the Europa League presents our club with a ‘clear run’ at third/fourth place and that ‘valuable’ Champions League spot without the ‘distraction’ of the cups. Wait a beeping minute…Dembele bloody scored! Tottenham are headed to Amsterdam, baby!
Mousa Dembele’s brilliant and timely intervention gave Tottenham a merited pass into the last 16 against an uber-defensive Lyon side intent on stealing a win via a set-piece and a prolonged, rearguard action. ‘Throw your fromage in the air, throw it up like you just don’t care. And if you knocked out an ex-Gooner’s team, I wanna hear you scream. Oh yeah! Oh yeah!’
It was perhaps a bullet dodged for Andre Villas-Boas. The Portuguese has overachieved in his first league season as Spurs boss, and disproved the doubting media vultures, but his cup selections have often been as ill-judged as Nicky Minaj’s. FA Cup and League Cup progression were needlessly discarded with ill-conceived line-ups against Norwich and Leeds, and for old school fans this still rankles. Spurs are a cup team after all.
The omission of the returning Hugo Lloris set the early alarm bells ringing and deprived the former Lyon star a true hero’s welcome as well as robbing Spurs of that cat-like presence in the box. Tottenham also missed Michael Dawson’s lion-like roar at the back.
The sight of Brad Friedel rooted to his line for the Lyon opener was grimly predictable. He is the Pete Doherty of goalkeepers. The American is an excellent back-up between the sticks and admirable pro, though this felt like the wrong call if Spurs are in the competition to win it. But the AVB gamble was ultimately unpunished and Friedel’s double-fisted response to the Lyon fans at the final whistle clearly felt like a vindication, given his two alert stops in the second half.
For the most part, an unexceptional but highly-organised Lyon sat back and looked to capitalise on set-pieces. Some of the early foul awards from the German referee were generous at best including the swan dive of the paper-ankled Lisandro Lopez that led to Lyon’s opener. As soon as the home side had their noses in front, they defended en masse and started to resemble a French version of Stoke City. The presence of Lyon striker Gomis, a Kenwyne Jones lookalike, did little to disprove the comparison.
The sight of Lyon players biting the turf was commonplace. Kyle Walker brushed Umtiti’s arm and the full-back collapsed like a malnourished Gillian McKeith. Walker was yellow carded for the challenge which would constitute mild foreplay in most bedrooms across Britain. But Spurs were too often toothless and bereft of creativity in the final third. A speculative Lewis Holtby shot that hit the post was a rare, incisive moment in the opening half. Lyon were exceptionally well-drilled. If only the French had shown such resistance between 1939-45. It would have saved a lot of trouble.
A sumptuous, swinging centre from Emmanuel Adebayor presented Gareth Bale with an excellent second half opportunity but he drilled agonisingly wide. As circumstances dictated, Spurs committed greater numbers forward and pushed gamely for the equaliser. A Bale free-kick was parried and the bar was clipped as Tottenham methodically cranked up the pressure. A Lyon tumble in the box after a Friedel miscalculation and recovery was thankfully waved away by the referee. In the absence of an extra striker, Dempsey and Sigurdsson were cast into the fray, but failed to conjure an opening and the Euro-prayer beads were out.
Suddenly, the exit door loomed for Spurs. But then out of nowhere Belgian wonder Dembele cut in from distance and powered a dramatic last minute equaliser (and winner on aggregate). Bollocks, the added fixture congestion means Tottenham are now destined for fifth.
Or maybe our co-efficient in next year’s Champions League has been significantly improved :). Both adventures continue.
Showing posts with label Andre Villas-Boas. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Andre Villas-Boas. Show all posts
Thursday, February 21, 2013
Sunday, February 3, 2013
Je t'aime Burkina Faso, but have Spurs fans been ‘Levyed’?
Je t'aime Burkina Faso. The West African nation’s historic victory over Togo in the African Cup Of Nations meant that AWOL frontman Emmanuel Adebayor will shortly be on a plane home and Spurs finally have a ‘new’ striker at a price Daniel Levy will surely enjoy.
Another Gareth Bale wonderstrike earned a crucial 1-0 win over 10-man West Brom at The Hawthorns yet Jermain Defoe’s injury overshadowed proceedings and left our Champions League chasers without a fit frontman in the matchday squad. The Bale reliant Spurs currently have less strikers than the Kensington Miners Union.
The failure to secure Leandro Damaio (or any competent striker on loan) during the recent transfer window was always likely to bite Spurs in the behind. Tottenham’s ‘partnership’ with Internacional is as meaningful as a relationship on ‘The Jeremy Kyle Show’. If Daniel Levy is unable to broker a deal with an alleged partner club over three transfer windows then perhaps a change of target is advisable. Offering £13 million for Damaio is like offering Scarlett Johansson a date at Chicken Cottage and being shocked at the rejection.
Was this an(other) elaborate smokescreen? The Joao Moutinho deal crumbled on inadequately filed paperwork in the summer and Andre Villas-Boas’ admiration (borderline love) for the Portuguese playmaker is well known. So if everything was agreed in principle several months ago why did August’s ‘done deal’ fail to materialise in the following window? The club is, of course, comfortably in the black in its transfer dealings over the last three windows. Repeat quietly three times, Tottenham Hotspur are owned by an investment company.
Opinions vary, but the conspiracy theorist in me always wonders why these big deals fail to materialise while the exit door remains joyfully open to the detriment of the squad. AVB thankfully blocked Gylfi Sigurdsson’s surprise £10million sale to Reading, but what if those incoming funds had been immediately reinvested in the purchase of Damaio? Tottenham would undoubtedly be in a stronger position - one might think a celebrated deal broker might spot such an opportunity.
I have no problem with Levy opting not to spend frivolous cash, but equally he must be realistic about where Tottenham will finish without reasonable investment. Sixth place is arguably par for our club. We cannot compete with the financial firepower of Manchester City or Chelsea or the sheer size of Manchester United. Arsenal may be weakening but those South London nomads have been rooted in the top four since the 1990s while fallen giants Liverpool do not seem to suffer ENIC’s recent investment allergy, having spent heavily on Daniel Sturridge (a striker – they exist) and the talented but unproven Philippe Coutinho.
For all its attacking qualities, this is not a free-scoring Tottenham team. The fitness of Defoe and motivation of Adebayor will dictate whether Spurs have enough to inch over the Champions League line. The failure to strengthen a weak striking corps is a considerable gamble and one that in the last two January windows has failed to pay off.
There is always a first time.
