Ho, ho and indeed ho. Tottenham are up against footballing Renaissance men Stoke this afternoon; a team who if they were represented by the medium of architectural design, would be a pile of breeze blocks thrown into a dirty skip.
Tony Pulis. Man’s man; man’s manager; manager’s manager. Man. Great worth does the Newportian place in safeguarding the values of the game we call soccerball. Doing things, in a manner of speaking, the right way. Which approximately translates as: them perfume PONCE foreigners go down too easily and there’s no amount of stamping, shirt pulling or wallops about the brainbox that a firm handshake couldn’t resolve between men.
To recap: bone-shuddering two-footed challenge followed by a dusting off and a sturdy meeting of paws= good. Unhindered tumbles (unless performed by Charlie Adam) = very much bad.
Meanwhile for Spurs, that injury list which threatened to run longer than Methuselah’s beard is beginning to recoil. Parker last week, Disco Benjamin with every chance of making a return this. A lad name Gareth Bale, still riding high on the buzz of reaching 200k Twitter followers this week, is also in contention for a start. Which’ll go down well with the locals.
Hamstring pending, this is could be a game for Michael Dawson to savour, like a hog frolicking in his own swill. Call it team selection of the putting tab B into slot B variety (Stoke like twonking into the mixer, Dawson is adept at propelling it out) but you can’t help but feel this would be just his kind of afternoon. I’d also fancy bunging Parker AND Sandro in midfield today, if only to see how the Brazilian operates when his defensive chores are reduced. There’s more to his game than grinding adversaries to bone-marrow: he’s a joy to watch going forward, too. As for the rest of ‘em…
Hello. We’ve been off your screens for a few days now. I would blame it on the chronic gambling addiction I’ve developed but everyone knows nothing ever bad came of gambling. In the small amount of time it takes you to wish we’d stayed away a bit longer, then, let’s have a look what’s been going in the world of Hotspur since we last spoke. Who knows, it might be fun.*
*There will be precisely no fun had by anyone.
When scientists eventually find a way to delete precise chunks from a person’s memory, this might be ninety-minutes I’ll do away with. Indeed, it’s not yet possible to un-watch something that’s already happened; perhaps this game will encourage governments of the world to increase funding and get that memory expunger built. Must-Win was the understanding before kick-off. Must Not Bore to Death would’ve been a start. On the bright side, Gylfi Sigurdsson scored. Which after much discussion has been confirmed a nice thing to happen. Good on him.
This, a third successive away win for Spurs in the League, which propelled Andre Villas-Boas’ team to a rather handsome fourth spot. If this truly is the End of Days for our dear club it’s a lot less fire and brimstone than I’d imagined.
The first half was one of virile domination from Tottenham, signalled rather handily by the two-goal lead we took into the break. Lennon was bright and bubbly for large parts. Walker, off the back of a disappointing day against Chelsea last week, looked pretty good too. Appreciative, I’m sure, of the vast expanses of green he was allowed to gallop into at his leisure. Meanwhile, enjoyer of ladies, Jermain Defoe, could well have taken the match ball home at half-time. Had he not spent much of the afternoon trying to catapult said ball into the Channel.
The second half, well. Thank heavens for Sandro’s face, I say.
Again, by the sounds of it, Spurs had their assertive paws on this one but allowed Norwich back into it after Bale’s opener. Two late goals conceded through varying degrees of defensive cow-pattery. Limping out of the Cup is never fun- especially as some of the other big teams appear to be having such a hoot in the COC this year- and neither is missing a penalty. It’s all relative, though. Clint Dempsey should thank himself lucky he’s not Roy of the Rovers. I found out the other day that the fictional kickballer was forced to retire after injuries from a helicopter crash required him to have his BLOODY FOOT AMPUTATED!? You certainly can’t rap your way out of a missing foot. Also, most seem to agree that Iago Falque had an excellent game, so it swings in round-a-bouts.
Some thoughts on Wigan in due course. Just have to make a quick phone call.
Sometimes I do Twitters, too.
So this is goodbye. Maybe because we’ve had an entire twelve months to get used to the idea of Luka Modric vamoosing to pastures sexier, the official confirmation of the Croatian’s departure on Monday wasn’t quite the dead-weight blow that perhaps other high-profile escapees have affected in recent years.
If you want to mark it on some kind of grief-barometer; for me, the lowest ebb was when Sheringham dumped us for United in ‘97. Not only was he feasibly our only good player at the time (Ginola signed a month later) his parting words were the quite astute acknowledgment that we were a club utterly void of ambition. Eesh. One thing being deserted by the one you love, quite another to have your biggest flaws pointed out to you while they’re galloping off into the sunset. I told you, it’s supposed to look like that!
With Modric gone it feels like nothing we can’t handle. Certainly one of the best players I’ve seen in a Tottenham shirt and for footballing reasons, I’ll remember him with a great fondness. Happily for us fans, though, the by-product of a hyper-protracted transfer saga like this, is that you eventually get beyond stages of grief, disbelief and anger, and you’re quickly on the way to sober acceptance. Four fabulous years in Lilywhite and I wish him well at Madrid. Now, let’s bloody spend of that delicious coin.
Ooh hello, what’s this?