We’ve Come A Long Way, Baby!

long-way-baby

A hearty bonsoir to one and all. Humble apologies for the lack of words pinging their way to your screens in recent days; I’ve been away from the machine, you see, and however much I wished otherwise, this paving slab of a phone has more chance of sprouting legs and delivering it by hand than it does sling-hooking a post into the internet super highway. It can barely do Snake without chugging like an outboard motor. But hey-ho. Mustn’t grumble.

I’m sure you won’t mind if I tip-toe round the corpse of last weekend’s miserable outing up North. No, don’t try and remember it. Sigh. I told you. Not only have we bared witnessed to every conceivable reaction to the thing- sad, indifferent, mace-swinging, Harry-outing wrath– I’d prefer not relive what will surely go down as the worst call of the season, insomuch as I ever doubted the, verging on super, powers of that man Darren Bent. It took some thirty seconds to blow my predictions out of the water. And he did so like a bloomin’ sea mine.

Like all good tragedies, though, (oxymoron?) it’s all about how we move on.

And move on we shall. We’ve got an F.A Cup semi-final on the horizon.

Until then, let’s have a peek at what’s been happening in your world. News of Gareth Bale and some Old Lady has been bandying about the daily pages this week. I can only assume it’s got something to do with the Welsh wingstress visiting his Nan over Easter. Probably helping her whip up some juicy flapjacks or something equally twee. Juventus, you say? Apparently so. After the alleged interest of Roma and Milan (via Birmingham) surfacing in the warmer months of last year, it would appear Zaccheroni is the latest in a long cue of Bale aficionados fluttering their eyelids in the boy’s direction. On the last estimate, such a cue stretched from the gates of White Hart Lane to an abandoned oil rig in the Irish Sea.

Are we to believe such a story? Lord knows. He’s certainly been in scintillating form of late; form which could only have alerted the heavy-weights of Europe, eager to coax a healthy slice of fast-blooming talent under their wing. In all honesty, though, I don’t see Harry playing ball. It must be a gratifying- as well as exciting- experience for a manager; watching a player develop in front of their eyes like that. And at such a rate, too. Whether he’d risk binning all that promise, not to mention enduring the inevitable backlash from the fans, I’m not so sure.

I’d swap him for Messi, though. Any takers?

Theo Walcott?

Fnnaar.

That’s it for me. I shall leave you with a quote I read in The Guardian today. It made me chuckle immensely. Take it away, Alex:

“Ribery’s a very talented player, a great dribbler, but I don’t think he’s any quicker than Gary Neville.”

Riiiiight.

** The winner of the ‘Spurs’ Cult Heroes‘ book is one David J. Fullman who gave the correct answer of £99,999 as the fee Tottenham paid for Jimmy Greaves. The nifty prize will be on its way once I’ve removed the ketchup stains from the sleeve and popped it in a suitable envelope. Well done, David!**


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