Another Gareth Bale wonderstrike earned a crucial 1-0 win over 10-man West Brom at The Hawthorns yet Jermain Defoe’s injury overshadowed proceedings and left our Champions League chasers without a fit frontman in the matchday squad. The Bale reliant Spurs currently have less strikers than the Kensington Miners Union.
The failure to secure Leandro Damaio (or any competent striker on loan) during the recent transfer window was always likely to bite Spurs in the behind. Tottenham’s ‘partnership’ with Internacional is as meaningful as a relationship on ‘The Jeremy Kyle Show’. If Daniel Levy is unable to broker a deal with an alleged partner club over three transfer windows then perhaps a change of target is advisable. Offering £13 million for Damaio is like offering Scarlett Johansson a date at Chicken Cottage and being shocked at the rejection.
Was this an(other) elaborate smokescreen? The Joao Moutinho deal crumbled on inadequately filed paperwork in the summer and Andre Villas-Boas’ admiration (borderline love) for the Portuguese playmaker is well known. So if everything was agreed in principle several months ago why did August’s ‘done deal’ fail to materialise in the following window? The club is, of course, comfortably in the black in its transfer dealings over the last three windows. Repeat quietly three times, Tottenham Hotspur are owned by an investment company.
Opinions vary, but the conspiracy theorist in me always wonders why these big deals fail to materialise while the exit door remains joyfully open to the detriment of the squad. AVB thankfully blocked Gylfi Sigurdsson’s surprise £10million sale to Reading, but what if those incoming funds had been immediately reinvested in the purchase of Damaio? Tottenham would undoubtedly be in a stronger position - one might think a celebrated deal broker might spot such an opportunity.
I have no problem with Levy opting not to spend frivolous cash, but equally he must be realistic about where Tottenham will finish without reasonable investment. Sixth place is arguably par for our club. We cannot compete with the financial firepower of Manchester City or Chelsea or the sheer size of Manchester United. Arsenal may be weakening but those South London nomads have been rooted in the top four since the 1990s while fallen giants Liverpool do not seem to suffer ENIC’s recent investment allergy, having spent heavily on Daniel Sturridge (a striker – they exist) and the talented but unproven Philippe Coutinho.
For all its attacking qualities, this is not a free-scoring Tottenham team. The fitness of Defoe and motivation of Adebayor will dictate whether Spurs have enough to inch over the Champions League line. The failure to strengthen a weak striking corps is a considerable gamble and one that in the last two January windows has failed to pay off.
There is always a first time.
Sunday, December 9, 2012
AVB: Witness the unfitness
Hatem Ben Arfa, James Morrison, Robert Snodgrass, Hal Robson-Kanu, Daniel Sturridge, Simeon Jackson, Jan Vertonghen, Edin Dzeko, Theo Walcott, Andy Carroll, Gregorz Raziak, Steven Pienaar and Nikica Jelavic. The roll call of late goalscorers against Spurs continues to grow. Okay, Rasiak didn’t score, but even a static Pole with a criminal haircut might net against Tottenham in the last 10 minutes.
The grim but unsurprising statistic that Spurs would be top of the Premier League (and in the League Cup quarter-finals) if games finished on 80 minutes highlights a trend that shows little sign of relenting.
Inevitably some will blame William Gallas for chain-smoking by a goalpost or Hugo Lloris reading Proust to a ballboy, but perhaps a simple lack of fitness is the key. When Sebastien Bassong left Spurs just before the end of the transfer window, he was asked the difference between the training regimens of new boss Andre Villas-Boas and everyone’s un/favourite ex-gaffer Harry Redknapp. The answer was unusually illuminating.
According to Bassong, most of Spurs’ training under Redknapp focused on ‘running’ with new coach Villas-Boas concentrating on playing football through which the team would ‘naturally’ gain fitness. Has AVB failed to witness the unfitness?
Of course, Saturday’s late reverse against Everton came against a quality side, away from home, several days after Spurs had played in the Europa League with the likes of Gareth Bale, Younes Kaboul, Benoit Assou-Ekotto and Scott Parker still missing and the talismanic Mousa Dembele, almost inevitably, off the pitch.
Yet disappointment should be diluted by the previous three league wins on the bounce, progress to the last 32 of European competition and that Spurs remain on equal points with fourth place Everton. Away fixtures against five of last season’s top six sides (excluding Spurs) have also been fulfilled.
In the words of the late Whitney Houston, ’it’s not right, but it’s okay’ (except in the last 10 minutes).
*Regular readers of this blog may have noticed my absence over the last 10 days. Like Alan Partridge before me, I am currently living in a hotel after a crazy home move (into storage), heinous work deadline, emotional wedding and an early hours brush with Brighton’s knife community. Regular service will hopefully be resumed soon.
The grim but unsurprising statistic that Spurs would be top of the Premier League (and in the League Cup quarter-finals) if games finished on 80 minutes highlights a trend that shows little sign of relenting.
Inevitably some will blame William Gallas for chain-smoking by a goalpost or Hugo Lloris reading Proust to a ballboy, but perhaps a simple lack of fitness is the key. When Sebastien Bassong left Spurs just before the end of the transfer window, he was asked the difference between the training regimens of new boss Andre Villas-Boas and everyone’s un/favourite ex-gaffer Harry Redknapp. The answer was unusually illuminating.
According to Bassong, most of Spurs’ training under Redknapp focused on ‘running’ with new coach Villas-Boas concentrating on playing football through which the team would ‘naturally’ gain fitness. Has AVB failed to witness the unfitness?
Of course, Saturday’s late reverse against Everton came against a quality side, away from home, several days after Spurs had played in the Europa League with the likes of Gareth Bale, Younes Kaboul, Benoit Assou-Ekotto and Scott Parker still missing and the talismanic Mousa Dembele, almost inevitably, off the pitch.
Yet disappointment should be diluted by the previous three league wins on the bounce, progress to the last 32 of European competition and that Spurs remain on equal points with fourth place Everton. Away fixtures against five of last season’s top six sides (excluding Spurs) have also been fulfilled.
In the words of the late Whitney Houston, ’it’s not right, but it’s okay’ (except in the last 10 minutes).
*Regular readers of this blog may have noticed my absence over the last 10 days. Like Alan Partridge before me, I am currently living in a hotel after a crazy home move (into storage), heinous work deadline, emotional wedding and an early hours brush with Brighton’s knife community. Regular service will hopefully be resumed soon.
Saturday, November 17, 2012
The beautiful losers of Tottenham Hotspur FC
Support for many people relates to an office IT guy or a comfortable bra size. But not for me. Loyalty is the virtue that defines and separates the beloved and irrelevant in our lives. Too often this feels like a forgotten, almost alien, concept in modern football with its single serving fans drinking pitchers of Fosters on faux leather pub sofas and the online post-match rage, blame culture and insecure trolling from young men who have not yet known the touch of a woman.
