Did We Win?
By the time this post bombs its way down the tracks of the internet autobahn and into your living rooms, Tottenham’s ungodly hour tussle with the New York Red Bulls will have long since finished. With the crystal ball still collecting dust in the loft I shan’t risk any muddled predictions. The very least I can hope for- sat here, at the time of writing, with two beer cans sellotaped to the side of my head awaiting kick-off- is that Terry Henry gets a damn good booing. Also, a curious part of me is interested to see how many years Robbie Keane has notched onto his belt since last Saturday. Word from our man in America is that he’s maturing like an old nectarine left on the back porch in forty-degree heat. I hereby dub him… The Badger.
Untold wealth to any New Yorker who can provide a match report for those of us destined to wake up tomorrow morning with QWERTY imprinted onto our foreheads- instead of any recollection whatsoever of seeing the chaps in action. I think I still have a signed England shirt knocking about somewhere- if, of course, you’re in need of a new rag to dry your paint brushes with.
No. Wait…come back.
Back to the present. Or is it the future? Or. Um. Well, I’ve confused myself terribly there. Ah, yes. In other news, we still haven’t signed anyone yet. A half-baked potato emerged in the tabloids yesterday- for all of twenty minutes we were linked with the ever-so-slightly-past-it, Raul, before it became clear that his future, despite being in conractual limbo, lay elsewhere. Schalke 04 the thinking man’s port of call, although my guess is he’ll just bury himself up to the ankles in the centre-circle at the Bernabeu- like a re-potted plant- and spend the rest of his lung-breathing days there. Like, forever.
Now. Let’s see if this link is wor-
-Zzzzz.
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