Like a paternity test on The Jeremy Kyle Show, one win in nine games does not lie. Maybe Tottenham should scout the programme for new talent, at least those shifty geezers still have some battle left in them.
Spurs’ insipid 0-1 reverse at QPR epitomised the second half of the season; dominating possession without forging enough clear cut chances, no mistake unpunished and that ever-present thankless luck. But as Tottenham fans worldwide descended into a foggy, alcohol-fuelled madness and jammed The Samaritans’ phonelines in search of salvation, it’s worth remembering that Spurs still have a realistic chance of Champions League football.
Newcastle’s remaining fixtures are teak tough; plucky Wigan (away), Chelsea (away), in-form Everton (away) and title-chasing City at home. The true threat remains Chelsea (still somehow one point behind Spurs) who have three routine-looking home matches and an away game at Liverpool whose concentration will be focused solely on a second cup triumph this season. In contrast, Tottenham have winnable home games against Blackburn, Fulham and away fixtures against out-of-sorts Bolton and Aston Villa. But Spurs don’t look like they could win a game of Top Trumps at the moment, the birds from Bend It Like Beckham would probably turn them over (oh how Jermain Defoe would love that scenario).
Yet a win against Blackburn next Sunday via fluke or fantasy football and suddenly the game’s archetypal fancy dans are back in the hunt again. Surely this dire run has to end? This is the best Spurs team for decades…managed by the future England manager, right? I’m not so sure ‘Redknapp to England’ is a sure thing (cue groans and hurled beer cans). Harry is at least partly responsible for transforming a talented Tottenham outfit from Champions League certs to ITV4 also-rans in nine weeks while his increasingly bizarre press conferences have illustrated, yet again, with crystal clarity that he’s a loose cannon in front of the media. Does that fit the profile of someone the FA, renowned for its control freakery and ‘safe’ managerial appointments, will opt for as the next man to lead the national team into the footballing abyss?
Among many Spurs fans, Harry has borne the brunt of the criticism for the club’s dramatic downward spiral. Certainly, the shellackings against Arsenal and Chelsea rank alongside our worst results of recent years, but it’s worth noting the players’ part in this sudden downfall. They have been psychologically brittle in the face of mild pressure and almost laughably shot shy in front of goal (four blanks in the last four away games make grim but telling reading).
Farcically, the club only have one recognised striker on their books beyond the end of this season (Defoe who, at his age, is understandably eyeing one last big contract elsewhere) and Chairman Daniel Levy’s reluctance or inability to buy a proven scorer through four consecutive transfer windows is hard to defend. His tedious transfer window brinkmanship does not lend itself to stability. The ease with which Newcastle picked up the prolific Papiss Demba Cisse mid-window clearly illustrates that this path is avoidable and unnecessary.
Maybe we should take inspiration and solace from Fabrice Muamba’s miraculous recovery. Effectively dead for 78 minutes, the Bolton midfielder was coaxed back to life at White Hart Lane, an illustration that no-one should ever stop fighting until the curtain finally falls. Fabrice didn’t give up with less favourable odds and neither should we.
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Thursday, April 19, 2012
The Yid’s In America
Like Arsene Wenger, I didn’t see it. While Spurs were imploding at Wembley against Chelsea, I was at Marlins Park in Miami watching the aforementioned Marlins beat the Houston Astros 5-4, relying on a fragile data connection to update me on the unfolding debacle across the Atlantic.
In early January, I had intentionally booked a much-needed break to South Beach to coincide with a potential FA Cup semi-final, all but guaranteeing Tottenham’s progression to the final four. It was a selfless act for the good of north London’s right-minded people. Should Spurs win and I’d missed it, we would be in the final, but were they to suffer a sixth consecutive semi-final loss I would rather be anywhere than stuck in human traffic on the slow trudge back down Wembley Way.
At 1-4 down, I turned to my girlfriend who was attempting to eat a ketchup-smothered hot dog and comprehend baseball’s bewildering rules system. “Bastards,” I said darkly, repeating the word seconds afterwards for dramatic effect. “They are slowly killing me inside. Another piece of me has died today.” She nodded solemnly and returned to her hot dog.
Minutes later my dad was moved enough to send his first ever text message. In bizarre, scrambled English it made the grimmest of reading: “Thamk god yu on holiday n did nt see it. Bad.” Slowly the full scale of the atrocity filtered through to my seething smartphone in Florida. The Chelsea ‘goal’ that failed to cross the line (the second the Russian billionaire’s team has enjoyed in just 12 months against Spurs), more bewildering tactics and bad luck along with the scandalous abuse by some Blues ‘supporters’ that forced the abandonment of the minute’s silence for those lost in the Hillsborough disaster.
Presumably the nation’s media have printed pen pictures of those sick Chelsea ‘fans’ who chanted ‘murderers’ like they did for the alleged homophobic abuse of the heterosexual Sol Campbell at Portsmouth a few years ago? They didn’t? Oh, I see. English selective morality at its finest.