For 90 minutes of a largely Emmanuel Adebayor-free game, I sang in the trenches. When other less hardy away fans fell quiet or filtered out of that soulless stadium, forged in the pits of corporate hell, I found empowering, Spurs-fuelled words to fill their absence. In the second half, real Tottenham supporters, the true and blue bloods, stood and joined me in song and an omnishambles of a game, punctuated by under-par refereeing, poor form and absent heroes, soon faded from view. We were back where we were supposed to be, singing and supporting, representing and validating the club that we love and cherish to the depths of our souls. The regular silence of Arsenal ‘fans’ (with their team clearly in command) was all too predictable. A hooped, old school scarf is not an indication of loyalty. It’s a statement of wankerism.
The calamity Kyles, Walker and Naughton, were thankfully withdrawn at half-time by Andre Villas-Boas and then fortunes, for the most part, improved. The hapless Naughton was, in fairness, playing out of position at left back but Walker now sadly resembles a human road sign. His best defensive moves this season have taken place on Twitter. He needs time off the field to regroup and return a better player. At the moment, he’s an accident waiting to happen. Anyone who doubts the corn-rowed brilliance of Benoit Assou-Ekotto, take a drug test now. This option does not apply to Jack Wilshere, the human equivalent of a Coke Zero.
One cannot help but feel a little sorry for Villas-Boas. There is a hefty asterisk associated with his early Spurs ‘failure’. The Portuguese is an inverted Harry Redknapp, an increasingly luckless individual whose every tactic or turn appears hampered by key injuries or Daniel Levy’s calamitous ‘everything must go’ summer squad sale. An anorexic, striker light bench will now weaken further in light of Adebayor’s suspension. We’re down to a solitary striker (as grimly predicted on this blog) for the next three league games. Lucy Pinder has greater options up front. And she could easily distract Jermain Defoe should West Ham field her next weekend. Dodgy Davids Sullivan and Gold certainly have form in this area.
The largely misleading 5-2, 10-man defeat may appear a life and death result now, but the Adebayor sending off (yellow or red?) and key injuries were mitigating factors. Spurs bossed the game with 11 men and half a team missing before old foe Howard Webb (who missed Mario Balotelli’s three-stamp on Scott Parker) rejoiced in an instant dismissal for Adebayor. Yet this is not an exceptional Arsenal team but a club in a tailspin that requires a one man advantage or the helping hand of a human billiard ball. For all Spurs’ limitations, we still have a more than decent chance of finishing ahead of celebrated heterosexual Sol Campbell’s favourite north London team.
As I zig-zagged through the shuffling red-shirted zombies on my way back to my local pub in Crouch End, I almost pitied the celebrating bug-faced hordes. Three points cannot cure personal deformity. Within a few games, South London’s finest will lose again and this brief sense of joy and entitlement will swiftly be replaced by limp-wristed threats of bin bags and those embarrassing ‘Wenger out’ protests.
Let them have their false dawn. I walked into that hellhole Tottenham and I walked out with Tottenham branded on my heart, guts and soul. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
For 90 minutes of a largely Emmanuel Adebayor-free game, I sang in the trenches. When other less hardy away fans fell quiet or filtered out of that soulless stadium, forged in the pits of corporate hell, I found empowering, Spurs-fuelled words to fill their absence. In the second half, real Tottenham supporters, the true and blue bloods, stood and joined me in song and an omnishambles of a game, punctuated by under-par refereeing, poor form and absent heroes, soon faded from view. We were back where we were supposed to be, singing and supporting, representing and validating the club that we love and cherish to the depths of our souls. The regular silence of Arsenal ‘fans’ (with their team clearly in command) was all too predictable. A hooped, old school scarf is not an indication of loyalty. It’s a statement of wankerism.
The calamity Kyles, Walker and Naughton, were thankfully withdrawn at half-time by Andre Villas-Boas and then fortunes, for the most part, improved. The hapless Naughton was, in fairness, playing out of position at left back but Walker now sadly resembles a human road sign. His best defensive moves this season have taken place on Twitter. He needs time off the field to regroup and return a better player. At the moment, he’s an accident waiting to happen. Anyone who doubts the corn-rowed brilliance of Benoit Assou-Ekotto, take a drug test now. This option does not apply to Jack Wilshere, the human equivalent of a Coke Zero.
One cannot help but feel a little sorry for Villas-Boas. There is a hefty asterisk associated with his early Spurs ‘failure’. The Portuguese is an inverted Harry Redknapp, an increasingly luckless individual whose every tactic or turn appears hampered by key injuries or Daniel Levy’s calamitous ‘everything must go’ summer squad sale. An anorexic, striker light bench will now weaken further in light of Adebayor’s suspension. We’re down to a solitary striker (as grimly predicted on this blog) for the next three league games. Lucy Pinder has greater options up front. And she could easily distract Jermain Defoe should West Ham field her next weekend. Dodgy Davids Sullivan and Gold certainly have form in this area.
The largely misleading 5-2, 10-man defeat may appear a life and death result now, but the Adebayor sending off (yellow or red?) and key injuries were mitigating factors. Spurs bossed the game with 11 men and half a team missing before old foe Howard Webb (who missed Mario Balotelli’s three-stamp on Scott Parker) rejoiced in an instant dismissal for Adebayor. Yet this is not an exceptional Arsenal team but a club in a tailspin that requires a one man advantage or the helping hand of a human billiard ball. For all Spurs’ limitations, we still have a more than decent chance of finishing ahead of celebrated heterosexual Sol Campbell’s favourite north London team.
As I zig-zagged through the shuffling red-shirted zombies on my way back to my local pub in Crouch End, I almost pitied the celebrating bug-faced hordes. Three points cannot cure personal deformity. Within a few games, South London’s finest will lose again and this brief sense of joy and entitlement will swiftly be replaced by limp-wristed threats of bin bags and those embarrassing ‘Wenger out’ protests.
Let them have their false dawn. I walked into that hellhole Tottenham and I walked out with Tottenham branded on my heart, guts and soul. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Sunday, November 11, 2012
AVB: Messiah…or fool?
Andre Villas-Boas is Tottenham’s most divisive manager since, er, Harry Redknapp. The Portuguese can do no right in some fans’ eyes and no wrong in others. Villas-Boas will inevitably make mistakes and their severity will dictate his future as Spurs boss; the only certainty is that his reign will not be defined by a 2-1 away defeat to billionaire bankrolled Manchester City.
