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.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Furious Assou-Ekotto ‘stiffed’ by Redknapp
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.
“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.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Parental discretion is advised
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.
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.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Plane stupid
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 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.”
Sunday, September 12, 2010
An open letter from William Gallas
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
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
Monday, August 30, 2010
Exclusive ITK from ‘the tree’
“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.”
“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.”
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Ladies night at Faces
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?
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?
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