The two sporting events I witnessed during my break in Miami could not be in greater contrast to the poisonous scenes unfolding back home. In America a fan’s custom is valued (I know! It sounds fantastical) and every attempt is made to make the spectator experience more enjoyable while stadium rules are enforced in a light-hearted rather than patronising way.
Before watching the NBA’s Miami Heat defeat the Charlotte Bobcats at American Airlines Arena, fans were shown a video on the big screen listing the arena’s regulations. Instead of a solemn, prison warden style message encouraging people to confidentially inform on nearby swearing fans, spectator rules were sung by a middle-aged sportscaster in the manner of Barry White. “Oh please. Oh please refrain from imprompah language,” he crooned. “Imprompah language!” echoed a falsetto backing singer. Essentially, the same message as White Hart Lane but presented in a fun and humorous way. Maybe if our football stadiums didn’t treat fans like gibbering idiots they would not behave like them.
Several days later, we walked out of Marlins Park to find a man who the stadium had employed for the sole purpose of hailing departing fans a taxi. Twenty yards away there were free shuttle buses to take others to the nearest metro terminal. At both basketball and baseball events, every stadium employee, without fail, engaged us in friendly conversation and said they hoped we enjoyed the game.
These goodwill vibes clearly have the desired positive impact. I didn’t hear a single swear word uttered at either event yet fan participation was vocal, supportive and constant (unlike White Hart Lane vs Norwich, for instance). All children under 12 were invited to ‘run the bases’ on the pitch immediately after the Marlins game. The young Marlins fans could barely contain their excitement and it made me reflect rather grimly on my experiences in our stadiums back home.
Our custom and loyalty is sickeningly taken for granted and, in the fallow times of recent months, this makes a defeat like last Sunday’s even harder to stomach.
“Bastards.” They know we’ll be back.
In early January, I had intentionally booked a much-needed break to South Beach to coincide with a potential FA Cup semi-final, all but guaranteeing Tottenham’s progression to the final four. It was a selfless act for the good of north London’s right-minded people. Should Spurs win and I’d missed it, we would be in the final, but were they to suffer a sixth consecutive semi-final loss I would rather be anywhere than stuck in human traffic on the slow trudge back down Wembley Way.
At 1-4 down, I turned to my girlfriend who was attempting to eat a ketchup-smothered hot dog and comprehend baseball’s bewildering rules system. “Bastards,” I said darkly, repeating the word seconds afterwards for dramatic effect. “They are slowly killing me inside. Another piece of me has died today.” She nodded solemnly and returned to her hot dog.
Minutes later my dad was moved enough to send his first ever text message. In bizarre, scrambled English it made the grimmest of reading: “Thamk god yu on holiday n did nt see it. Bad.” Slowly the full scale of the atrocity filtered through to my seething smartphone in Florida. The Chelsea ‘goal’ that failed to cross the line (the second the Russian billionaire’s team has enjoyed in just 12 months against Spurs), more bewildering tactics and bad luck along with the scandalous abuse by some Blues ‘supporters’ that forced the abandonment of the minute’s silence for those lost in the Hillsborough disaster.
Presumably the nation’s media have printed pen pictures of those sick Chelsea ‘fans’ who chanted ‘murderers’ like they did for the alleged homophobic abuse of the heterosexual Sol Campbell at Portsmouth a few years ago? They didn’t? Oh, I see. English selective morality at its finest.
The two sporting events I witnessed during my break in Miami could not be in greater contrast to the poisonous scenes unfolding back home. In America a fan’s custom is valued (I know! It sounds fantastical) and every attempt is made to make the spectator experience more enjoyable while stadium rules are enforced in a light-hearted rather than patronising way.
Before watching the NBA’s Miami Heat defeat the Charlotte Bobcats at American Airlines Arena, fans were shown a video on the big screen listing the arena’s regulations. Instead of a solemn, prison warden style message encouraging people to confidentially inform on nearby swearing fans, spectator rules were sung by a middle-aged sportscaster in the manner of Barry White. “Oh please. Oh please refrain from imprompah language,” he crooned. “Imprompah language!” echoed a falsetto backing singer. Essentially, the same message as White Hart Lane but presented in a fun and humorous way. Maybe if our football stadiums didn’t treat fans like gibbering idiots they would not behave like them.
Several days later, we walked out of Marlins Park to find a man who the stadium had employed for the sole purpose of hailing departing fans a taxi. Twenty yards away there were free shuttle buses to take others to the nearest metro terminal. At both basketball and baseball events, every stadium employee, without fail, engaged us in friendly conversation and said they hoped we enjoyed the game.
These goodwill vibes clearly have the desired positive impact. I didn’t hear a single swear word uttered at either event yet fan participation was vocal, supportive and constant (unlike White Hart Lane vs Norwich, for instance). All children under 12 were invited to ‘run the bases’ on the pitch immediately after the Marlins game. The young Marlins fans could barely contain their excitement and it made me reflect rather grimly on my experiences in our stadiums back home.