At the Etihad Stadium, Emmanuel Adebayor’s substitution was greeted with anger and derision by pockets of the Spurs away support around me. I had called the change minutes earlier feeling that the effective Adebayor’s ongoing spat with City’s Pablo Zabaleta might have seen the Togo striker dismissed for a second yellow card.
The obnoxious Zabaleta adroitly switched roles from mugger to victim with Adebayor the constant focus of his ire. It reminded me a little of the way Peter Crouch was targeted by Real Madrid in the Champions League quarter-final first leg. Villas-Boas duly made a ‘like-for-like’ striker change that was anything but. While Adebayor and Jermain Defoe technically play the same position they are poles apart as players.
The predatory Defoe offers greater pace on the counter, but in a game that was fast becoming a backs-to-the-wall situation cannot offer the focal point of Adebayor and his nous for bringing others into play. Clint Dempsey has proven as anonymous as namesake Eastwood’s film roles of late and was the preferred option among many fans for withdrawal. Yet a conventional 4-4-2 at City would have likely opened up the floodgates at this point. Dempsey for Defoe was not a realistic switch with bullish billionaires City in the ascendancy and their wing-backs pushing on furiously for the win. One glance at the sidelines showed Jake Livermore, Gylfi Sigurdsson and Tom Carroll sitting in tracksuits. The Tottenham bench looks thinner than Victoria Beckham on a beach holiday. Money is a great divider and, compared to City, we shop at Poundland and this financial disparity should always dilute expectations with a healthy drop of realism.
With many of City’s team and bench in the £20million plus bracket and Spurs stripped of midfield dynamo Mousa Dembele, defensive rock Younes Kaboul as well as player of the season Scott Parker and celebrated LOL-merchant Benoit Assou-Ekotto this away day was always a tough ask, especially given City’s long unbeaten run on home soil. Positives were the welcome return of Sandro who put in a characteristic ball-breaking performance, the overdue inclusion of Adebayor in a Premier League starting line-up and some spirited stops by the ageless Brad Friedel.
It is fair to say that Villas-Boas’ tactical acumen has not come as advertised. He is certainly guilty of negative substitutions in positive positions. But he has been hamstrung by injuries and Daniel Levy’s ‘careful’ spending policy (Spurs were again in the black in the last transfer window having moved on star players Luka Modric and Rafael van der Vaart for that ubiquitous ‘good deal’ while once more sidestepping a pressing need for an additional striker).
AVB cannot yet be labelled messiah or fool; he merely requires the time neither of those individuals have.
At the Etihad Stadium, Emmanuel Adebayor’s substitution was greeted with anger and derision by pockets of the Spurs away support around me. I had called the change minutes earlier feeling that the effective Adebayor’s ongoing spat with City’s Pablo Zabaleta might have seen the Togo striker dismissed for a second yellow card.
The obnoxious Zabaleta adroitly switched roles from mugger to victim with Adebayor the constant focus of his ire. It reminded me a little of the way Peter Crouch was targeted by Real Madrid in the Champions League quarter-final first leg. Villas-Boas duly made a ‘like-for-like’ striker change that was anything but. While Adebayor and Jermain Defoe technically play the same position they are poles apart as players.
The predatory Defoe offers greater pace on the counter, but in a game that was fast becoming a backs-to-the-wall situation cannot offer the focal point of Adebayor and his nous for bringing others into play. Clint Dempsey has proven as anonymous as namesake Eastwood’s film roles of late and was the preferred option among many fans for withdrawal. Yet a conventional 4-4-2 at City would have likely opened up the floodgates at this point. Dempsey for Defoe was not a realistic switch with bullish billionaires City in the ascendancy and their wing-backs pushing on furiously for the win. One glance at the sidelines showed Jake Livermore, Gylfi Sigurdsson and Tom Carroll sitting in tracksuits. The Tottenham bench looks thinner than Victoria Beckham on a beach holiday. Money is a great divider and, compared to City, we shop at Poundland and this financial disparity should always dilute expectations with a healthy drop of realism.
With many of City’s team and bench in the £20million plus bracket and Spurs stripped of midfield dynamo Mousa Dembele, defensive rock Younes Kaboul as well as player of the season Scott Parker and celebrated LOL-merchant Benoit Assou-Ekotto this away day was always a tough ask, especially given City’s long unbeaten run on home soil. Positives were the welcome return of Sandro who put in a characteristic ball-breaking performance, the overdue inclusion of Adebayor in a Premier League starting line-up and some spirited stops by the ageless Brad Friedel.
It is fair to say that Villas-Boas’ tactical acumen has not come as advertised. He is certainly guilty of negative substitutions in positive positions. But he has been hamstrung by injuries and Daniel Levy’s ‘careful’ spending policy (Spurs were again in the black in the last transfer window having moved on star players Luka Modric and Rafael van der Vaart for that ubiquitous ‘good deal’ while once more sidestepping a pressing need for an additional striker).
AVB cannot yet be labelled messiah or fool; he merely requires the time neither of those individuals have.
Monday, October 8, 2012
‘Mad’ Friedel bodyslams AVB in vicious UFC style smackdown
ANOTHER FABRICATED SUN EXCLUSIVE BY BILL S. HITTIN
The sensational headline above only tells part of the story. The untrue part.
Displaced goalkeeper Brad Friedel watched his 310 consecutive Premier League game playing streak cruelly ended by unpopular boss Andre Villas-Boas against Aston Villa on Sunday and then flipped like an American style pancake.
Ripping his substitute goalkeeper's jersey apart with a flex of his yoga-toned muscles, the feral 41-year-old bodyslammed the weasel-faced Portuguese in Tottenham's West Stand car park as his ‘revolting’ teammates whooped and cheered, ‘The Sun’ can exclusively reveal.
Ever the Frenchman, replacement Hugo Lloris fled the scene with a girlish Gallic jog. The fresh garlic fancier was later found cowering behind a notorious Paxton End burger van and only discovered when its geezerish proprietor shouted: “Come and have a look at this!”
Friedel’s incredible Premier League run dated back to the days of black and white television when children fidgeted uncomfortably on beanbags with Jimmy Saville and hoped for the best. Back then the American sported a furry Fellaini style barnet which he used to expertly pluck goalbound screamers from just under the post.
Yet the ancient American’s goalkeeping pedigree and high standing in the game counted for nothing in the eyes of the conniving Villas-Boas. And last night, as disbelieving fans left scarves and lit candles in honour of Friedel’s departed streak, the Chelsea failure remained aloof and unrepentant.
