No sooner had I popped a decomposed pigeon heart in an envelope and scrawled FAO Chris Foy on the side with my own blood, (actually it was just red biro- I’m not a monster) I’m hearing word that Tottenham are ready to set off a dirty great rocket under their wage ceiling to sign facially challenged frontman, Carlos Tevez. For twenty million of your English pounds, no less. Well, certainly no less, but quite probably a whole lot more.
Here, just off the top of my head, are some reasons why this sounds rather fanciful: 1) Man City won’t sell him to us. I’m pretty sure loaning out Adebayor wasn’t one of the smartest moves in their transfer history and it’s highly unlikely they’re going throw us any more world class centre-forward-shaped bones 2) His wages are, at a modest estimate, f*cking ridiculous. Honestly, it’s just embarrassing. 3) The Spurs camp- from the outside looking in, at least- seems like a fun place to be at the moment. The mood is one of harmony and discord. Tevez, on the other hand- and again this is just conjecture- appears to be a massive pr*ck. And it’s his overriding pr*ckishness that might just be the problem. d) Wages. Seriously, it’s obscene how much he’s being paid to not kick a football around.
Kaka on the other hand. Now there’s a fiscally sound bit of business if ever I saw it. You heard.
Right, back to the real world. Let’s hear your teams for the Shamrock. What do you mean, are we still in that thing? Yes. Yes, we are, is the answer. I’m thinking Kranjčar and, ooh, let’s say Gomes. Yeah!
For many a tortured soul, Peter Crouch’s exit from Tottenham was as good as a new signing. A two-season career which peaked in Manchester on that famous evening- briefly spiking into the green with a Young Boys beating hat-trick and the heroics in Lombardy- withered somewhat terminally in its final months. By all accounts a lovely chap off the pitch; an embodiment of frustration and blundering ineptitude on it. If the goal at Eastlands was a defining moment in his time at Spurs, the other goal in Eastlands was, equally.
Not to mention that spazzy red card at the Bernabéu. Or the way he always used to laugh every time a feebly rolled effort would be gulped down the keeper’s neck when scoring looked a whole lot easier. Or for making Spurs fans young and old want to jam their hand in their George Foreman each time his name appeared on a team-sheet. Or for… well, you get the idea.
Nope. There’s no doubt a about it, the love rather petered out for our Peter in his last days at the club, and if someone was willing to pay anything to get him off our books- let alone ten chuffing million- then it would’ve been a case of taking the money and not just running; but running straight to the nearest airport and flying to the Seychelles to start a new life as King of the Daylight Swindle.
And so to Stoke, Crouch’s new home. Despite the excellent Phillippe Auclair’s statistically accurate claim that the Potters’ ‘fortress’ at the Britannia hasn’t exactly been impenetrable over the last year or so- at least, not as tough a place to get points as you might assume- they have managed home draws against Chelsea and United this term, as well as a victory over Liverpool. An admirable jaunt in the Europa League has weighed heavy on their shoulders at times (they should try not giving a sh*t) but they appear to be balancing the fixtures quite nicely of late and are beginning to chisel out the results. Two wins on the bounce and they’re settled comfortably in the League’s midriff.
What Spurs will make of them, I couldn’t guess. The smart money is on a grizzly 1-2 victory with perhaps Crouch getting one for them and one for us. Like the good old days. I’ll be delighted with a win which ever manner it lands on our table. But what say you?
My word. I really have hit rock bottom. Lookalikes. Still, you get what you pay for, I suppose. Man United crashing out of Europe was a serious Lol-cano, obviously. Experts are calling it the worst team in the history of just about everything. Not just football, everything. Cricket, Rugby, The pre-Raphaelite movement, cutlery, space, pencils, ZZ Top, the Iron Age, everything And, for no reason other than I can, here’s Phil Jones looking like a loveable Disney swine. Seriously, I must be stopped.
Afternoon. I think this in the business is what they call a round-up. But, seeing as I’m not exactly sure what this business is, or even if I’m in it, I’ll just go ahead and scatter-gun some nonsense at you and see if anything sticks.
Tottenham pull Cheltenham out of the old F.A Cup hat, then. A fine draw by all accounts. I guess we’ll just have to hope they’re not…at the races that day? Hmm? Races? Cheltenham? Any takers? Oh come on! Don’t roll your eyes at me. Right, well, that’s just about all my A material down the toilet like a soiled pair of under-crackers, why not let’s talk about Spurs’ latest flirtings with the absurdly good in what was a largely piss-easy win over Northern chancers, Bolton.
Another day and *yawn* another victory for the Hotspur point-amassing juggernaut. It’s all getting a bit silly now, if you ask me. What ever happened to the fun old days of running around like berks for ninety-minutes and getting done over by Wimbledon? Where’s José Dominguez, for example?
Anyway it looks like we’re persisting with this ‘win every game’ routine so I guess we’ll just have to get used to it.
I read somewhere that Kyle Walker had a 100% pass rate this weekend; 44 successful passes of which something like 19 were key and 10 long balls. Now I’m no fancy pants mathematician (seriously, I’m not) but that strikes me as an awfully good return. Have you seen the boy run, too? Mercy.
Cahill’s sending off was a fairly ludicrous decision but I don’t think it’s flippant to suggest that it would’ve made little difference to the final result. On the contrary- in many ways his ejection probably helped keep the scoreline down; in that their reduced numbers forced Bolton into a buttocks-to-the-wall siege for the remaining minutes. Or as they called it: I sure hope Jussi Jääskeläinen keeps this up. In his brief cameo, poor Gary was run to absolute tatters and his teammates didn’t fair much better afterward.
I watched an episode of Masterchef a few months back in which a rather flustered ladywoman was placed firmly in the cack- cooking, as she was, for some prickly restaurant critics. With the pressure on, her work-station was a culinary graveyard of things either melting, not setting, or on fire. A right bloody mess. Anyway, in the final couple of minutes or so- with things very much still ‘buggered’- she went about cutting a sizeable wedge out of one of her fingers. Accidental I’m sure, but it did save her from having to serve up a plate of pig swill for the uncompromising foodsters. Not sure why I mentioned that, really.
I’m going to see what’s in the fridge.
**Winner of the ‘Let’s Kick Blatter Out of Football’ t-shirt by Philosophy Football is a Mr. Ollie Milton. Well done to you, sir.**
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Aloha and good morning. Just a quick one from me. What to say about Bolton? Not a great deal if I can help it. In his comparatively short turn at t’Reebok, Owen Coyle’s managerial stock has fallen somewhat rapidly. From the Glaswegian Wenger to Sue Barker in the time it takes to polish and glue in those unfeasibly white teeth.
The Wanderers are stumbling, bleary eyed out of a false dawn which promised technical brilliance and doing things the right way™, with the likes of Jack Wilshere and Daniel Sturridge on board- two excellent but unsustainable flurries of short-termism- to one which would be happy for a return to the so-so old days of simply being difficult to beat.
A dismal ten defeats out of thirteen would suggest that that idea has gone well and truly up the river. There’s no hiding from the fact, a 77% losing ratio does not a Premiership team make. Not for very long, anyway.
Tottenham, on the other hand, are on the up and up. If you haven’t been reading the newspapers lately we’re officially in the mix. A dark horse in the title race which in recent weeks has turned a few hues lighter. I’m not convinced that we’re capable of sustaining it to the bitter end but the longer we’re in the pursuit, very much the better. Three-nil against The Trotters, says I. Adebayor hat-trick and junk.