Our custom and loyalty is sickeningly taken for granted and, in the fallow times of recent months, this makes a defeat like last Sunday’s even harder to stomach.
“Bastards.” They know we’ll be back.
Monday, April 9, 2012
Harold Redknapp's Easter Miracle
For those who have only been attending Spurs matches for the last four years, this is how it used to be at White Hart Lane. Crap. A skilful but defensively brittle team, playing lazy, half-arsed football, only to be outmuscled by spirited, less talented opposition. Maybe that should have been our Latin motto Audere est facupthirdus.
This week the club decided in its infinite wisdom, and without consultation or transparent explanation, to overhaul the loyalty points system. I have been a Tottenham home (and since 1999 away) season ticket holder for twenty years (equivalent in army time to three or four tours in Helmand Province) and felt my inner pain and deep-seated personal issues were adequately reflected in these ‘loyalty points’.
Yet under next year’s scheme only the last four years will be recognised meaning a fan who has jumped on the bandwagon to watch four of Tottenham’s best seven Premier League seasons is, in theory, equal to someone who has watched Spurs meekly surrender in every corner of the land and survived the Gary Doherty era with just a stutter and a lazy eye. It’s an interesting definition of loyalty.
No doubt some of these nouveau fans were among those heading for the exits on 80 minutes. I can only assume Natalie Portman and Mila Kunis were at home entwined in a hot tub eagerly awaiting their heroes’ return. Maybe there should be extra ‘loyalty points’ for those fans who choose to stay to the final whistle?
Norwich played with the aggression of a recently divorced wife and displayed equivalent theatrics. I’ve had girlfriends less tactile than Grant Holt. Continually gripping a defender’s shirt, he barges around the penalty area like an unpenalised Kevin Davies and might have earned a penalty against the shadow of Ledley King, but equally conceded one for trying to mount Ryan Nelsen in the second half. Referee Michael Oliver’s poor grip on the game was epitomised by the man in black halting a Spurs move and playing Norwich into a goalscoring position with a ginger flick of his feet.
The continual appeals and gamesmanship from the away side, for me, surprised and detracted from an impressively tenacious performance that took full advantage of a listless Spurs display. But one win in eight games does not lie and it is a damning indictment of the diminishing quality of the Premier League that Spurs somehow still find themselves in fourth position. The greatest Easter miracle for approximately 2012 years. I'm sure Harry will want to take credit for that.
Few will favour Spurs in next Sunday’s FA Cup semi-final against Chelsea after this unexpected debacle. But anyone who has followed this damned team for over four years (yes, we weren’t established in 2008!) will tell you that’s exactly when the bastards are most likely to turn on the style.
This week the club decided in its infinite wisdom, and without consultation or transparent explanation, to overhaul the loyalty points system. I have been a Tottenham home (and since 1999 away) season ticket holder for twenty years (equivalent in army time to three or four tours in Helmand Province) and felt my inner pain and deep-seated personal issues were adequately reflected in these ‘loyalty points’.
Yet under next year’s scheme only the last four years will be recognised meaning a fan who has jumped on the bandwagon to watch four of Tottenham’s best seven Premier League seasons is, in theory, equal to someone who has watched Spurs meekly surrender in every corner of the land and survived the Gary Doherty era with just a stutter and a lazy eye. It’s an interesting definition of loyalty.
No doubt some of these nouveau fans were among those heading for the exits on 80 minutes. I can only assume Natalie Portman and Mila Kunis were at home entwined in a hot tub eagerly awaiting their heroes’ return. Maybe there should be extra ‘loyalty points’ for those fans who choose to stay to the final whistle?
Norwich played with the aggression of a recently divorced wife and displayed equivalent theatrics. I’ve had girlfriends less tactile than Grant Holt. Continually gripping a defender’s shirt, he barges around the penalty area like an unpenalised Kevin Davies and might have earned a penalty against the shadow of Ledley King, but equally conceded one for trying to mount Ryan Nelsen in the second half. Referee Michael Oliver’s poor grip on the game was epitomised by the man in black halting a Spurs move and playing Norwich into a goalscoring position with a ginger flick of his feet.
The continual appeals and gamesmanship from the away side, for me, surprised and detracted from an impressively tenacious performance that took full advantage of a listless Spurs display. But one win in eight games does not lie and it is a damning indictment of the diminishing quality of the Premier League that Spurs somehow still find themselves in fourth position. The greatest Easter miracle for approximately 2012 years. I'm sure Harry will want to take credit for that.
Few will favour Spurs in next Sunday’s FA Cup semi-final against Chelsea after this unexpected debacle. But anyone who has followed this damned team for over four years (yes, we weren’t established in 2008!) will tell you that’s exactly when the bastards are most likely to turn on the style.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
The trouble with Harry (and some Spurs fans)
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.
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.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Return Agent Keane
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!
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!
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Game? What game?
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.
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.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Section me!
“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.
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.
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