“Brad took his rage to another dimension,” confessed a sheepish Villas-Boas after Spurs' 2-0 win that ensured his job safety for another fortnight. “He understands the project of me dropping his prehistoric arse and, after he clotheslined me in the dressing room and held my finely coiffured head down a flushing toilet, we shook hands like men.
“I told Brad we look forward to him playing again soon. In a behind closed doors friendly with the likes of Jon Obika. Here he can show his merit as an individual and I hope the opportunity incentivates him to accept Michael Parkinson’s life insurance offer. I understand you receive a Parker pen just for calling. Daniel Levy made 14 calls from different numbers and received 14 pens. That’s an immense stationery contribution and more than Manchester United manage in a season.”
While Spurs were labouring to break down a stout Villa defence, former manager Harry Redknapp was enjoying a traditional roast dinner cooked by beloved wife Sandra.
The scent of Sandra’s expertly cooked beef wafted over Sandbanks to the mutual delight of passing pooches and their salivating dog walkers.
“Cor, I told you Sandra was better than Darren Bent,“ winked the cheeky chappy ex-manager and Sun columnist. “I wish Pavlyuchenko had run around like those peas. Triffic movement off the fork. Let’s hope they pass better than Pav!”
The sensational headline above only tells part of the story. The untrue part.
Displaced goalkeeper Brad Friedel watched his 310 consecutive Premier League game playing streak cruelly ended by unpopular boss Andre Villas-Boas against Aston Villa on Sunday and then flipped like an American style pancake.
Ripping his substitute goalkeeper's jersey apart with a flex of his yoga-toned muscles, the feral 41-year-old bodyslammed the weasel-faced Portuguese in Tottenham's West Stand car park as his ‘revolting’ teammates whooped and cheered, ‘The Sun’ can exclusively reveal.
Ever the Frenchman, replacement Hugo Lloris fled the scene with a girlish Gallic jog. The fresh garlic fancier was later found cowering behind a notorious Paxton End burger van and only discovered when its geezerish proprietor shouted: “Come and have a look at this!”
Friedel’s incredible Premier League run dated back to the days of black and white television when children fidgeted uncomfortably on beanbags with Jimmy Saville and hoped for the best. Back then the American sported a furry Fellaini style barnet which he used to expertly pluck goalbound screamers from just under the post.
Yet the ancient American’s goalkeeping pedigree and high standing in the game counted for nothing in the eyes of the conniving Villas-Boas. And last night, as disbelieving fans left scarves and lit candles in honour of Friedel’s departed streak, the Chelsea failure remained aloof and unrepentant.
“Brad took his rage to another dimension,” confessed a sheepish Villas-Boas after Spurs' 2-0 win that ensured his job safety for another fortnight. “He understands the project of me dropping his prehistoric arse and, after he clotheslined me in the dressing room and held my finely coiffured head down a flushing toilet, we shook hands like men.
“I told Brad we look forward to him playing again soon. In a behind closed doors friendly with the likes of Jon Obika. Here he can show his merit as an individual and I hope the opportunity incentivates him to accept Michael Parkinson’s life insurance offer. I understand you receive a Parker pen just for calling. Daniel Levy made 14 calls from different numbers and received 14 pens. That’s an immense stationery contribution and more than Manchester United manage in a season.”
While Spurs were labouring to break down a stout Villa defence, former manager Harry Redknapp was enjoying a traditional roast dinner cooked by beloved wife Sandra.
The scent of Sandra’s expertly cooked beef wafted over Sandbanks to the mutual delight of passing pooches and their salivating dog walkers.
“Cor, I told you Sandra was better than Darren Bent,“ winked the cheeky chappy ex-manager and Sun columnist. “I wish Pavlyuchenko had run around like those peas. Triffic movement off the fork. Let’s hope they pass better than Pav!”
Sunday, September 30, 2012
The miracle of Old Trafford
Rub your eyes and believe. It actually happened. The miracle of Old Trafford. As Spurs clung on to a slender but joyful lead, hard-bitten Tottenham fans the world over waited for a spurious penalty or spot of outrageous gamesmanship from a crap Michael Jackson impersonator. It did not come. The ball crossed the Manchester United goal line three times, yet keeper Anders Lindegaard did not have the presence of mind to roll it out quickly to the waiting Rafael. And somehow Tottenham’s rejigged rearguard withstood relentless second half pressure plus ‘Fergie time’ to erase 23-years of bad karma and humble Manchester United before some of England’s foremost prawn sandwich eaters.
Spurs fans woke on Sunday with sore heads and fast-beating hearts and the knowledge that, if Tottenham can overcome Manchester United (plus officials) on their home turf, pretty much anything is possible. Somewhere in the frosted wastes, a pensive but abominable snowman is pondering his future ahead of a joint press conference with the Dalai Lama.
Eighties’ pop siren Belinda Carlisle did not lie. True heaven is a place on earth (for this weekend at least). And any Spurs fan who has watched victory cruelly ripped away at Old Trafford over the years knows exactly what it’s worth. In the hours after the epic 3-2 win (achieved despite the ‘player revolt’ exclusively ‘revealed’ in ‘The Sun’ by hack Paul ‘Christopher’ Jiggins), I developed a nervous tick and found myself punching the air at regular intervals. Fortunately, NHS Direct informed me that such behaviour was quite normal and not a cause for long-term concern. Every so often I check the internet (an unknown quantity when Spurs last won at Old Trafford) just to confirm the validity of Saturday’s victory. And, Jesus, we really did win.
Yet that long fruitless run, almost smugly trumpeted in the media, was always a misleading statistic. On those rare occasions when Spurs found themselves in a strong position at Old Trafford, sinister forces intervened and an inexplicable decision conspired to turn the game on its head. Most notably, Pedro Mendes’ goal, witnessed by almost 68,000 people in the stadium, but oddly ‘missed’ by the officials. A selection of these atrocities were referenced on my bitter yet sadly accurate 2010 blog ‘The many crimes of Manchester United vs Spurs’ http://lustdoctor.blogspot.co.uk/2010/10/many-crimes-of-manchester-united-vs.html for those with an iron constitution.
The fates graciously decreed that Saturday would be different. For the first time in this long barren run, Spurs did not find a referee eager to equal the score should United struggle or fail to gain an early initiative. Our hero in the middle? The unlikely figure of one Christopher Foy. But his leniency did not entirely surprise this hardy veteran of debacles past.
You may not know that Spurs submitted a detailed dossier to the FA last December citing Foy’s curious decision making in the 1-2 reverse at Stoke last season (flashback to the ridiculously onside disallowed Adebayor goal, the three official instigated sending off, convenient myopia in several contentious penalty incidents) and ever since the referee and keen cyclist has kept a low profile in games he has officiated involving our beloved team. So when United players started predictably tumbling in the box Foy chose to sidestep controversy and ignore the amateur gymnastics.
Incredibly, United had already ‘earned’ four penalties in the previous five league games with Wigan manager Roberto Martinez’s scathing comments still helpfully fresh in the memory following a classic Manchester decision-fest two weeks ago. “In many ways, you feel as though you are fighting against a mountain,” lamented the likeable Spaniard.
You can roll out the favourable United statistics as much as you want, but the playing field is rarely even. ‘The Red Devils’ were comprehensively outplayed by 10-man Liverpool the previous weekend (the home side almost inevitably hindered by a sending off and contentious penalty) and, given Spurs’ bright away performances this season, I whispered to selected confidantes that this might be ‘the year’. The reservation on my rubber-walled room was cancelled at approximately 7.30pm on Saturday evening.
Superbly marshalled by William Gallas at the back, Spurs delivered on the back of a supremely dominant first half performance. New hero and poster boy Jan Vertonghen’s early surging run and goal set a positive tone before Gareth Bale’s effortless slalom through the United backline put Tottenham two ahead and evoked wonderful memories of that first night in Milan. The backlash was imminent, but Spurs refused to buckle and, for once, the officials declined to intervene. Clint Dempsey’s poacher’s finish was sandwiched by responses from the jheri-curled Nani and the significant other of Japanese porn star Ameri Ichinose, but stirred on by Andre Villas-Boas’ rousing half-time team talk Tottenham held on. Cue jaw drops, three crazy and wonderful points, a nifty leapfrog of Arsenal and insane celebrations and handstands throughout Yid-dom. The natural and passionate response of our Portuguese manager on the final whistle mirrored the emotions of all Spurs fans. A love affair is forming.
His opposite number was all too predictably uncharitable and beetroot-faced. Contrast Sir Alex Ferguson’s laughably ungracious demeanour in the post-match interview (he understandably wanted 10 minutes of injury time) with the almost zen-like stance of our former boss Martin Jol who (perhaps too) admirably refused to complain or lambast the officials when Mendes’ long range goal was inexplicably erased from the record books.
Yet there was a wonderful symmetry. One Portuguese was criminally denied at Old Trafford in 2005, but seven years later another would emerge to right the wrongs of the past.
Karma is sweet.
Spurs fans woke on Sunday with sore heads and fast-beating hearts and the knowledge that, if Tottenham can overcome Manchester United (plus officials) on their home turf, pretty much anything is possible. Somewhere in the frosted wastes, a pensive but abominable snowman is pondering his future ahead of a joint press conference with the Dalai Lama.
Eighties’ pop siren Belinda Carlisle did not lie. True heaven is a place on earth (for this weekend at least). And any Spurs fan who has watched victory cruelly ripped away at Old Trafford over the years knows exactly what it’s worth. In the hours after the epic 3-2 win (achieved despite the ‘player revolt’ exclusively ‘revealed’ in ‘The Sun’ by hack Paul ‘Christopher’ Jiggins), I developed a nervous tick and found myself punching the air at regular intervals. Fortunately, NHS Direct informed me that such behaviour was quite normal and not a cause for long-term concern. Every so often I check the internet (an unknown quantity when Spurs last won at Old Trafford) just to confirm the validity of Saturday’s victory. And, Jesus, we really did win.
Yet that long fruitless run, almost smugly trumpeted in the media, was always a misleading statistic. On those rare occasions when Spurs found themselves in a strong position at Old Trafford, sinister forces intervened and an inexplicable decision conspired to turn the game on its head. Most notably, Pedro Mendes’ goal, witnessed by almost 68,000 people in the stadium, but oddly ‘missed’ by the officials. A selection of these atrocities were referenced on my bitter yet sadly accurate 2010 blog ‘The many crimes of Manchester United vs Spurs’ http://lustdoctor.blogspot.co.uk/2010/10/many-crimes-of-manchester-united-vs.html for those with an iron constitution.
The fates graciously decreed that Saturday would be different. For the first time in this long barren run, Spurs did not find a referee eager to equal the score should United struggle or fail to gain an early initiative. Our hero in the middle? The unlikely figure of one Christopher Foy. But his leniency did not entirely surprise this hardy veteran of debacles past.
You may not know that Spurs submitted a detailed dossier to the FA last December citing Foy’s curious decision making in the 1-2 reverse at Stoke last season (flashback to the ridiculously onside disallowed Adebayor goal, the three official instigated sending off, convenient myopia in several contentious penalty incidents) and ever since the referee and keen cyclist has kept a low profile in games he has officiated involving our beloved team. So when United players started predictably tumbling in the box Foy chose to sidestep controversy and ignore the amateur gymnastics.
Incredibly, United had already ‘earned’ four penalties in the previous five league games with Wigan manager Roberto Martinez’s scathing comments still helpfully fresh in the memory following a classic Manchester decision-fest two weeks ago. “In many ways, you feel as though you are fighting against a mountain,” lamented the likeable Spaniard.
You can roll out the favourable United statistics as much as you want, but the playing field is rarely even. ‘The Red Devils’ were comprehensively outplayed by 10-man Liverpool the previous weekend (the home side almost inevitably hindered by a sending off and contentious penalty) and, given Spurs’ bright away performances this season, I whispered to selected confidantes that this might be ‘the year’. The reservation on my rubber-walled room was cancelled at approximately 7.30pm on Saturday evening.
Superbly marshalled by William Gallas at the back, Spurs delivered on the back of a supremely dominant first half performance. New hero and poster boy Jan Vertonghen’s early surging run and goal set a positive tone before Gareth Bale’s effortless slalom through the United backline put Tottenham two ahead and evoked wonderful memories of that first night in Milan. The backlash was imminent, but Spurs refused to buckle and, for once, the officials declined to intervene. Clint Dempsey’s poacher’s finish was sandwiched by responses from the jheri-curled Nani and the significant other of Japanese porn star Ameri Ichinose, but stirred on by Andre Villas-Boas’ rousing half-time team talk Tottenham held on. Cue jaw drops, three crazy and wonderful points, a nifty leapfrog of Arsenal and insane celebrations and handstands throughout Yid-dom. The natural and passionate response of our Portuguese manager on the final whistle mirrored the emotions of all Spurs fans. A love affair is forming.
His opposite number was all too predictably uncharitable and beetroot-faced. Contrast Sir Alex Ferguson’s laughably ungracious demeanour in the post-match interview (he understandably wanted 10 minutes of injury time) with the almost zen-like stance of our former boss Martin Jol who (perhaps too) admirably refused to complain or lambast the officials when Mendes’ long range goal was inexplicably erased from the record books.
Yet there was a wonderful symmetry. One Portuguese was criminally denied at Old Trafford in 2005, but seven years later another would emerge to right the wrongs of the past.
Karma is sweet.
Sunday, September 16, 2012
AVB dodges ‘axe’, ewoks go mad in Reading
On Sunday morning, the bomb was dropped. Dave Kidd (who in 1996 correctly predicted that robot human hybrids would inhabit Milton Keynes) exclusively revealed in the highly-respected ‘People’ newspaper that Andre Villas-Boas was a mere three games from the sack.
‘The People’, affectionately regarded as an ‘inky bible with tits’, is rarely wrong outside of speculative tittle-tattle and spurious tabloid chuff and suddenly a terrible scraping sound was audible in north London. Presumably, Alan Curbishley rising, zombie-like, from his managerial crypt. Meanwhile, Kevin Bond was wildly texting, ‘DO U NEED DRIVER?! PETROL & PRINGLES GRATIS.’ Inevitably to Curbishley’s old number.
But just as the former West Ham manager was pushing away the concrete slab, Villas-Boas shockingly WON a game and SAVED his career. The scenes at the Madejeski Stadium were joyous and wild. I swear I saw a group of exuberant ewoks bundling each other when Gareth Bale scored the pivotal second, but now accept that my reading of ‘The People’ had triggered dreadful hallucinations and a complete removal from reality.
As I departed the fog of Reading, via its dreaded stadium bus, memories and thought fragments slowly pieced together and I recalled a fantastic (yet ewok-free) Spurs performance. Jermain Defoe’s brace and intuitive play rightfully earned plaudits but Mousa Dembele’s mastery of midfield was, at times, jaw-dropping. Dembele kicks like Van Damme, wows like Hepburn and may prove to be Daniel Levy’s best business yet.
The Belgian drove forward in a way that Luka Modric never could, breaking up play, prompting and weaving together a previously unhinged midfield corps in tandem with hairy enforcer Sandro and freeing the fast-forward Bale and Aaron Lennon with destructive effect. Elsewhere, compatriot Jan Vertonghen marshalled the defence superbly alongside the unfairly maligned William ‘Mad Bill’ Gallas who provided his now standard goal line clearance among other key interventions.
And so AVB was granted a ‘stay of execution’ or Kidd’s story was shockingly exposed as conniving bollocks. Whatever took place, it delivered a welcome transfusion of enthusiasm to Spurs fans. And maybe, just maybe, we have a season on our hands.
‘The People’, affectionately regarded as an ‘inky bible with tits’, is rarely wrong outside of speculative tittle-tattle and spurious tabloid chuff and suddenly a terrible scraping sound was audible in north London. Presumably, Alan Curbishley rising, zombie-like, from his managerial crypt. Meanwhile, Kevin Bond was wildly texting, ‘DO U NEED DRIVER?! PETROL & PRINGLES GRATIS.’ Inevitably to Curbishley’s old number.
But just as the former West Ham manager was pushing away the concrete slab, Villas-Boas shockingly WON a game and SAVED his career. The scenes at the Madejeski Stadium were joyous and wild. I swear I saw a group of exuberant ewoks bundling each other when Gareth Bale scored the pivotal second, but now accept that my reading of ‘The People’ had triggered dreadful hallucinations and a complete removal from reality.
As I departed the fog of Reading, via its dreaded stadium bus, memories and thought fragments slowly pieced together and I recalled a fantastic (yet ewok-free) Spurs performance. Jermain Defoe’s brace and intuitive play rightfully earned plaudits but Mousa Dembele’s mastery of midfield was, at times, jaw-dropping. Dembele kicks like Van Damme, wows like Hepburn and may prove to be Daniel Levy’s best business yet.
The Belgian drove forward in a way that Luka Modric never could, breaking up play, prompting and weaving together a previously unhinged midfield corps in tandem with hairy enforcer Sandro and freeing the fast-forward Bale and Aaron Lennon with destructive effect. Elsewhere, compatriot Jan Vertonghen marshalled the defence superbly alongside the unfairly maligned William ‘Mad Bill’ Gallas who provided his now standard goal line clearance among other key interventions.
And so AVB was granted a ‘stay of execution’ or Kidd’s story was shockingly exposed as conniving bollocks. Whatever took place, it delivered a welcome transfusion of enthusiasm to Spurs fans. And maybe, just maybe, we have a season on our hands.
Saturday, September 1, 2012
Daniel Levy’s ‘Moneyball’ and the price of cheap boos
In the final week of the transfer window, Daniel Levy was throwing around more bids than a violent nursing home. This scattergun approach, inevitably, came at a price on Saturday as a disjointed Spurs were pegged back by a spirited Norwich City in front of a funereal home crowd. The money conscious Levy sold yet failed to replace Tottenham’s two main playmakers banking over £43 million in the last week of the window, but another buoyant balance sheet has come at the price of an unbalanced and underperforming team. Great business, but this is football’s ‘Moneyball’.
The afternoon’s lowlight was undoubtedly the cascade of boos at half-time with the score all square, thanks only to two stellar saves from the under-threat Brad Friedel. It was our ‘bin bag’ moment. Tottenham supporters can mock the Emirates match experience as much as they please but the emergence of the nouveau glory fan at White Hart Lane has proved cancerous to Spurs’ once vibrant home atmosphere.
These are not true fans. Most likely they are beneficiaries of the club’s new and misguided ‘loyalty’ point system where ‘support’ over four of the club’s most successful Premier League seasons is valued and rewarded. Loyal supporters in grim times past (who may now have young families and find their opportunities to attend limited) have been marginalised in recognition of these baying parasites. But I guess four years of 'support' means the nouveau fan is 'due'.
In truth, Spurs played like strangers, without the coherence of old. Partially, this was due to a feisty Norwich outfit who, on another more fortunate day, may have departed with all three points. They certainly fashioned the better chances. I would pay them greater credit, but for the endless histrionics of Simeon Jackson who in his time on the field kissed more turf than a 2008 Lindsay Lohan.
Somehow an adroit finish from debutant Mousa Dembele gifted Spurs the lead, but it was a false promise. As Norwich pressed, Tottenham capitulated for the second week in succession with Snodgrass drilling past the otherwise excellent Friedel after another Norwich free-kick.
There was still time for the dismissal of the returning Tom Huddlestone who was red carded after a 50-50 challenge with Jonny Howson. Referee Mark Halsey (who endured a slapstick final 20 minutes) will probably look back at that decision through a gap between his fingers.
After a promising but unrewarded start at Newcastle, the Andre Villas-Boas era is misfiring. Many seasoned supporters around me, including the measured ones, felt the Portuguese would be gone by Christmas. Thankfully, David Pleat is still available. Like the dizzied Juande Ramos before him, AVB is a flashy, ‘designer’ signing favoured by Levy, yet under his stewardship top class players are playing listlessly, without cohesion or understanding. His fault or Levy’s window? Like a hermaphrodite, it’s a bit of both. True Spurs fans will cheer and persevere regardless.
The afternoon’s lowlight was undoubtedly the cascade of boos at half-time with the score all square, thanks only to two stellar saves from the under-threat Brad Friedel. It was our ‘bin bag’ moment. Tottenham supporters can mock the Emirates match experience as much as they please but the emergence of the nouveau glory fan at White Hart Lane has proved cancerous to Spurs’ once vibrant home atmosphere.
These are not true fans. Most likely they are beneficiaries of the club’s new and misguided ‘loyalty’ point system where ‘support’ over four of the club’s most successful Premier League seasons is valued and rewarded. Loyal supporters in grim times past (who may now have young families and find their opportunities to attend limited) have been marginalised in recognition of these baying parasites. But I guess four years of 'support' means the nouveau fan is 'due'.
In truth, Spurs played like strangers, without the coherence of old. Partially, this was due to a feisty Norwich outfit who, on another more fortunate day, may have departed with all three points. They certainly fashioned the better chances. I would pay them greater credit, but for the endless histrionics of Simeon Jackson who in his time on the field kissed more turf than a 2008 Lindsay Lohan.
Somehow an adroit finish from debutant Mousa Dembele gifted Spurs the lead, but it was a false promise. As Norwich pressed, Tottenham capitulated for the second week in succession with Snodgrass drilling past the otherwise excellent Friedel after another Norwich free-kick.
There was still time for the dismissal of the returning Tom Huddlestone who was red carded after a 50-50 challenge with Jonny Howson. Referee Mark Halsey (who endured a slapstick final 20 minutes) will probably look back at that decision through a gap between his fingers.
After a promising but unrewarded start at Newcastle, the Andre Villas-Boas era is misfiring. Many seasoned supporters around me, including the measured ones, felt the Portuguese would be gone by Christmas. Thankfully, David Pleat is still available. Like the dizzied Juande Ramos before him, AVB is a flashy, ‘designer’ signing favoured by Levy, yet under his stewardship top class players are playing listlessly, without cohesion or understanding. His fault or Levy’s window? Like a hermaphrodite, it’s a bit of both. True Spurs fans will cheer and persevere regardless.
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
‘How Andre Villas-Boas destroyed Spurs’
The football obituary of Andre Villas-Boas has already been written. Draft copy of his failure is sitting in the laptops of Martin Samuel, Colin Mafham and Harry Redknapp’s pals at The Sun. And now the press wait like coiled cobras, wound-up and venomous, ready to strike.
An affable, rent-a-quote manager is no longer on the end of a journalist’s mobile phone. Instead hacks will have to prise comments from an aloof young coach who at Chelsea responded tetchily in the glare of intense media scrutiny.
Whatever your position on Redknapp’s tenure at Spurs, his carefully-crafted, geezer persona won the club many allies in the media. Tottenham’s failures were often handled with kid gloves in comparison to the ire of the past. The press regard Harry as one of the boys whereas Villas-Boas’ studied approach and cool personality fails to engage. He won’t be buying scribes a round of Sagres anytime soon.
One would hope those Spurs fans who were so agitated by the reign of Redknapp will employ greater patience with Villas-Boas. A glittering career at Porto and progressive coaching methods bode well for a Tottenham side steeped in attacking promise. But the club cannot afford a fifth successive botched transfer window and more senseless deadline day brinkmanship. Daniel Levy authorising the purchase of two new strikers is a prerequisite for another season of Premier League contention.
Star player Gareth Bale’s freshly-penned four-year contract sends a bold message to potential transfer targets and those key players who remain at the club. A new, state-of-the-art training ground with a greater emphasis on emerging talent could mean an immediate integration of Stephen Caulker who thrived at Swansea yet seemed oddly destined for another loan spell under the outgoing Redknapp.
Now all Spurs fans must put aside past petty grievances and unite to back the new regime. And be realistic about our immediate future. A top six place, free-flowing Tottenham football and a serious approach to all cup competitions are par for the upcoming season. Odds are already being taken on Villas-Boas not lasting the campaign. Let’s hope the pre-scripted media obituaries are premature and we end the season AVB positive.
Bem-Vindo ao Spurs, Andre. Não chame os fãs idiotas!
An affable, rent-a-quote manager is no longer on the end of a journalist’s mobile phone. Instead hacks will have to prise comments from an aloof young coach who at Chelsea responded tetchily in the glare of intense media scrutiny.
Whatever your position on Redknapp’s tenure at Spurs, his carefully-crafted, geezer persona won the club many allies in the media. Tottenham’s failures were often handled with kid gloves in comparison to the ire of the past. The press regard Harry as one of the boys whereas Villas-Boas’ studied approach and cool personality fails to engage. He won’t be buying scribes a round of Sagres anytime soon.
One would hope those Spurs fans who were so agitated by the reign of Redknapp will employ greater patience with Villas-Boas. A glittering career at Porto and progressive coaching methods bode well for a Tottenham side steeped in attacking promise. But the club cannot afford a fifth successive botched transfer window and more senseless deadline day brinkmanship. Daniel Levy authorising the purchase of two new strikers is a prerequisite for another season of Premier League contention.
Star player Gareth Bale’s freshly-penned four-year contract sends a bold message to potential transfer targets and those key players who remain at the club. A new, state-of-the-art training ground with a greater emphasis on emerging talent could mean an immediate integration of Stephen Caulker who thrived at Swansea yet seemed oddly destined for another loan spell under the outgoing Redknapp.
Now all Spurs fans must put aside past petty grievances and unite to back the new regime. And be realistic about our immediate future. A top six place, free-flowing Tottenham football and a serious approach to all cup competitions are par for the upcoming season. Odds are already being taken on Villas-Boas not lasting the campaign. Let’s hope the pre-scripted media obituaries are premature and we end the season AVB positive.
Bem-Vindo ao Spurs, Andre. Não chame os fãs idiotas!
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